A mm Browning automatic pistol is not the easiest thing to conceal about your person. This is why the “close protection” experts advise smaller, lighter weapons which will do just the same job.
Beatrice carried her pistol in a shoulder-bag; Bond used the shoulder-holster, adjusted so that the pistol lay directly behind his left shoulder blade.
Franco and Umberto, who had both stayed well out of sight, were left to look after matters while Bond and Beatrice went off into Forio on their shopping expedition. On this Saturday the little town, with its narrow streets and limited parking facilities, strictly controlled by the local police, was crowded with people doing their last odds and ends of Christmas shopping.
They found a place to park legally and Beatrice, who had made a list of food and other good things that would allow them a pleasant, somewhat gluttonous day, led the way to the nearest market where she shuffled Bond from aisle to aisle, knowing instinctively where the various items were to be found. They filled one large wire trolley, with a mind of its own, in a matter of twenty minutes and Bond noticed, to his pleasure, that Beatrice hardly looked at the shelves at all.
She would murmur where he should go next, and reel off the list of required items, but her eyes were alertly stabbing around the crowded market, and she kept one hand inside her shoulder-bag.
Bond felt that he had found the compleat pro in His Beatrice Maria da Ricci. Everything she did adhered to best security practice, and she appeared to have eyes in the back of her head.
At one point, while facing away from him, she murmured, “No, James. Not the Belgian ones. Take the French, they’re a few lire more but one hundred percent better.” Or, again, in similar circumstances, “The bottles, not the tins. Once you open a tin you have to use the whole lot. The bottles will seal again.”
They even bought a small tree and some gaudy baubles. “A Christmas to remember.” She smiled at him, the black eyes inviting him to return immediately to the delights of the morning.
It was the one time during the expedition that she actually looked at Bond.
They loaded their purchases into the car, and Bond insisted on going on his own to make a secret transaction. She did not like it, but agreed to stand guard in front of the shop - a jeweller’s in which he bought an exquisite gold clasp, shaped like a scutum - the old oblong or oval shield used by the early Roman army with a large diamond centre, and an edging of smaller diamonds.
It cost a ransom, but they took Amex and he would pay for it with his private money. The little jeweller smiled a lot and gift-wrapped the piece with exaggerated care. It was Only when he was back on the street again that Bond realised it had been a long time since he had bought such an extravagant gift for a woman: particularly one he had known for less than twenty-four hours. Could it really happen like this? he wondered. Women had come easily to him, but his own expertise, and the exigencies of his service life, had usually held him back from any deep involvement. Had he really broken the rule of years?
He drove, with Beatrice giving instructions. They finally reached an intersection where the traffic was blocked, held at bay or waved on by a tall, unhappy-looking police-officer.
Beatrice had her pistol on her lap, hand wound round the butt, her eyes moving everywhere at once, darting constantly to the vanity mirror on the sun-visor which she had pulled down.
Slowly the traffic crept towards the white stop-marker until it was the little Fiat’s turn. Bond had his eyes on the cop, waiting for the quick hand-signal that would wave him on, when suddenly he sensed other eyes on him to the right and directly ahead. He moved and saw, with a sense of shock, a girl turn away quickly and start to walk at speed with her back to him. But he recognised her in that one fast glance, and the movement of her body, as she stepped along the pavement.
There was a beeping of motor horns, and Beatrice testily snapped, “He’s waving you on,James. For heaven’s sake, move.”
He slid the clutch out and negotiated the turn, the traffic cop making a gesture with his eyes and head which indicated that this driver ought not to be allowed on the road at all.
He drove back to the Villa Capricciani with a troubled mind, wondering what in heaven’s name First Officer Clover Pennington, of the RNAS Yeovilton was doing on Ischia: particularly what she was doing in the town of Forio, not five miles from where he was staying.
All the Other Demons For a few seconds, James Bond wondered if it was guilt gnawing at his conscience. He had certainly shown, at the least, a sexual attraction to Clover, but this had gone cold when she proved to be an uncertain security risk. There had been something not quite right about First Officer Pennington. Now her geographic proximity to him triggered anxiety. He would tell Beatrice when the moment was right, later.
The gates were open at the Villa Capricciani, and a short, stocky young man stood near the steps. He wore jeans and a T-shirt which proclaimed The Man Who Dies With The Tost Toys Wins. His hair was golden-bleached by the, now departed, summer sun, and the muscles visible on his arms were toned to an awesome strength. Take off the T-shirt, Bond thought, and his body would give an impression of sixteenth-century armour, complete with breastplate, vambraces and pauldrons. Even from this distance, you could mark him down as a trained minder.
“Franco,” Beatrice explained.
He started to unload the car while Beatrice spoke in a soft murmur to Franco, who eventually came down, closed the gates, locked them and, with a conspiratorial wink, handed a key to Bond. He also pointed to a tiny switch set in the wall, all but covered by ivy. In almost tedious dumb show, Franco activated the switch, indicating that if anyone fiddled with the gates or lock, the “screamers” would begin wailing.
Then they all went up to the villa, and Franco disappeared through the rear french windows on his way back to the big villa.
He looked like a man who would not need to use the doors, but could walk straight through the walls, pausing only to shake brick-dust from his hair.
Leaving Beatrice to deal with the food and drink, Bond went down the steps again, locked the car, made it secure, and returned, locking the inner gate behind him.
“They’re not going to like it.” Beatrice came to him, holding him gently in her arms and pressing herself against his body.
“They’re not going to get it.” Bond smiled down at her.
She sighed. “Oh, James, be your age.
“I usually am.” He was genuinely surprised to have used such an old schoolboy piece of repartee. Beatrice seemed to have wrought an unexpected change in him.
“Listen to me. Poor old Franco and Umberto will have to spend this Christmas as watchers. The Rottweilers will prowl the grounds, and I’m not going to let you, my darling James, out of my sight, unless the bloody BAST people have another go.
“Eat your hearts out, Franco and Umberto.”
“Mmmm,” she nodded. “I’m going up to the big villa now.
Give them instructions. Make an obligatory “phone call. Then I’ll be back and the celebrations can commence.” She gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek, and he felt that his face had never yet been kissed like this. Beatrice had the art of kissing a cheek, as though it were his mouth, or even his deepest secret being.
Kissing, he considered, was a lost art in this crumbling, shock ridden world. Beatrice had rediscovered it, and now practised the craft in a way that had been hidden for centuries. He stood on the rear terrace, listening to her footsteps on the stone path, wondering what had happened to him. He had never been one for quick, serious decisions of the heart. Quick, serious decisions were for operational service matters, not for women. Yet this girl had certainly worked a powerful and potent magic. He felt, after one day, that he had known her for most of his life.