Scipio rapped out a command and his two men – Carlo and Simone – dragged one of the bar stools into the middle of the floor.
‘May I ask you please to sit down here?’ This time, the words were translated into English for Bond to understand.
Bond got slowly to his feet. Out on its own, in the middle of the polished wood floor, the stool had the same dark invitation as a gallows or an electric chair. It was made of brown leather on tubular steel with two low armrests. Bond didn’t like the look of where this was going, but he was surrounded by five men, at least two of them with guns, and knew he had no choice. Clamping down on a rising sense of unease, he walked the short distance over to the stool and sat down. Scipio stood in front of him. The two of them were now the same height.
But before anything could begin, Sixtine spoke.
‘Scipio!’ she said. ‘You know who I am. You know how much money I’m worth. Listen to me now.’ She waited for the translator to catch up. The light glimmered in his wire-frame spectacles as he spoke, masking his eyes. He was wearing the same drab suit and narrow tie as before. As ever, he was standing close to Scipio, translating now from English to Corsican, delivering the message while seeming to take no interest whatsoever in its contents or anything else that was happening around him.
‘You have made a mistake working with Irwin Wolfe,’ Sixtine went on. ‘You know that he’s sick. He’s dying so he doesn’t care what happens in the future – but he can still bring you down with him. But it’s not too late. If you will let Mr Bond and myself leave, I will pay you 100,000 American dollars. You can have the money in diamonds or any currency that you prefer. There is also the heroin on this boat . . . more than five tons of it. Wolfe wants to give it away but you could sell it on top of what he has already given you. You are an intelligent man. Surely you can see that you have no need for Irwin Wolfe. Let us go. Get on with your business. You’re making the wrong enemies here.’
Sixtine fell silent. A few moments later, the translator finished her last statement and stood there, waiting for what might come next. Scipio shook his head, the red crease of his old wound showing briefly as his chins swivelled left and right.
‘Innò. Sò Corsu!’
‘No,’ the translator explained. ‘I am a Corsican. In my country, a man’s word is his bond. Do not speak to me again, madame.’ The translator paused and Scipio waggled an elephantine finger in her direction. ‘We sat together in a bar in Marseilles and it was then that I warned you . . . you should stay away from this part of the world. It is regretted . . . it is greatly to be regretted that you did not take my advice.’
Scipio turned to his men and spoke rapidly in his high-pitched whispering voice. The translator listened in silence, then addressed Sixtine directly. ‘Mr Scipio has given instructions for you to be dragged out of here and locked up if you speak again,’ he explained with a note of apology. ‘You will be hurt quite significantly.’ He turned to Bond. ‘He also wishes you to know that Madame 16 will be shot if you make any move at all. You must sit where you are and take what is given to you. Do you understand?’
‘Please tell Mr Scipio that I understand completely and that whatever happens to me in this room will be paid back tenfold. I work for serious people. They know I am here. You have already killed one of our agents. If you kill me, you will spend the rest of your life running.’ He turned a cold eye on Scipio. ‘Or in your case, waddling. I hope you know the Corsican for that word.’
Bond could not tell how much of what he had just said was translated. Just for once, the translator looked discomfited as he repeated the lines. But Scipio was unconcerned, the great, round ball of his head pale and impassive against the coloured bottles that lined the bar.
‘The last time we met, I also gave you a warning, Mr Bond. I said the same thing that I said to her . . . to madame. Stay out of my affairs. To be honest with you, I was quite expecting you to ignore me. It may surprise you, but I was also very pleased. I did not think for one minute that you will . . . that you would return to England and I hoped also that you and I would meet again and that on a second occasion I would be able to do what I wished, without restraint. We have arrived at that occasion. You interest me, Mr Bond. You are young, good-looking, resourceful . . . you are in many ways a first-class secret agent. You are not unlike the man who was here before . . . your predecessor. I killed him. I shot him three times. But I never got to know him. This time it is going to be very different.’
Scipio glanced at his translator and rapped out a sentence.
‘Mr Scipio says he will kill your friend if you try to resist,’ the translator said.
