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Was it possible after all this time?

  He closed his eyes briefly. The long flight and the sudden, bloody action at the end must have scrambled his brains. The founder, Ernst Stavro Blofeld was dead beyond a doubt, SPECTRE as an organised unit had expired with Blofeld. But who could tell? The original organisation spanned the world and, at one time, had its fingers into practically every major crime syndicate, as well as most of the police forces, security and secret intelligence services, in the so-called civilised world.

  Inspector. In . . . spector. SPECTRE, his old enemy, the Special Executive for Counterintelligence, Terrorism, Revenge and Extortion. Was it possible that a new SPECTRE had risen, like some terrible mutated phoenix, to haunt them in the 1980s?

  The 747’s engines cut off. The bell-like signal told the passengers to disembark.

  Yes. James Bond decided it was highly possible.

  3

  THE HOUSE ON THE BAYOU

  It stood, decaying and corrupt, on the only firm piece of ground in the midst of swamp land. The bayou channelled around it, then split up to join its brothers and disappear in steamy green marshes.

  The nearest town was six miles away, and the few people who lived near the edge of that great watery marsh, on the lower reaches of the Mississippi River, kept away from the soggy bank across from the house.

  Very old people said some mad Englishman had built the house, in the 1820s, as a grand palace from which he would tame the swamp. But he did not get far. There was trouble with a woman – in some versions, more than one woman – and there had certainly been death, from fever and disease, also from violence. The house was surely haunted. There were unexplained noises. It was also protected by its own evil: guarded by snakes, great snakes, the like of which were not seen in other parts of the swamp. These great snakes – up to thirty and forty feet in length, some reported – kept close to the house but as the nearest store owner, Askon Delville, said, ‘They don’t seem to bother Criton none.’

  Criton was a deaf mute. Children ran from his path, and adults did not like him. But, as the great snakes didn’t bother Criton, Criton didn’t bother Askon Delville none.

  The deaf mute would cross on a marsh hopper, about once a week, and walk the five miles to Askon’s store with a list of necessities. He would collect the goods, then walk back the five miles, get into the marsh hopper and disappear over the bayou.

  There was a woman at the house also. People caught sight of her from time to time, and it was certain she wrote out the order that Criton carried to Askon Delville’s store. She was, of course, some kind of witch, otherwise she would not be able to live in such a haunted place.

  People took special care to stay away when the gatherings happened. They always knew when there was going to be one. Askon told them. He knew because of Criton’s shopping list. The day of a gathering, Criton usually made two trips because there was so much extra stuff needed at the house. Then, around dusk, you really kept clear. There would be noises, automobiles, extra marsh hoppers and the house, they said, got all lit up. Sometimes there was music; and one day, about a year ago, young Freddie Nolan – who wasn’t scared of anything – took his own marsh hopper out, about two miles upstream, planning to sneak up and take some pictures.

  Nobody saw young Freddie Nolan again, but his marsh hopper turned up, all smashed to pieces, like some great animal – or snake – had got to it.

  There was a gathering this week.

  Nobody except Criton and the woman – who answered to the name Tic – and the monthly visitors knew that the inside of the house was solid as the piece of rock on which it was built. The old rotting exterior clapboard was only a shell for the real thing: stone, brick, glass and steel, not to mention a fair portion of opulence.

  Eleven people had come this month: two from London, England; two from New York; one German; a Swede; a pair of Frenchmen; one from LA; a big man who came every month all the way from Cairo, Egypt; and the Leader. The Leader was called Blofeld, though in the outside world the name was very different.

  They dined magnificently. Later, after the liqueurs and coffee, the whole party went into the conference room at the back of the house.

  The long room was decorated in a soft lime. Heavy matching curtains covered the huge French windows which looked out on to the far side of the bayou. The curtains were closed by the time the company assembled, wall lights glowing, with brass-shaded strips above the four paintings which formed the only decoration – two Jackson Pollocks, a Miro and a Kline. The Kline was one of the pieces of art stolen in a recent hijack. Blofeld liked it so much that they had moved it to the house and not put it on sale.

