The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  FOR SALE BY AUCTION

  AT 77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON

  At 10.30 a.m. on WEDNESDAY,

  28th MAY

  under Powers of Sale contained in a mortgage

  from Cornelius Brown et ux

  No. 3½ LOVE LANE, SAVANNAH LA MAR.

  Containing the substantial residence and all that parcel of land by measurement on the Northern Boundary three chains and five perches, on the Southern Boundary five chains and one perch, on the Eastern Boundary two chains exactly and on the Western Boundary four chains and two perches be the same in each case and more or less and butting Northerly on No. 4 Love Lane.

  THE C. D. ALEXANDER CO. LTD.

  77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON

  PHONE 4897.

  James Bond was delighted. He had had many assignments in Jamaica and many adventures on the island. The splendid address and all the stuff about chains and perches and the old-fashioned abracadabra at the end of the advertisement brought back all the authentic smell of one of the oldest and most romantic of former British possessions. For all her newfound ‘Independence’ he would bet his bottom dollar that the statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston had not been destroyed or removed to a museum as similar relics of an historic infancy had been in the resurgent African states. He looked at his watch. The Gleaner had consumed a whole hour for him. He picked up his coat and brief-case. Not much longer to go! In the last analysis, life wasn’t all that dismal. One must forget the bad and remember the good. What were a couple of hours of heat and boredom in this island compared with memories of Beau Desert and Honeychile Rider and his survival against the mad Dr No? James Bond smiled to himself as the dusty pictures clicked across his brain. How long ago it all was! What had happened to her? She never wrote. The last he had heard, she had had two children by the Philadelphia doctor she had married. He wandered off into the grandly named ‘Concourse’ where the booths of many airlines stood empty, and promotion folders and little company flags on their counters gathered the dust blown in with the mangrove breeze.

  There was the customary central display-stand holding messages for incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there would be something for him. In all his life there never had been. Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under tape, beneath each parent letter. Nothing under ‘B’ and nothing under his alias ‘H’ for ‘Hazard, Mark’ of the ‘Transworld Consortium,’ successor to the old ‘Universal Export,’ that had recently been discarded as cover for the Secret Service. Nothing. He ran a bored eye over the other envelopes. He suddenly froze. He looked around him, languidly, casually. The Cuban couple were out of sight. Nobody else was looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and pocketed the buff envelope that said, ‘Scaramanga. B.O.A.C. passenger from Lima.’ He stayed where he was for a few minutes and then wandered slowly off to the door marked ‘Men.’

  He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It contained a B.W.I.A. message form. The neat B.W.I.A. writing said: ‘Message received from Kingston at 12.15: the samples will be available at No. 3½ S.L.M. as from midday tomorrow.’ There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. S.L.M. — Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from outer space — seize it with both hands as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under ‘S’ and walked over to the Cuban Airlines booth and cancelled his reservation. He then went to the B.O.A.C. counter and looked through the timetable. Yes, the Lima flight for Kingston, New York and London was due in at 13.15 the next day. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner’s Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl’s voice came on the line. ‘Commander Ross’s assistant. Can I help you?’

  There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond said, ‘Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London.’

  The girl’s voice became suddenly alert. ‘I’m afraid Commander Ross is away from Jamaica. Is there anything I can do?’ There was a pause. ‘What name did you say?’

  ‘I didn’t say any name. But in fact it’s...’

  The voice broke in excitedly, ‘Don’t tell me. It’s James!’

  Bond laughed. ‘Well I’m damned! It’s Goodnight! What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘More or less what I used to do for you. I heard you were back, but I thought you were ill or something. How absolutely marvellous! But where are you talking from?’

  ‘Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later. Can you get cracking?’

  ‘Of course. Wait till I get a pencil. Right.’

  ‘First I need a car. Anything that’ll go. Then I want the name of the top man at Frome, you know, the WISCO estate beyond Savannah La Mar. Large-scale survey map of that area, a hundred pounds in Jamaican money. Then be an angel and ring up Alexander’s the auctioneers and find out anything you can about a property that’s advertised in today’s Gleaner. Say you’re a prospective buyer. Three and a half Love Lane. You’ll see the details. Then I want you to come out to Morgan’s Harbour where I’m going in a minute, be staying the night there, and we’ll have dinner and swop secrets until the dawn steals over the Blue Mountains. Can do?’

  ‘Of course. But that’s the hell of a lot of secrets. What shall I wear?’

  ‘Something that’s tight in the right places. Not too many buttons.’

  She laughed. ‘You’ve established your identity. Now I’ll get on with all this. See you about seven. ‘Bye.’

  Gasping for air, James Bond pushed his way out of the little sweat box. He ran his handkerchief over his face and neck. He’d be damned! Mary Goodnight, his darling secretary from the old days in the OO Section! At Headquarters they had said she was abroad. He hadn’t asked any questions. Perhaps she had opted for a change when he had gone missing. Anyway, what a break! Now he’d got an ally, someone he knew. Good old Gleaner! He got his bag from the Cuban Airlines booth and went out and hailed a taxi and said ‘Morgan’s Harbour’ and sat back and let the air from the open windows begin to dry him.

