Licence to Kill

by John Gardner

  ‘Enjoy,’ Bond muttered to the unhearing maggots as he leapt for his automatic which was a few feet behind the tank. As he swept it from the boards, a high-powered rifle bullet splintered the woodwork only inches from his hand. He wheeled, the pistol up in the two-handed grip, getting off two shots in the direction of the rifle fire. He caught a blur as the marksman dropped to the ground, firing again.

  Bond rolled on to his feet, diving for cover behind the first of the huge main tanks and, crouching, began to move to the left. As he reached the third tank, so another shot cannoned out in the relatively enclosed space of the warehouse, shattering the tank and covering Bond with water. A fish leapt out and Bond found himself skidding among a whole waterfall of fish running from the broken tank.

  Another shot clanged against the catwalk high above, and Bond rolled to his right, behind the second tank, mind racing. The shot had come from his far left, which meant the rifleman was trying to position himself in a line with Bond. Thinking of the many movies he had seen where the hero races upwards during pursuit, he made a grab at the metal ladder leading to the upper catwalk. As he reached the top he could hear his adversary clanking up the ladder at the far end. If he did not move quickly, they would be facing each other along the metal walk. He ran half-a-dozen paces, fired another two shots to discourage the rifleman from getting on to the catwalk too quickly, then, vaulting over the guard-rail he grabbed the edge of the catwalk and hung there with one hand, the other still clutching the automatic.

  He had jumped at a point where a shaft of tubular steel led under the catwalk, strengthening it, and holding it to the wall with around two inches to spare between it and the metal slats of the walkway. Like a monkey, Bond swung under the catwalk, holding the shaft of steel with one hand, taking all his weight.

  He could hear the rifleman pounding above him, firing shot after shot as he ran towards where he thought Bond would be standing. The man was almost certainly firing from the hip. Bond, now feeling agonising strain on his left arm, raised his automatic, so that it pointed directly upwards in one of the gaps.

  The catwalk juddered as the man came at a run. The shot had to be perfect, not too soon, but just as the rifleman was above him. Almost by instinct, Bond judged the moment. He felt, rather than saw, the shape getting nearer, and, as it loomed directly above him, he fired off two rounds. There was a shriek of pain, and he heard the rifle go flying, while the man, doubled up, still conscious, but screaming in agony clutched at his loins.

  Bond withdrew the pistol from the gap in the metal. ‘Right between the slats,’ he murmured, holstering the gun, then clinging on to the steel support, mercifully taking the strain on both arms.

  He felt a sticky wet splatter of blood fall on to his forehead, and, as he looked upwards, the rifleman fell against the guard-rail. He was a big man, tall and heavy, breathing in short rattling gulps. As he hit the guard-rail he seemed to stand up. But all control had gone, the man fell again on to the side of the rail and pitched over into the tank below.

  There was another dreadful scream. The tank’s water boiled and there were odd flashes of movement and what seemed to be light. It took Bond a moment to realise that the creatures in the tank directly below him were electric eels. What a way to go, Bond reflected. Shot through the loins and then shot through with high voltage.

  Bond swung himself towards the edge of the catwalk, and, with great care, knowing what lay beneath him, climbed back on to the catwalk, slippery with blood.

  He walked slowly back to the ladder and finally went down the steps again, automatic at the ready, even though he could hear no other movement inside the warehouse. It was time, he thought, to get back to Sharky.

  Walking forward, he paused by the tank holding the moray eel, then went closer to the edge of the great sunken cage. The water remained placid, though he knew now what horror waited below. The shark he had seen on his way up was a simple and very effective killing machine. Holstering his pistol. Bond saw for the first time that, directly above the trap in the steel mesh which covered the cage, a rope hung from a pulley on a beam high in the rafters. There was a large hook, roughly at shoulder level. He could imagine what pleasure some of these men must have had, lowering meat through the trap and into the water below. But it was time to go. He would have to make some kind of report to Hawkins.

  He was just about to move towards the trapdoor leading down to the jetty, when another voice, once more quite recognisable, came out of the shadows behind him.

  ‘Freeze. Then turn around very slowly.’