  A polished oak table occupied most of the centre of the room. It was set for eleven people, complete with blotters, drinks, pens, paper, ashtrays and agenda.

  Blofeld took the place at the head of the table, while the others filed to their seats, all marked with name cards. They did not sit until the Leader had taken the chair.

  ‘This month’s agenda is short,’ Blofeld began. ‘Three items only: the budget; the recent débâcle on Flight BA 12; and, the operation we call HOUND. Now, Mr El Ahadi, the budget, please.’

  The gentleman from Cairo rose to his feet. He was a tall, dark man, with immensely handsome features and a honeyed voice that had charmed many a young woman in its time. ‘I am pleased to announce,’ he said, ‘that, even without the hoped-for proceeds from Flight BA 12, our bank accounts in Switzerland, London, and New York contain, respectively, 400 million dollars; fifty million pounds sterling; and 150 billion dollars. The total, according to our calculations, will suffice for our present purposes, and, if operations succeed according to budget – as our Leader predicts – we can expect to double the amount within one year. As agreed, all profits, over and above our initial investment, will be shared equally.’ He gave his most charming smile, and the assembled company sat back, relaxed.

  Blofeld’s hand came down hard on the table. ‘Very good.’ The voice had taken on a rasping edge. ‘But the failure of our assault on Flight 12 is inexcusable. Particularly after so much preparation on your part, Herr Treiben.’ Blofeld shot a look of disgust at the German delegate. ‘As you know, Herr Treiben, under similar circumstances, others on the executive committee of SPECTRE have paid the ultimate price.’

  Treiben, plump and pink, a warlord of the West German underworld in his own right, felt the colour drain from his face.

  ‘However,’ Blofeld continued, ‘we have another scapegoat. You may not know it, Treiben, but we finally caught up with your Mr de Luntz.’

  ‘Ah?’ Treiben rubbed his hands and said that he also had been looking for Mr de Luntz. All his best men had searched for de Luntz without success.

  ‘Yes, we have found him.’ Blofeld beamed, the hands coming together in a clap which sounded like a pistol shot. ‘Having found him, I believe he should now join his friends.’ The drapes over the large windows slid back silently. As they did so, the room lights dimmed. Outside the window, the immediate environment appeared bright as day. ‘An infra-red device,’ Blofeld explained, ‘so that the guardians of this house will not be frightened by light. Ah, here comes your Mr de Luntz now.’

  A bald, frightened-looking man in a dirty, crumpled suit was led on to the patch of ground immediately in front of the window. His hands were tied behind his back and his feet shackled, so that he shuffled under Criton’s grasp. His eyes rolled wildly, as though he was desperately searching the dark for a way of escape from something not defined, but obviously terrible.

  Criton led the man to a metal stake, secured only a few feet from the thick glass of the window. Inside, the observers could now see that a short length of rope hung from the restraints around de Luntz’s wrists. Criton attached the rope to the stakes, turned, smiled towards the window, then stepped back out of sight.

  The moment Criton was clear, there came a thud from the far side of the window, and the captive, de Luntz, was hemmed in by a metal grille of cyclone fencing attached to a
heavy framework. This grille was three-sided with a top, like a small square ice hockey goal. The open front ended almost at the edge of the water, which lapped some nine feet from the window.

  ‘What’s he done?’ one of the Americans asked. It was Mascro, the white-haired avuncular man from Los Angeles.

  ‘He was the back-up man on BA 12. He did not go to the assistance of his comrades,’ Treiben sneered.

  ‘Mr Mascro,’ Blofeld raised a hand, ‘de Luntz has told us exactly what happened. How the others died, and who did it. Ah, one of the guardians has spotted Mr de Luntz. I’ve always wanted to see if a giant python really can eat a man whole.’

  Standing behind the french windows, the executive committee of SPECTRE watched with fascination and horror. The infra-red gave them a clear, daylight picture. They could also hear the unfortunate victim start to scream as he spotted the reptile squirming in from the tall reeds, near the marshy water’s edge.

