Sixtine had worked out what she was going to do. Long before the door had closed, she had set about her work.
To the men who were watching, it appeared that she had grabbed hold of Bond; a frightened woman who thought she was going to lose her man. In reality she had done more than that. The torn sleeve of his shirt was hanging loose and even as Dr Borghetti was collecting his things, she had grabbed hold of it, wrapping it around his upper arm, effectively turning it into a tourniquet. Now she tightened it further and tied a knot. Bond was in shock, still dazed from the violence done to him. He was only half aware of what was happening.
‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. She touched her hand against his head, trying to reassure him. ‘I’m going to have to hurt you. It’s the only way.’
Borghetti had left his glass behind. Sixtine picked it up and, holding it carefully in her palm, smashed it against the wall. The piece that remained was jagged, shaped like a knife. Without hesitating, she picked up Bond’s hand and stabbed the point into his wrist, exactly where the syringe had entered moments before. Bond cried out, but there was a part of him that seemed to understand what she was doing and he didn’t move as a jet of crimson blood spurted out. Sixtine was cradling him, holding his arm, trying to keep the flow out of his sight. She watched, trying to damp down her fear as the blood formed a gleaming pool on the floor.
She had worked out what she had to do but there was no way of calculating it precisely. It would have taken fifteen seconds for the heroin that had been injected into Bond to reach his heart and after that there would have been nothing to stop it disseminating through his system and entering his brain. The makeshift tourniquet had prevented that happening and the deliberately inflicted wound – what medieval doctors would have called bloodletting – would hopefully remove much of the poison from his veins. The trouble was that if she let him bleed too much, she might kill him. Too little and the whole exercise would be pointless. It was also impossible to quantify how much blood had actually been drawn. Looking down, Sixtine felt sickened. Bond was a healthy man in prime condition and his heart was pumping furiously. Already the cabin looked like a slaughterhouse. But she knew the appearance was deceptive. Even the smallest cut will look worse than it really is and in her time she had treated gun wounds that looked lethal but that had turned out to be fairly minor. She felt revolted by what she had been forced to do – cutting him. But the truth was that he could easily lose a whole pint without coming to any harm. Blood donors did it every day.
All she wanted was the contents of one arm.
‘Try to relax, James,’ she whispered. ‘I’m going to take off the tourniquet.’
The blood flow had dwindled, the last drops falling like evil rain onto the puddle below. This was the moment of truth. Sixtine untied the shirtsleeve then tore the fabric free, bunching it up and pressing it down on the wound that she herself had inflicted. As blood flowed back into the arm, she kept the pressure firm and constant. Her aim now was to stop the bleeding. How much of the heroin might she have removed? Half of it? More? There was no way of knowing. All she could do was wait.
Meanwhile, the invisible army stormed the fortress of Bond’s consciousness.
Although Bond wouldn’t have known it, his brain was already in overdrive, combatting the effects of the beating he had received at Scipio’s hands. It had its own pain-relief mechanism and was furiously sending out messages to the bruised flesh and the broken bone, using his entire central nervous system as a conduit, trying to calm things down. Gleefully, the heroin took over. It was ten times more powerful than the brain, ten times more effective. Pain? What pain? It was as if a heavenly chorus had exploded inside him. Everything Scipio had done to him was wiped away. Just a few moments ago he had felt Sixtine tying something round his arm and there had been another bolt of pain as the glass had cut into his wrist. Why had she done that to him? He had forgotten. But it didn’t matter any more. The wrist was no longer connected to his arm. The arm was no longer connected to his shoulder. His entire body had fragmented and he could feel each and every one of his molecules spinning gloriously in the ether.
‘I will provide you with pleasure . . .’
That was what Scipio had said, but it wasn’t even close. What Bond was experiencing went far beyond any pleasure he had ever known, more gratifying than any food or wine he had ever tasted, more pleasurable than all the women he had ever slept with. It was like the rush that came with the first cigarette he smoked every morning, only a thousand times more powerful and longer-lasting. For the first time in his life, he understood what it meant to be himself – and it was clearer, simpler, more certain than anything he could have imagined or been told. He was the greatest spy who had ever lived. He was the world’s most successful killer. Why should he have had a moment of doubt creeping into Rolf Larsen’s bedroom in Stockholm and sticking a knife into his throat? It was what he had been born for.
He was James Bond, a boy standing on the icy slopes above Chamonix, breathing in the ice-cold air – and no matter that this was where his parents would die. They had left him this dazzling white world and it was his to command. He was Commander Bond, a war hero, feeling the rush as he parachuted into the Massif Central – and he actually saw it again, the curve of the Earth, the perfect blue sky . . . all of it his. He was the man every woman wanted to sleep with, starting with that first conquest when he was just sixteen years old and still at school. Every time was perfect, no one better. He was James Bond 007, rewarded with the number that placed him above the law and turned him into someone people would fear and respect in equal measure.