‘You’ve already told me that,’ Bond said. ‘But you seem to have forgotten that the man you work for wants her alive.’
The words were translated.
‘I do not work for Irwin Wolfe,’ Scipio muttered. He took a step forward so that he was close to Bond. The eyes beneath the gossamer eyebrows examined him minutely. Then Scipio reached out with two fingers and stroked the side of Bond’s face. Bond recoiled in disgust. He could feel all his muscles tensing, preparing to strike out. He forced himself not to move. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sixtine sitting in the oversized velvet chair, strained and afraid. One of the guns was trained on her. The other was on Bond.
The fingers continued their obscene journey over Bond’s lips, under his chin. Now they were resting on his chest. Bond felt the nausea rising in him. The hand was a pink, alien animal, probing him, looking for where to bite.
But then Scipio smiled and stepped back.
‘Let me tell you what I am going to do to you, Mr Bond.’ Scipio’s voice was thick with pleasure, with the knowledge of his absolute power. The translator was indifferent. ‘I am going to change you. I am going to make you into my creature. We have almost a month together on this boat, more than enough time to break you completely. And as you have heard from Mr Wolfe, the method . . . the way in which I shall achieve this is all around us. When I leave the ship . . . the Mirabelle . . . at New York, you will follow me obediently as a dog follows his master. You will be a heroin addict, Mr Bond. Given the purity of my product, this will happen more quickly than you can believe. Even one week from now, there will be no need to secure you. You will spend every minute waiting for your next injection. Your body and your mind will demand it, and everything else – Madame 16, your former life, your precious secret service – you will have forgotten. A week after that, you will come to me on your knees and beg me to give you what you need. And maybe, in return for your complete . . . for your total submission, I will.
‘But this is what you must understand. This is what will destroy you and in the final . . . ultimately make you mine. You will not know what I am going to do, whether I will provide you with pleasure . . . or pain.’
Bond was so gripped by what he was hearing that he was not prepared for what came next. Almost lazily, and yet with a speed that took him by surprise, the fat man swung his fist through the air, crashing it into the side of Bond’s head. It was like being hit by a battering ram. Bond was almost thrown off the bar stool. He would have fallen except that Scipio had caught him with his other hand, held him for a moment and then punched him again, this time in the stomach. Again, Bond was blasted backwards, the breath exploding out of his lungs and his own blood dancing behind his eyes. He had never been hit so hard. Scipio let go of him, leaving him gasping for air. Bond saw him clasp his hands, bringing the various jewels together as if in a gesture of celebration. Then the bullets of flesh and bone became a blur as they came pounding once again into the side of his head. There was a brilliant burst of light and he was propelled sideways, this time falling onto the floor.
It wasn’t over. Taking his time, Scipio kicked him again and again, the leather toecaps carrying all the weight of the gigantic legs, pounding into his flesh. And all the time, the translator watched, silent, with nothing to do. Bond glimpsed the other men. They seemed to have multiplied but it was more likely that it was his vision which had fractured. Unable to stop himself, he let out a groan and rolled onto his side, bringing in his knees to protect himself. Scipio stood over him and stamped down. Bond not only felt his rib crack – he heard it.
‘Stop it!’ Sixtine called out. Her voice was far away. Bond’s heart was beating in his ears, blocking the sound. ‘That’s enough! You’re going to kill him!’
Silence. Bond lay floating in a pool of agony.
He heard words but did not understand them. Scipio was talking, not to him but to his men, giving orders.
The translator crouched beside him and explained. ‘You are to be taken now to your cabin. Your friend will come with you also. The pain is over for the present. Mr Scipio is sure that it will have been familiar to you. But he is going to introduce you to a type of pleasure which . . . he is sure it will be new to you and which you will never forget. Do you have anything to say?’
Bond swore. He could taste blood in his mouth.
Carlo and Simone closed in and jerked him to his feet. Bond wanted to fight back but he was exhausted by the beating. One side of his chest, where the rib had been broken, was on fire. He knew that his face was badly bruised. One of his eyes was partly closed. There had to be a way out of this. He thought back to the forest outside Wolfe Europe. Any minute now, Sixtine’s people were going to burst in. They would explain that they had been on board the Mirabelle from the very start. Bond looked round, half expecting to see the stiletto knives spinning through the air. There was nothing. No last-minute cavalry.
