“I’m awfully sorry,” Karloff said, looking up with watery eyes. “I’m the one who should have kept his trap shut.”
Norman grinned slightly and shook his head. “Man, that was electric.”
We were taxiing to a stop on a well-lit airfield and the winds had died down to a bluster.
Fleming intently stared out the window into the night. “Where are we?” he asked the stewardess whom I had pinched.
“On the ground,” she answered, giving me a glare and a wide berth.
“I know that, dammit,” he snapped. “Where on the ground is the question? Cuba or Jamaica?”
“It’s a naval base. McCalla Field. Guantanamo.”
Norm said, “The only McCalla I know is Irish.”
“We’re you listening?” Fleming said. “We’re not in Ireland. We’re in Cuba.”
“Irish McCalla plays Sheen, Queen of the Jungle on TV,” Norm said, gritting his teeth as we helped him off the plane.
Fleming seemed extremely steamed for a guy who had escaped from being blown to bits in the air. Karloff, on the other hand, was so impressed that he gave Norman his cane, tossing off, “I only need it occasionally when my right knee acts up. I assure you, I’ll be fine without it.”
It was still raining moderately as we scuttled across the wet airstrip to a dark concrete-block building nested between two larger hangers. Naval officials tended to Norm’s wound and questioned the rest of us for over an hour.
The two pilots, stews, and I all told the same series of events.
Bearded’s wallet identified him as Jose Rodrigo, a taxi driver from New York City, who wanted to capture the plane for the “glory of the new Cuban nation.”
A Navy CPO near me scratched his left ear and grumbled, “This is the first time something like this has ever happened.”
“Well, get used to it,” Fleming advised. “And you need to start searching passengers for weapons from now on.”
“You all were on a British flight,” the Chief Petty Officer advised back, shaking his burley head. Then he breathed, “Sombitch douchbag wet backs.”
I didn’t bother to comment. I was just glad to have a pulse and feel my feet on solid ground.
The Base Commander, Vice Admiral Thomas Curtiss, had been alerted to our unscheduled landing and came over to reconnoiter.
“The real hero,” Karloff lisped at him, “is this young man, Norman Weirick.”
A corpsman had patched up the meaty portion of Norm’s thigh where the stray bullet had grazed it. He’d also shot him full of antibiotics and pain killers.
My own right leg was starting to give me a little trouble. I guess I’d sprained it or something during the violent fight and flight. I felt a deep tweak in the back of my hip every few minutes and noticed that my right fist was a little sore too, but I dismissed it all as the usual cost of doing business and the price of success.
The base commander was impressed with how we’d foiled the hijacking. He tossed Rodrigo into the brig, saying, “You are part of the rebel alliance. Take him away.”
Like Norm, Vice Admiral Curtiss had read some of Fleming’s books and he recognized Karloff--who wouldn’t? So he was delighted to make arrangements for us all to be transported safely to our original destinations, courtesy of the American military.
Norman was a little more out of it than usual. He waved the cane in the air and slurred, “Kid Weirick, Defender of Justice, has a flash once in a while.”
“Indeed he does,” Karloff confirmed. “Nice work to the both of you.”
Norm started singing, “Here I come to save the day. That means that Mighty Mouse is on the way.”
“That kid’s weird,” the CPO said.
Karloff laughed. “Indeed he is.”
“I think he’s going for an Oscar nom,” I told Fleming, who remained stiff lipped with his eyes on the horizon, as if he were waiting for a bus. I was beginning to dislike the writer. Too cold for my taste.
Both the Noir Man and my right leg continued to feel uneasy.
CHAPTER 11
The flight they set up for us was even smaller than the Gulfstream. Neither Norm, Fleming, nor I liked it, but the commander was insistent that we accept his appreciation. So, the next morning, we all balanced our collective weight into single-engine modified Beechcraft Bonanza for a 100 mile hop to the Boscobel Aerodrome in Jamaica. Karloff caught a later, bigger aircraft to Puerto Rico. Lucky fellow.