His entire life had become a kaleidoscope, shifting and disintegrating with every turn. He skied. He swam. He drove the fastest cars. He was invulnerable. He would live forever. He did not consider these things. They were not thoughts so much as raw emotions. All he knew was that he was happier than he had ever been. Indeed, he was discovering real happiness for the first time.
The first effects of the heroin injection lasted only five or ten minutes but to Bond it was a celebration that went on for eternity. After that he settled into a warm sense of comfort and well-being, aware now that Sixtine was holding him and knowing, also, that the two of them were prisoners on a steamship that was heading to America and that he was going to be killed. But even that didn’t matter. It had been threatened before and somehow it never happened. He would find a way out! He drew Sixtine closer to him, revelling in her softness and the scent of her skin. He wanted to make love to her right now but at the same time holding her was enough. It wouldn’t bother him if he never moved again.
Or again.
Or again.
Hours, days, weeks went by and then, quite suddenly, he felt himself sliding back down the hillside to normality with all its doubts and uncertainties and although he didn’t want to go there, he couldn’t stop himself. He had thought he would never feel pain again but now an unwelcome visitor, it began to insinuate itself, starting in his wrist, first throbbing then hammering all the way up his arm. There was something wrong with his chest. He turned sideways and cried out as the broken rib made itself known. His vision, which had been perfect, darkened at the edges and he remembered the blows to his head, which must have caused all the swelling he could feel around his face. His lips were cracked. His mouth was completely dry. And someone was talking to him.
‘You’re coming out of it. It’s all right, James. You’re with me again. I’m looking after you.’
It was Sixtine, speaking softly, close to his ear. Bond had no idea how long he had been here but remembering what had happened and the danger he was in, he felt his senses locking together.
‘How long?’ It was all he could do to bring the two words together in a question that made sense. Already he knew that both their lives depended on the answer.
‘I managed to get some of the heroin out of you, James. I had to hurt you but there was no other way. And it’s worked. I’ve bought us time. They said it would be eight or nine hours but it’s been less than three. Just don’t try to move for a minute. What you’ve been through . . . it’s been horrible. But you’re going to get back your strength.’
‘I’m OK.’ But he wasn’t. He turned his head and saw the blood, now dark and sticky, on the floor. He was hit at once by a hammer blow of nausea. ‘Going to be sick . . .’
He couldn’t stand up on his own. Sixtine helped him to his feet and supported him as he stumbled over to the sink where he stood for a minute, resting with his hands on the porcelain, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror. When he had recovered a little, she ran the tap and splashed water over his head, using her cupped hand to allow him to drink just a few sips. Bond was feeling atrocious. He was finding it hard to breathe. He was sweating. The muscles in his chest and stomach were in spasm, made more painful by his broken rib. Part of him was astonished by the speed of his descent from the heroin-induced euphoria he had been feeling just moments ago to this abyss. What person in their right mind would want to make this journey if they knew that it would always lead to this destination? But that was just the point, of course. A second injection was the easiest way out, then a third and a fourth until the demand was continuous. Bond had been addicted to many things for as long as he could remember but he had always considered addiction to be one of life’s pleasures, whether it was alcohol, cigarettes or women. This was different. He had felt himself being torn apart. It was a lesson he swore he would never repeat.
‘How are you feeling?’ Sixtine asked.
‘Not good. Need time . . .’
‘James, we don’t have time. We have a window of opportunity. An hour, maybe two. You have to get yourself back together.’
He nodded. ‘Ten minutes. Cigarette . . .’
She lit a cigarette for him and he sat down on one of the wicker chairs, not looking at the blood, focusing on the injection of nicotine quieting him down. At the same time, he took stock. He would be able to move but not to run. Sixtine had badly cut the wrist of his right arm and even if he managed to get hold of a gun, it would affect his aim. He was dizzy from blood loss. He could still feel the drug wreathing itself inside his head, clouding his thoughts. Any sense of invulnerability had well and truly vanished. On the contrary, he had become a liability. He would only hold Sixtine back.
As if sensing his thoughts, she spoke. ‘We’re going to break out of here together. First of all out of this cabin, then off this boat. You and me, James. We’re going to do it together. Don’t you dare argue with me.’
Bond nodded. The taste of the cigarette was an old friend. It was helping to restore him. ‘We can’t just . . . swim,’ he said. He still had to keep the sentences short. ‘Too far out. And I want to stop them. All the heroin. Tons of it. Sink the ship.’
‘Sink the ship?’ She stared at him. ‘How are we going to do that? Forgive me, but I forgot to pack a hand grenade.’
Bond’s thought processes were still disjointed. He had to force himself to concentrate. There were things he had learned – sabotage techniques – working in the secret service during the war. He thought about the fire extinguishers he had seen at the Wolfe Europe compound. And there was something else. What was it? Oh yes. The boxes being carried on board the Mirabelle when he had visited that first time, a century ago. And Wolfe telling him: ‘We’re going to have a party like you wouldn’t believe.’
Somehow, it all came together.
‘I have an idea,’ Bond said.