  The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond’s job was, was glad to see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston harbour. He said, ‘What is it this time? Cubans or smuggling? They’re the popular targets these days.’

  ‘Just on my way through. Got any lobsters?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Be a good chap and save two for dinner. Broiled with melted butter. And a pot of that ridiculously expensive foie gras of yours. All right?’

  ‘Wilco. Celebration? Champagne on the ice?’

  ‘Good idea. Now I must get a shower and some sleep. That Kingston Airport’s murder.’

  James Bond awoke at six. At first he didn’t know where he was. He lay and remembered. Sir James Molony had said that his memory would be sluggish for a while. The E.C.T. treatment at The Park, a discreet so-called ‘convalescent home’ in a vast mansion in Kent, had been fierce. Twenty-four bashes at his brain from the black box in thirty days. After it was over, Sir James had confessed that, if he had been practising in America, he wouldn’t have been allowed to administer more than eighteen. At first, Bond had been terrified at the sight of the box and of the two cathodes that would be cupped to each temple. He had heard that people undergoing shock treatment had to be strappe
d down, that their jerking, twitching bodies, impelled by the volts, often hurtled off the operating-table. But that, it seemed, was old hat. Now there was the longed-for needle with the pentathol, and Sir James said there was no movement of the body when the current flashed through except a slight twitching of the eyelids. And the results had been miraculous. After the pleasant, quiet-spoken analyst had explained to him what had been done to him in Russia, and after he had passed through the mental agony of knowing what he had nearly done to M., the old fierce hatred of the K.G.B. and all its works had been reborn in him and, six weeks after he had entered The Park, all he wanted was to get back at the people who had invaded his brain for their own murderous purposes. And then had come his physical rehabilitation and the inexplicable amount of gun practice he had had to do at the Maidstone police range. And then the day arrived when the Chief of Staff had come down and explained about the gun practice and had spent the day with him and given him his orders, the scribble of green ink, signed ‘M.,’ that wished him luck, and then the excitement of the ride to London Airport on his way across the world.

  Bond took another shower and dressed in shirt, slacks and sandals and wandered over to the little bar on the waterfront and ordered a double Walker’s de Luxe Bourbon on the rocks and watched the pelicans diving for their dinner. Then he had another drink with a water chaser to break it down and wondered about 3½ Love Lane and what the ‘samples’ would consist of and how he would take Scaramanga. This had been worrying him since he had been given his orders. It was all very fine to be told to ‘eliminate’ the man, but James Bond had never liked killing in cold blood and to provoke a draw against a man who was possibly the fastest gun in the world was suicide. Well, he would just have to see which way the cards fell. The first thing to do was to clean up his cover. The diplomatic passport he would leave with Goodnight. He would now be ‘Mark Hazard’ of the ‘Transworld Consortium,’ the splendidly vague title which could cover almost any kind of human activity. His business would have to be with the West Indies Sugar Company because that was the only business, apart from Kaiser Bauxite, that existed in the comparatively deserted western districts of Jamaica. There was also the Negril project for developing one of the most spectacular beaches in the world, beginning with the building of the Thunderbird Hotel. He could be a rich man looking around for a building site. If his hunch was right, and the childish predictions of his horoscope, and if he came up with Scaramanga at the romantic Love Lane address, it would be a question of playing it by ear.

  The prairie fire of the sunset raged briefly in the west and the molten sea cooled off into moonlit gunmetal.

  A naked arm smelling of Chanel No. 5 snaked round his neck and warm lips kissed the corner of his mouth. As he reached up to hold the arm where it was, a breathless voice said, ‘Oh, James! I’m sorry. I just had to! It’s so wonderful to have you back.’

  Bond put his hand under the soft chin and lifted up her mouth and kissed her full on the half-open lips. He said, ‘Why didn’t we ever think of doing that before, Goodnight? Three years with only that door between us! What must we have been thinking of?’

  She stood away from him. The golden bell of hair fell back to embrace her neck. She hadn’t changed. Still only the faintest trace of make-up, but now the face was golden with sunburn from which the wide-apart blue eyes, now ablaze with the moon, shone out with that challenging directness that had disconcerted him when they had argued over some office problem. Still the same glint of health over the good bones and the broad uninhibited smile from the full lips that, in repose, were so exciting. But now the clothes were different. Instead of the severe shirt and skirt of the days at Headquarters, she was wearing a single string of pearls and a one-piece short-skirted frock in the colour of a pink gin with a lot of bitters in it — the orangey-pink of the inside of a conch shell. It was all tight against the bosom and the hips. She smiled at his scrutiny. ‘The buttons are down the back. This is standard uniform for a tropical Station.’

  ‘I can just see Q Branch dreaming it up. I suppose one of the pearls has a death pill in it.’

  ‘Of course. But I can’t remember which. I’ll just have to swallow the whole string. Can I have a daiquiri, please, instead?’