We only flew for about forty-five minutes and never higher than 3000 feet above the waves. The little plane bobbed along like a happy hummingbird with me in the co-pilot’s seat. That’s how small it was. I couldn’t help remembering that Buddy Holly and Ritchie Valens had crashed and burned in this very type of plane only seven months earlier.
The pilot, a career navy man with twenty years of service, tried to entertain his captive audience with a shouted stream of off-color humor. Norm was doped and out of it all. Fleming stoic. I looked down through the side window only a couple inches from my face and tried to concentrate on the dots of white below us that were minor whitecaps on the dark blue of the eternal sea.
We traveled along like that, buzzing and seemingly skimming, as the island of Jamaica grew fatter and greener on the horizon.
We landed easily on the north coast at an airport the size of a kid’s softball field, and only slightly as well maintained. I thanked our pilot and got out, feeling that I’d accomplished something extremely important. I helped Norm to the ground, and we hobbled--him with a crutch and me with the cane--to a two-car garage and attached radio tower surrounded by fuel tanks and a half dozen chickens.
“I never want to watch another episode of Sky King as long as I live,” Norm confessed, while we filed through customs.
Fleming immediately searched for a taxi, but a five-foot-two, unctuous government official had heard of our situation and already had transportation arranged.
“We have never met, sirs, but it is an honor to serve you, sirs,” said Fletcher Cooke of the Royal Jamaican Customs Service. The busy little man ushered us into a waiting red and yellow pre-war Packard and told the driver--the blackest young woman I’d ever seen--to take us to Fleming’s estate, Goldeneye, “with immediate haste.”
Fleming tried to protest, but our acceleration pushed him back into his seat.
We were soon swerving along a two-lane road in the mid-day sun, and it was so hot I thought I might need a hat, but a hat would only make my head hotter.
Norm read my mind and asked, “Hot enough for you?”
I tried to set fire to his hair with my eyes. I immediately regretted giving him a harsh look. It was hard to act like a normal human being, after all I’d been through in the last twenty-four hours or so, but I tried to change the channel and act in a more friendly mood.
“Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” I told Fleming. “Let’s talk. My middle name is Dalmas. What’s yours?”
He froze for a second and I almost missed it. “Let’s discuss more important matters instead,” he said, lighting another of his fancy cigarettes with a jet of flame from butane lighter.
“Good idea. Tell me, what’s your favorite movie?”
His eyes were adding and subtracting. I held them with what I thought was an innocent expression, until he said, Storm Over Asia.
“Wow,” Norman declared, fanning himself with an open palm. “You go back.”
Fleming ignored him and asked me, “Do you think the Mob was behind the hijacking?”
I adjusted my right leg to a less painful position. “No, I doubt that they hate you enough to take down an entire airplane.”
He seemed to make more mental calculations as we sped down the highway. His complexion reddened and his high forehead began to sweat from more than the heat. “That’s good news, I suppose.”
I sat back wondering if I’d said something for what seemed like five minutes.
Fleming winced. Then he grimaced and quietly groaned. Clutching at his left side, he bent far forw
ard.
Norm called, “Is--is he having a heart attack?”
I reached out and pulled the writer upright. He gasped out through clinched teeth and cigarette breath, “Get me to a hospital.”
I shouted to the driver, “Take us to...hospital, immediately,” and the Packard picked up speed.
***
Norm and I quietly killed time, seated in a small waiting room of a moderately modern medical clinic, anticipating the return of a doctor with news of Fleming’s condition.
I tried to let my mind relax. It had been a hectic couple of days in an extremely busy year. Max had died, Walt had told me half-truths, my girlfriend was acting weird, and an unknown Red was out to kill me. I’d survived almost being driven off a cliff and nearly blown up in a plane over the Caribbean.