  Killifer stood only a few feet away, a large briefcase at his feet and a very large ·357 Magnum held in the two-handed grip. ‘You perform any fancy business and you’ll make my day, punk.’ Killifer smiled at the Clint Eastwood imitation.

  Bond sighed, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t refer to me as “punk”,’ he said. ‘If anyone’s a punk, it’s you, Killifer. You sold out, huh?’ nodding towards the briefcase.

  ‘Two million is an awful lot of dollars to refuse, Mr Bond. Fact is I really had no option. Now, if you’ll just move over to the trapdoor in the middle of the cage, we’ll finish the day’s work and I can get on my way.’

  Bond moved out into the centre of the mesh covering. You did not have to possess much experience to know it was not a good idea to argue with the kind of revolver Killifer was holding. It flashed through Bond’s mind that, if it came to it, he would make a wrong move. Rather a Magnum bullet than the slightly slower horror of the shark.

  ‘Now you can open the trapdoor.’

  Bond did as he was told. ‘I suppose this is where you put your “old buddy” Felix Leiter.’

  ‘Not me, Bond. Chalk that up to Sanchez and Krest. I found it rather revolting. They hung the best part of a steer on that hook there. It was heavier than poor old Felix. The steer went down and Felix dangled at the other end of the rope. Sanchez and Krest had a name for that damned shark. Called it the Tooth Fairy. How d’you like that?’

  ‘Bizarre.’ Bond was thinking of his next move. There really wasn’t one.

  ‘Well, that’s what they called him. As he bit at the steer, so it got lighter and, no pun intended, Leiter started to go down. That Tooth Fairy got real frustrated when he couldn’t reach the steer. Eventually he reached Felix though; and he’ll reach you, Mr Bond.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that.’ The voice came from behind Bond, from the trapdoor leading down to the jetty. Sharky had arrived.

  For a second, Killifer turned sideways and fired two shots. In the moment of distraction and firing, Bond grabbed the hook and rope, swinging it with full force at Killifer who dropped to his knees, his Magnum clattering down. Bond stepped in and to one side, kicking with full force. Killifer opened his mouth and was projected along the mesh until his body was half in and half out of the trapdoor meant for Bond.

  ‘Bad shot, Mr Killifer.’ Sharky came bounding up from the other trapdoor.

  ‘For God’s sake help me.’ Killifer sounded short of breath and terrified. He was off balance, half his body through the trap, his hands scrabbling at the steel mesh. ‘For God’s sake, Bond.’ His eyes went to the large briefcase. ‘I’ll share the money with you. Split it even. That’s a million each. Please. A million each.’

  Slowly, Bond went over to the briefcase and picked it up, weighing it in his hand as though thinking about it. Then he lifted the case and flung it at Killifer. ‘I think you should take the lot, Ed. It’s all yours.’

  In a reflex action, Killifer took his hands off the mesh to grab at the case. Almost in slow motion his body slid through the trapdoor and down into the water accompanied by a scream of sheer terror.

  They saw the shark’s head and jaws rear up once, then the briefcase hit the beast on the nose and exploded money across the water. Killifer’s head appeared twice more, screaming hysterically, the water around him becoming red, and the money settled across it, like a scarlet oil slick.

  ‘What a terrible waste,’ said Sharky, his voi
ce quivering with shock. ‘What a terrible waste – of money.’

  ‘Come on,’ Bond put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot to do and it’s getting light. By the way, thanks for the nick-of-time rescue. You could have made it a little sooner.’

  ‘Oh, I wanted the man to have a bit of fun in his last minutes,’ Sharky smiled. ‘But what a damned waste of dollars.’

  They went down, back to the dinghy.

  ‘What now?’ Sharky asked.

  ‘Find Sanchez, what else?’

  ‘How we do that? Put an ad in the paper?’

  ‘No, but I think Felix had a way. You find out about that underwater sledge. It must be registered somewhere, and it belongs to Krest, if the name’s anything to go by.’

  Sharky began rowing away, down the tunnel, then out into the bay. ‘And while I do that?’

  ‘I shall be risking life and limb, trying to get at Felix’s little secret. I’m pretty sure I know where it is.’