  The python was huge, at least thirty feet in length, with a fat solid body and a massive triangular head. De Luntz, tethered to the stake, began to pull and twist, trying to drag himself clear, but the python suddenly launched forward, twining itself around the man.

  The creature moved with extraordinary speed, encircling de Luntz’s body like some great clinging vine. It seemed only a matter of seconds before the python’s head was in line with that of its victim – the two, interlocked, swaying as if in an obscene dance of death. De Luntz’s screams grew more agonised as the python brought its head level with his face, the fanged jaws snapping in excited anger. Reptile and prey looked into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, and the watchers could plainly see the python’s crushing grip tighten on the man’s body.

  Then de Luntz went limp, and the pair fell to the ground. One of the observers, safe behind the window, gasped loudly. The giant snake had unwound itself with three fast flicks of its body, and was now examining its meal. The snapping jaws first made for the securing rope, tugging it clear, then moved towards the body’s feet.

  ‘That’s quite amazing.’ Blofeld stood very close to the window. ‘See, the snake’s pushing his shoes off.’

  Now, the python squirmed around so that its head was exactly aligned with the body’s feet, which the reptile pushed together, before opening its jaws to an almost unbelievable width and clamping down on the corpse’s ankles.

  The entire process took almost an hour, yet the group inside remained fascinated, hypnotised. The python swallowed in a series of jerks, resting, immobile, after each effort, until the last vestiges of de Luntz were gone. Then the snake lay quietly, exhausted by its exertions, its long body bloated from normal shape so that the watchers could clearly discern the outlines of the squeezed human frame half way down the snake’s body.

  ‘An interesting lesson for us all.’ Blofeld’s hands came together again. The curtains slid back into place, and the lights came up. Reflectively, the group returned to the table, some white and visibly shaken at what they had witnessed.

  The German, Treiben – who had known de Luntz well in life – was the most affected. ‘You said,’ he began, his voice quavering, ‘you said, de Luntz spoke before. . . before . . .’

  ‘Yes,’ Blofeld nodded. ‘He spoke. He sang whole arias. Pavarotti could not have done better. He even sang his own death warrant. Apparently there were people expecting us on Flight BA 12. We have yet to discover if someone talked, or whether all high-risk cargoes are now being protected.

  ‘To begin with, the plan went with clockwork precision. The girl did a magnificent job in getting herself scheduled on that flight and smuggling the smoke canisters and weapons on board. The attack took place on time, to the second, there’s no doubt about that. De Luntz, however, excused himself from taking part. He claimed to be boxed in at the rear of the plane. It seems there were five guards travelling on BA 12. From de Luntz’s description they were members of the British Special Air Service.’ Blofeld paused, looking at each man in turn. ‘All except one.’

  The men around the table waited, an air of expectancy permeating the room.

  ‘The reorganisation of this great society, of which we are all members,’ the Leader continued, ‘has taken a long time. We have been in hibernation. Now the world will soon see that we are awake. In particular we will have to deal with one old enemy who was a constant thorn in the side of my illustrious predecessor. Mr de Luntz – God rest his soul – identified four of the guards on that aeroplane as possible undercover SAS men. He also made a positive identification of the fifth man – the one, I might add, who caused the most damage. I personally questioned de Luntz. Gentleman, our old enemy James Bond was on that aircraft.’

  The faces around the table hardened; all turned towards Blofeld.

  It was Mascro who spoke at last: ‘You want me to put out a contract on him? In the old days, when your . . .’

  The Leader cut him short. ‘It has been tried before. No. No contracts; no specialists sent to London. I have personal scores to settle with Mr Bond. Gentlemen, I have devised a method to deal with him – call it a lure if you like. If it has worked, and I see no reason for it to fail, soon we shall have the pleasure of Mr Bond’s company on this side of the Atlantic. I intend to deal with him just as that reptile dealt with the wayward de Luntz.’

  Blofeld paused, looking around the table to make certain all concentration was on the subject in hand.

  ‘Soon,’ Blofeld continued, ‘we shall be fully launched into the planning of what has for security reasons, at this stage, been called HOUND.’