It had been a time for “joyful participation in the sorrows of the workplace,” as my old friend, Gunther used to say. I’d been serving others for months now, sort of joyfully, and felt I deserved a little rest. I wanted to unwind the Noir Man and regress until I enjoyed life more.
In some respects, 1959 had also been the best year of my life. Regardless of all the hassles and run-arounds, things were improving. Here I was, I told myself, sitting in a tropical paradise, on a simple assignment with another good friend. I took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even my sinuses had cleared. Life was essentially good.
We’d waited here now for nearly an hour. Two Jamaicans, a man and a woman, sat close together against the opposite wall, staring fixedly at Norm and me.
Norman fidgeted with the bandage on his leg. “I’ve got one for you.”
This didn’t seem like the best of times, but... “What the hell,” I replied. “Shoot.”
Norm recited: “Every year at the Met, they go deeper in debt. You would think they were bound to go broke.”
The Noir Man said, ‘They don’t want Pagliacci.’
I repeated this, adding, “Give them Liberace. That would be a master stroke,” and beamed.
Norm nodded and we both sang, “You got to give the people hoke.”
The Jamaicans looked at us as if we were loony tunes. I wiped my already soaking handkerchief over my face and smiled at them. They averted their eyes and somehow their act made me feel cooler.
My pal with the grazed leg brought out a waxed paper bundle of Oreo cookies from one of the many pockets of his vest and we munched together waiting for word on Fleming’s condition. I offered to share one with the waiting couple, giving them my best smile. They refused the cookie and the smile, probably because of our off-key singing.
Everybody’s a critic.
Abruptly, a dark-faced doctor banged into the room through a swinging door and looked in our direction, saying to nobody but himself, “No, no. He is not out here either.” He addressed us with an alarmed expression. “I’m sorry, but where is your friend now?”
“Where is--” The rest of the sentence lodged like chicken bone in my throat.
“He’s with you,” Norm said, starting to get up.
“No, no, no.” the doctor said. “I left him in the exam room and he is gone.”
“Gone?” I questioned the doctor. “You were supposed to be treating him for a cardiac arrest.”
Doctor Nono raised his palms to the heavens. “No. He has vanished. Poof.”
***
“He couldn’t have just vanished,” I told the police inspector. “Either the Mob or the Reds have got him.” The minute I said it, I knew it must have sounded ridiculous, but I figured it might be a good way to get the local constabulary moving in the right direction.
Unfortunately, the stern-faced police captain wasn’t budging or buying it. He’d performed a quick search of the premises, quizzed the doctor, and called back to his station with details and a few quick instructions.
Now he was back to questioning Norm and me, while tapping our passports against the palm of his left hand.
“American organized crime has no footing here in Jamaica, as they do in Cuba with all its hotels and casinos,” Captain Foster said, with a pained expression. “And the Reds, as you say, do not exist here, as well.”
“That’s what you think,” Norm told him.
The captain went on. “The man you brought to the clinic cannot be located.”
“We know that,” I said, evenly. “That’s why we called you. Ian Fleming has been abducted.”
The policeman shook his head. “You were observed by witnesses, babbling like locos. Isn’t it more likely that you, yourselves, are the cause of the man’s disappearance?”
“Now wait just a cotton-picking minute,” the Defender of Justice protested.
“Any delay, Officer, could lead to Fleming’s death,” I told the captain.
“Ah, I see,” he replied, as another man came in the hospital’s entrance. “You are threatening me, then?”
“No, no,” I quickly amended. “All I meant was that Fleming is out there somewhere and the people who have him could kill him any time.”
“What does he mean?” the new man asked. He wore a dark short-sleeved shirt open at the collar, tan slacks, and a concerned look. “Who is this, inspector?”
The Noir Man made me say, “Who the hell are you?”
The captain clutched my arm, tightly. “Be careful, sir,” he advised the stranger. “This one is raving and may be dangerous.”
The man shook his head and extended his hand, palm sideway. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Wade.”
I had a pretty good idea now who he was.