  5

  FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

  They had agreed to meet in Mallory Square to watch the sunset. This, as any visitor to Key West knows, is a must ritual for tourists and even for some residents.

  ‘Let’s lie low today,’ Bond had said. ‘You find out what you can. As for me, well, the things I have in mind can only really be done after dark.’ He did not know then that with the darkness would come other unplanned events.

  About an hour before sunset, the worshippers begin to gather in Mallory Square, and with them, the showmen, travelling magicians, jugglers, fire-eaters, acrobats, painters and the purveyors of hand-made baubles. It is a fun occasion, harmless, and certainly beautiful on clear nights when the sun produces a spectacular crimson sky, the colour reflecting on the whole town.

  Sharky and Bond met just as the sun went down and the hundreds of people in the square began to applaud God for the special effects.

  ‘Okay, I got what you want.’ Sharky spoke without even looking at Bond.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Wavekrest is really a big marine research ship, owned by your good friend Milton Krest.’

  ‘Who else?’ Bond said to the sunset. ‘So that undersea sledge is an adjunct of the big ship?’

  ‘You got it. They’re out collecting specimens off Coy Sol Bank.’

  ‘What kind of specimens?’

  ‘Nobody knows, except maybe the Shadow,’ Sharky laughed. ‘But, if you want to find out, we can get there in my fishing boat. Take around six hours.’

  Bond walked a few paces. ‘Can we leave in an hour or so? I’ve got to try and do my little bit of work, then pick up a few things.’

  ‘Why not? I’ll be ready and waiting, at the Charter Boat Dock.’

  ‘About an hour then.’ Bond turned away abruptly, quickly putting distance between Sharky and himself. His first priority was Felix Leiter’s house.

  He had done nothing but lie on his bed in the Pier House all day, calling room service for food. The telephone rang twice, but he did not pick up, except to make one call out, to the hospital. Felix was doing well, they told him. The rest of his time was spent thinking: trying to work out the next move. His conscience pricked, knowing that he should really be elsewhere on business for London. But Felix Leiter was a good friend – a man who had saved his life many times over.

  When he had eventually left the hotel, to keep his appointment with Sharky, Bond had done what was known in the trade as a ‘round-the-houses’, or ‘dry cleaning’ – in plain language watching his own back, checking that he was not under any surveillance.

  On his devious way to Mallory Square he picked up no indicators, yet there was this odd intuition that he was, in fact, being watched. In the end he doubled back to the hotel shop and loitered there for a few minutes. Still no result, so he set out again, and was forced to dodge a conch train as he crossed the road. Conch trains ply the whole street system of Key West all day – motorised vehicles made to look like engines, drawing a series of coaches filled with rubber-necking tourists. It was a good and colourful way of seeing the sights.

  Now, having left Sharky, Bond again got the familiar feeling that somebody was on his back. This, he thought, could turn out to be a time-waster. He had an hour to get over to Sharky’s fishing boat and he wanted to fit in the clandestine visit to Felix’s house before then if possible.

  He turned into Duval and was aware of someone coming up fast behind him. His muscles tightened as he prepared himself for anything, slipping the button on his lightweight jacket to be sure he could get at his automatic, now oiled, cleaned and resting in a shoulder holster.

  ‘Hi, James Bond. Got time for a word?’ It was Hawkins, Leiter’s former partner, now walking beside him, just a shade too close, as though he was leading a blind man.

  ‘Sure, but I haven’t got long.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you,’ Hawkins smiled.

  ‘Okay. What do we talk about? Felix?’

  ‘Something connected.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well . . .’ Hawkins was taking his time. ‘I’d best tell you. The local cops got an anonymous tip first thing this morning – very early. Some old guy called in to say he had heard shots.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, he had heard shots. The cops turned up five-hundred keys of Columbian pure in the warehouse.’

  ‘Cottage industry around here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Maybe. But they also put their hands on a pair of stiffs, and some pieces of what used to be Ed Killifer.’

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘It just so happens that the warehouse is owned by a company belonging to a Mr Milton Krest, who, in turn, is a very close friend of Sanchez. I’ve no need to tell you that Sanchez is still missing, and so is the ignoble Mr Krest.’