The two men dragged him across the floor. He had one last sight of Scipio walking back to the bar. The barman slid a drink towards him . . . another brandy Alexander. ‘I’d watch those calories if I were you,’ Bond said but the words were muttered through swollen lips and nobody heard. And then he was gone, back through the ballroom and the dining room with all its glitter and pomp, out onto the deck and finally downstairs to the cabin. He was thrown onto the bed and at once Sixtine was with him, holding his head in her hands.
‘James!’ She was trying to hide it but he knew she was afraid.
‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll find a way out . . .’
A third man came into the cabin carrying a small Gladstone bag, which he set down on a table. Bond recognised the oily hair, the bad skin, the shabby little moustache. It was Dr Borghetti, the man Wolfe had introduced as the ship’s medic. This time he didn’t even pretend to be friendly. He opened the bag and took out various items, laying them neatly on the table. First there was a syringe, an ugly-looking thing, slender and about four inches long, made of stainless steel encasing a glass cylinder beneath the plunger. Next to it he placed a spoon, a candle, a ball of cotton wool and a glass, which he filled with water from the sink. Finally, he removed a packet of waxed paper that he carefully unfolded. It contained a small heap of white powder.
‘Could you get him ready, please,’ he said, speaking in English.
Bond could feel his strength returning and wondered if he could fight back. It was surely now or never. But as two of the men moved into the room, two more took their place at the door and he knew that, in the confined space, any resistance was hopeless.
As if reading his thoughts, Borghetti added: ‘I am sure you will not try anything stupid, Mr Bond. Not if you care about the well-being of the lady. You must accept what is being done to you. It is the beginning of a life-changing journey. Your first experience of heroin. Soon your life will be unimaginable without it.’
‘One day I will kill you,’ Bond said, matter-of-factly.
‘I don’t think so.’
Bond was gripped on both sides. One of the men took his shirtsleeve and ripped it apart so that it hung in two strands on either side of his arm. At the same time, Borghetti lit the candle. He tipped the powder into the spoon, then added some water, using the syringe to suck it out of the cup. He took great care in ensuring he had the right amount. Bond could only watch with a grim fascination as he continued the process. He held the spoon over the flame, stirring the mixture with the needle until it had dissolved. Finally, he dropped a ball of cotton wool into the preparation and sucked it back into the syringe. He nodded at the two men. He was ready.
‘You are about to leave the real world and find yourself in a very different one. Having Madame 16 with you will, I am sure, only add to the pleasure. Please do not attempt to struggle. It will do no good.’
It was impossible anyway. The first man had clasped his arm, forcing it forward so that the bare wrist was exposed.
Borghetti came over to the bed.
Sixtine started to rise but the man with the broken nose brutally pushed her back, bringing his gun round so that it aimed at her stomach.
‘Don’t!’ Bond said. He was speaking to her, not to Borghetti.
He looked down and saw the syringe with its hideous load drawing closer. He saw the needle touch his wrist and felt the prick as it penetrated the skin. Borghetti pushed further, finding the vein. He pressed the plunger. The heroin swirled downwards, entering his bloodstream. The syringe was empty. Borghetti removed it. Bond saw a bead of bright red blood on the puncture wound. Sixtine cried out as if she was on the edge of tears and, ignoring the gun that was being aimed at her, rushed forward and grabbed hold of him.
‘It’s done,’ Borghetti said. He blew out the candle and placed it, along with the syringe, back in his case. He left the rest. ‘He will be helpless for the next eight or nine hours,’ he said. ‘Even so, one of you should remain outside all night.’ To Bond, he added: ‘I will be back tomorrow.’
The two men released Bond, who fell back into Sixtine’s arms.
Borghetti was the first out of the cabin. Smirking, the others followed. The door slammed shut. The key was turned on the other side.
Bond and Sixtine were alone.