“This,” the captain explained, taking a step back, “this is Mr. Fleming.”
“Ian Fleming?” Norm said. “For real, Ian Fleming?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, swatting a mosquito that had just stung the back of my neck. “I sort of saw it coming.” I took the man’s hand and we shook. “My middle name is Dalmas. What’s yours?”
Without hesitation, he said, “Lancaster.”
“What’s your favorite movie?”
The real Fleming looked at me oddly and then chuckled. “Anything by Hitchcock, I suppose. Is that the correct counter-sign, Mr. Wade?”
Feeling a little embarrassed, I said, “It does sound like spy stuff, doesn’t it? Sorry.”
“Not at all.”
Captain Foster said, “So I take it that you know these men?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Fleming replied. “We have a mutual friend, the Grey Seal, in the States.”
I knew that Walt had favored that name once upon a time.
“Ah, I see,” the police officer said, handing back our passports. “If Mr. Fleming vouches for you, I can do no more.”
“Thank you, Captain Foster.” Fleming nodded. “Might I suggest that you send forces out to locate the man who impersonated me?”
“Yes, yes. It will happen at once.”
“And tell the doctor that we’ll be leaving together in my car.”
Captain Foster saluted sharply, clicking his heels in respect, but the soft leather of his boots made almost no sound.
Norman wasn’t confused. He just wanted confirmation of this latest craziness. “You mean our Fleming was a phony all along? Was he trying to lure us into something or what?”
On second thought, I guess he was confused. I tried to dope it out. “I only met him a few days ago because Walt sent me to see him. He said he was Fleming and he knew about the Syndicate not liking your books,” I told the real Fleming. “He also knew about your place here in Jamaica.”
“With a little research, you’ll find that’s common knowledge,” Fleming said, opening a cigarette case.
“There,” I pointed. “He even had one of those.”
“My boy,” the writer replied, “are you certain you are indeed a private inquiry agent?”
I didn’t think there was any reason for him to get snotty. I struggled with the heated situation and climate. “I’ve been a PI for almost a decade, okay? Anyone can be taken in once in a while.”
; “Yeah,” Norm said, “anyone.”
“Captain,” I said, trying to capture authority. “When we dismissed the taxi that brought us here, we dropped off our luggage in an alcove. The false Fleming’s bag should still--”
Everybody rushed to the clinic’s entrance. We found the blue Samsonite case containing a 9 mm Luger and a letter to Yuri Kaminski at the Biltmore Hotel, instructing him to “play the long game.” It was handwritten on plain paper and signed Nic or Nik in a loose hand. The envelope was post marked three days ago from East Berlin.
Fleming said, “My doppelganger could have started back there by now.”
“Or,” I said, “he could still be out there waiting.”
“In the meantime, could I have your autograph?” Norm said.
CHAPTER 12
Goldeneye, Fleming’s modest estate in the town of Oracabessa, only a few miles from the airport, was actually a single-story, white stone hurricane-proof building with a small garden and a smaller access to the turquoises sea.
The cozy two-bedroom structure sat surrounded by lush green bougainvillea bushes and tiny lizards. In the sweltering afternoon, I could smell the jasmine shrubs and hear the crickets zing and the tree-frogs glunk.
We had all piled into Fleming’s black Sunbeam Alpine and driven--on the left side of the cactus-lined A3 road--the short distance to this comfortable home. Once there, the author had offered drinks to counter the lack of ocean breeze. The ice in my ginger ale melted almost immediately. In fact, the glass had quickly sweated through its napkin and the moist paper had already started to dry from the heat. I wished I could say the same for my shirt.
Both Norm and I wasted no time getting short, individual showers. We dropped our bags in the guest room and changed into fresh duds, taking care not to irritate our injured limbs. Nonetheless, I attempted to perform a few vaudeville tricks with Karloff’s cane and almost broke the ceiling fan.
When we came back into the estate’s wide central room, we were greeted by a guest.
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