  The Leader chuckled. ‘Ironic, yes? A nice touch to talk of HOUND. Hound, taken from the Christian poem “The Hound of Heaven”. The chuckle had turned into a smile. ‘The Hound of Heaven, or the Hounds of Heaven, eh? Hounds; Wolves. It is good, our target being America’s great threat, the Wolves of Space, already circling the globe in their packs, waiting to pounce, and tear their victims apart – and, in the midst of it, Mr Bond. This time SPECTRE will wipe Mr James Bond from the face of this planet.’

  There were grim murmurs of agreement from around the table before Blofeld, glancing at a small gold wrist watch, spoke again. ‘In fact, my bait should have been taken by now. Soon, gentlemen, soon we shall see James Bond face to face. And the beauty of it is that he will not know whom he is meeting, or what is really in store for him.’

  4

  PILLOW THOUGHTS

  James Bond glanced affectionately at Ann Reilly’s face, quiet and beautiful in sleep, on the pillow next to him. The sleek and shining straw-coloured hair was tousled around her oval face. For a fleeting second, she reminded Bond of Tracy – his wife of less than a few hours before Ernst Stavro Blofeld so viciously gunned her down, on the autobahn from Munich to Kufstein, as they were beginning their honeymoon.

  Ann Reilly – a member of Bond’s own Service, assistant to the Armourer and second-in-command of Q Branch – was known by all and sundry within the big headquarters building overlooking Regent’s Park as Q’ute. An apt nickname for the elegant, tall, very efficient and liberated young lady.

  After a slightly shaky start, Bond and Q’ute had become friends and what she liked to call ‘occasional lovers’. This evening had been divided into two parts. First, duty – the checking and firing of Bond’s new personal hand gun, the Heckler & Koch VP70, the weapon which both M and the Armourer had now decided would be carried by all officers of the Service.

  Bond had objected. After all, he had usually been allowed to choose his own hand gun, and was more than put out when his trusted Walther PPK had been withdrawn from service in 1974. On his last mission he had been severely criticised for using an old, yet highly efficient Browning. In his own stubborn way, 007 had fought for his personal rights – an action applauded by Q’ute, a champion of feminism which, by definition, meant she also championed certain male causes.

  But if M’s word was law, then the Armourer would see the ruling was carried out, and Bond had, in due course, been issued with the VP70.


  While the VP70 was much larger than the Walther, Bond had to admit that the weapon posed no problem as far as concealment was concerned. It felt good, with its longer butt and good balance. It was also very accurate, and lethal – 9mm, with an eighteen-round magazine and the ability to fire semiautomatic three-shot bursts when fitted with the light shoulder stock.

  There was no doubt that it was also a man-stopper of considerable power, and – in recent days – between lengthy sessions with his old friend Bill Tanner, M’s Chief-of-Staff, concerning the hijack and identity of the terrorists, Bond had spent a lot of time getting to know his new pistol.

  So, that evening, from five o’clock to seven-thirty, 007 was on the underground range, going through a fast-draw and firing session with the expert Q’ute.

  Almost from the moment he had first found himself working with Q’ute, Bond had developed a respect for her immense professionalism. She certainly knew her job, from weaponry to the complex mysteries of electronics. But she could also hold her own as the most feminine of women.

  When they finished on the range that night, Ann Reilly made it clear that, if Bond was free, she was available until the following morning.

  After dining at a small Italian restaurant – the Campana in Marylebone High Street – the couple had gone back to Q’ute’s apartment where they made love with a disturbing wildness, as though time was running out for both of them.

  The draining of their bodies left the agile Q’ute exhausted. She fell asleep almost immediately after their last, long and tender kiss. Bond, however, stayed wide awake, his alert state of mind brought about by the mounting anxiety of the past few days, and by what he had discovered with Bill Tanner.

  The BA 12 terrorists had all been traced back to a German underworld figure who also dabbled in political and economic espionage, one Kurt Walter Treiben. Even the stewardess, it was now proved, had pulled strings to be assigned to that particular flight, and though she had been with British Airways for almost three years, her background also linked her to Treiben.