  Bond gave the order. ‘Sorry, Goodnight. My manners are slipping. I was dazzled. It’s so tremendous finding you here. And I’ve never seen you in your working clothes before. Now then, tell me the news. Where’s Ross? How long have you been here? Have you managed to cope with all that junk I gave you?’

  Her drink came. She sipped it carefully. Bond remembered that she rarely drank and didn’t smoke. He ordered another for himself and felt vaguely guilty that this was his third double and that she wouldn’t know it and when it came wouldn’t recognize it as a double. He lit a cigarette. Nowadays he was trying to keep to twenty and failing by about five. He stabbed the cigarette out. He was getting near to his target and the rigid training rules that had been drilled into him at The Park must from now on be observed meticulously. The champagne wouldn’t count. He was amused by the conscience this girl had awakened in him. He was also surprised and impressed.

  Mary Goodnight knew that the last question was the one he would want answered first. She reached into a plain straw handbag on a gold metal chain and handed him a thick envelope. She said, ‘Mostly in used singles. A few fivers. Shall I debit you direct or put it in as expenses?’

  ‘Direct, please.’

  ‘The car’s outside. You remember Strangways? Well it’s his old Sunbeam Alpine. The Station bought it and now I use it. The tank’s full and it goes like a bird. The top man at Frome is a man called Tony Hugill. Ex-navy. Nice man. Nice wife. Nice children. Does a good job. Has a lot of trouble with cane burning and other small sabotage — mostly with thermite bombs brought in from Cuba. Cuba’s sugar crop is Jamaica’s chief rival and with Hurricane Flora and all the rains they’ve been having over there, the Cuban crop is going to be only about three million tons this year, compared with a Batista level of about seven, and very late, because the rains have played havoc with the sucrose content.’ She smiled her wide smile. ‘No secrets. Just reading the Gleaner. So it’s worth Castro’s trouble to try and keep the world price up by doing as much damage as he can to rival crops so that he’s in a better position to bargain with Russia. He’s only got his sugar to sell and he wants food badly. This wheat the Americans are selling to Russia. A lot of that will find its way back to Cuba, in exchange for sugar, to feed the Cuban sugar croppers.’ She smiled again. ‘Pretty daft business, isn’t it? I don’t think Castro can hold out much longer. The missile business in Cuba must have cost Russia about a billion pounds. And now they’re having to pour money into Cuba, money and goods, to keep the place on its feet. I can’t help thinking they’ll pull out soon and leave Castro to go the way Batista went. It’s a fiercely Catholic country and Hurricane Flora was considered as the final judgment from heaven. It sat over the island and simply whipped it, day after day, for five days. No hurricane in history has ever behaved like that. The churchgoers don’t miss an omen like that. It was a straight indictment of the regime.’

  Bond said with admiration, ‘Goodnight, you’re a treasure. You’ve certainly been doing your homework.’

  The direct blue eyes looked straight into his, dodging the compliment. ‘This is the stuff I live with here. It’s built into the Station. But I thought you might like some background to Frome and what I’ve said explains why WISCO are getting these cane fires. At least we think it is. Apparently there’s a tremendous chess game going on all over the world in sugar — in what they call sugar futures, that’s sort of buying the stuff forward for delivery dates later in the year. Washington’s trying to keep the price down, to upset Cuba’s economy, but there’s increased world consumption and a shortage largely due to Flora and the tremendous rains we’ve been having here after Flora which have delayed the Jamaican crop. I don’t understand it all, but it’s in Cuba’s interest to do as much damage as possible to
the Jamaican crop and this place Frome you’re interested in produces about a quarter of Jamaica’s total output.’ She took a sip at her drink. ‘Well, that’s all about sugar. The top man there is this man Hugill. We’ve had a lot to do with him, so he’ll be friendly. He was in Naval Intelligence during the war, sort of commando job, so he knows the score. The car’s a bit aged but it’s still pretty fast and it won’t let you down. It’s rather bashed about so it won’t be conspicuous. I’ve put the survey map in the glove compartment.’

  ‘That’s fine. Now, last question and then we’ll go and have dinner and tell each other our life stories. But, by the way, what’s happened to your chief, Ross?’

  Mary Goodnight looked worried. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t exactly know. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and locate a man called Scaramanga. He’s a local gunman of some sort. I don’t know much about him. Apparently Headquarters want him traced for some reason.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything that’s interesting. I just do the donkey work. Well, Commander Ross was due back two days ago and he hasn’t turned up. I’ve had to send off a Red Warning, but I’ve been told to give him another week.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad he’s out of the way. I’d rather have his Number Two. Last question. What about this 3½ Love Lane? Did you get anywhere?’

  Mary Goodnight blushed. ‘Did I not! That was a fine question to get me mixed up with. Alexander’s were non-committal and I finally had to go to the Special Branch. I shan’t be able to show my face there for weeks. Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a, er —’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a famous disorderly house in Sav’ La Mar.’

  Bond laughed out loud at her discomfiture. He teased her with malicious but gentle sadism. ‘You mean it’s a whorehouse?’

  ‘James! For heaven’s sake! Must you be so crude?’