  ‘Looks like someone’s on the job, then.’

  ‘I just hope it isn’t you, James.’

  ‘Never heard of this fellow Krest. Don’t know any warehouses.’

  ‘I wonder. We know you came into the Charter Boat Dock, in a dinghy, with Leiter’s friend Sharky. The information indicates you could have just made it from that warehouse if Sharky rowed fast enough.’

  Bond smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr Hawkins, you’ve a vivid imagination. Why don’t you ask Sharky?’

  ‘Oh, they’re going to – the cops, I mean. You see, the DA’s tearing his hair out and yelling blue murder. He wants the truth, and fast. We’ve got laws in this country, you know.’

  With a sigh, Bond realised he would have to get over to the Charter Boat Dock as quickly as possible. Leiter’s house could wait.

  ‘Laws,’ repeated Hawkins.

  ‘You got a law against what they did to Felix?’

  They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Bond trying to think of a way to dodge Hawkins, and Hawkins obviously becoming more and more tense. Finally, Hawkins turned and stopped directly in front of Bond, his voice now harsh and completely unsympathetic. ‘Look, Mr Bond, you’re in over your head. This is where it ends as far as you’re concerned.’

  Bond cursed himself. He had been so intent on trying to get away from Hawkins that he had not even noticed the appearance of anyone else. Now he was flanked by two young, and very fit, men. They were dressed in lightweight suits: one grey and the other blue. Bond thought he vaguely recognised the one in the grey suit.

  Bond looked at each in turn, and then at Hawkins. He was blocked in, unless he did something violent, not a good idea in streets that were already filling up with cars and people making their way on foot to the many good restaurants in the area.

  He looked up and realised where he was. A gate which led into a pleasantly laid-out garden, and behind this a house, with a balcony surrounding the whole of the second floor. There was a bust of Ernest Hemingway above the gate, and a sign which said ‘Historical Monument, Hemingway House. CLOSED’. So, he was at the famous place. On his previous visit to Key West he had planned to visit this house where Ernest Hemingway had lived f
rom the early thirties until 1961, and where he wrote For Whom the Bell Tolls, Green Hills of Africa, and The Snows of Kilimanjaro, among many others. Someone had once told him that the Hemingway house had the saddest atmosphere he had ever encountered in any home.

  ‘Take no notice of the sign, sir. Just go straight in.’ The one in the grey suit was firm-voiced, and Bond now knew where he had seen him before. He even remembered the man’s name. The accent was very English.

  He nodded and walked inside the garden, the newcomers flanking him, directing him around to the right. There were cats everywhere. Hemingway had loved cats and had some hybrid variety with extra toes.

  They led him past the swimming pool, where Hemingway had thrown down his last quarter into the wet cement, saying that was all he had left. They had left the quarter for all to see – though the infant son of an English author had secretly prised out the quarter on a visit. It turned out to have been minted in 1970.

  Very gently, the pair of bodyguards – for that is what they were – led Bond up the flight of steps taking them up to the veranda. Even on this structure, Bond could feel the sorrow. Someone had been very unhappy here. He hoped he was not about to join in with the sense of despair which permeated the place.

  His guards shouldered him to that part of the veranda which looked out on to the street – Whitehead Street. The man who stood there had not been so positioned when they entered the garden, but he was certainly there now, his back immediately recognisable.

  From somewhere, maybe the church where Felix and Della had so happily married, a bell tolled once. Bond shrugged. He did not believe in omens. ‘Sir?’ he said to the man, who now turned to look at him with cold grey eyes. The two bodyguards seemed to nudge closer to Bond.

  ‘Well, Commander Bond, what have you got to say for yourself?’ M – the Chief of the Secret Service – asked. He looked furious, and his hands clenched and unclenched as though he was trying to keep his anger in check.

  Bond opened his mouth to speak, but M spoke for him. ‘You were supposed to be in Istanbul two days ago. It was important to your Queen, your country and the Service. That’s why I’ve bothered to spend Lord knows how many hours on aircraft, to come to this tacky little showplace. Instead of dealing with matters in Turkey, I understand you took time off to attend a wedding, which ended up in carnage.’