Licence to Kill

by John Gardner

  Almost silently he padded across the deck into the shadow, and relative safety of the lifeboat. It was as he crossed the strip of deck that he realised the cabin door he had seen through the binoculars stood slightly ajar, and lights shone brightly through the ports. Now there was even more. Voices. Milton Krest, slurred and aggressive, combined with Lupe Lamora’s angry, fiery accented English.

  ‘You’d better know you caused us a whole mess of trouble, girl.’ Krest’s voice was not only slurred with drink but hard and bitter.

  ‘You’re borracho. I told you, I was trying to sleep. Why you keep bothering me like this? Get yourself to bed.’

  There was a scraping noise, as though Krest had risen from a chair. ‘You know, when Sanchez heard you’d run off with that idiot, he went nuts. Never seen him so angry.’

  ‘This is none of your business, Krest. Go, and let me get some sleep.’

  ‘Oh, none of my business, eh? None – of – my – business. You gotta understand, kiddie, it is my business when your playing around gets Sanchez arrested and leaves me to mount an escape operation. That escape put my own people at risk. Not just my people either. You realise the Key West warehouse got raided by the DEA. Cost me a whole load of money.’

  ‘He’ll get your money back.’

  Krest gave an unpleasant laugh. ‘Sanchez doesn’t work like that. You haven’t figured that out for yourself yet? I’ve known him the hell of a sight longer than you, you bimbo. I’ve seen girls like you come and go . . .’

  Lupe snapped, ‘Get out, Krest. You’re drunk, and you’re annoying me. So get out. Now. Or I’ll make certain Sanchez won’t give you a red cent.’

  Krest’s shadow filled the door. ‘We’ve got a serious operation running out here, Lupe. So you just keep in your cabin.’ Bond could see him clearly now, dressed in old slacks and a shirt. ‘What’re you so damned stuck-up for? He fixed that beauty contest for you. You know that? He fixed it. He . . .’ Something hit the wall near the door which Krest closed, giving a little laugh. ‘Stupid little cow,’ he muttered under his breath. ‘Doesn’t know when she’s well off.’ He was unsteady on his feet as he made his way to a cabin door nearer the aft end of the superstructure.

  The lights in Lupe’s cabin went out, just as those in Krest’s came on. Half an hour later both cabins were in darkness.

  Bond waited a further half-hour, looking at the open ports in both cabins. Then, as the first light began to show from the east, he slipped from his hiding place to the door of the cabin occupied by Lupe. He could see the brass plaque now. It read ‘Owner’s Stateroom’. Carefully he tried the handle. It was shut tightly, so he reached for the wallet, zipped and watertight, which he kept in his back pocket. He was about to make his next move when the lights came on in Krest’s cabin.

  Bond flattened himself against the metal wall, edging towards the first open port of Krest’s cabin. He heard the quick beep-beep of a telephone number being punched out. Then Krest’s voice.

  ‘Any sign of Clive yet?’ There was a pause as he listened. Then, ‘Okay. He should be back soon. It’s nearly first light and the plane’ll be here before we know it. Best send a couple of men to load the stuff into Sentinel. I want the exchange to go like clockwork. It’s always risky. I don’t like that damned plane on the water for too long. Okay, get on with it.’

  So, the blue shrink-wrapped packages were to be loaded on to Sentinel. Drugs, Bond guessed, and if a couple of men were going down to the decompression chamber, they would soon report that an intruder was on board.

  He pulled his knife from his belt, then unzipped the wallet, taking out a credit card and inserting it carefully into the space between door and lock on Lupe’s cabin. ‘Hope it takes Master-charge,’ he muttered. There was a slight click and the door opened. Quickly he returned the credit card, zipped up his wallet, returned it to his pocket, then took the knife in his right hand.

  He made no sound getting into the cabin, closing and locking the door behind him, then standing for a minute so that his eyes could adjust, though the darkness outside was starting to dissolve into the pearly wash of day.

  Lupe Lamora lay on her back, sprawled across the bed, dressed only in a small, lacy bikini. No wonder she won the beauty contest, he thought. Sanchez would never have had to rig it. Her body, seen at close quarters, was superb.

  Gently he approached the bed, knelt down, then moved fast, slamming his hand down on her mouth, the knife at her throat.

  Lupe came out of whatever she was dreaming into a nightmare that showed in the fear of her wide-eyed look.

  ‘Make a sound, call for help, and I’ll kill you. Got it?’ Bond snarled.

  She nodded vigorously, and he slowly removed his hand. He could see the recognition in her face. The last time had been out at the little airstrip when Sanchez had made his escape.

  ‘You?’ she mouthed.

  He nodded. ‘Krest’s in his cabin. I gather you two don’t get on so well. Now, where’s Sanchez?’

  ‘Not here,’ she whispered. ‘Not on board. I suppose he’s back home – or what passes for home. Back in Isthmus City.’

  ‘You’re his girlfriend, so you should know.’

  ‘That’s probably where he is. He doesn’t tell me a thing. Only do this and do that and do the other thing. Usually it’s the other thing.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Bond began, but was interrupted by sounds from Krest’s cabin next door. Raised voices, then the noise of feet on the deck and a hammering at Lupe’s door.

  Bond motioned with his knife. ‘Answer it.’

  She paused for a second, then grabbed a robe from the foot of the bed, holding it against her as she went over to the door. Bond, knife ready, put his back against the cabin wall on the hinge side of the door as Lupe called out, ‘Who is it?’

  Krest answered loudly, ‘Open up, bimbo. I gotta talk to you.’

  ‘Not again. I’m trying to get some sleep.’

  ‘Open it!’

  Gingerly she pulled back the door. Through the slit, Bond could see Krest, who looked anxious, full of panic, backed up by two heavy-looking seamen, both armed.

  ‘We’ve got an intruder. Someone slipped aboard. Probably rode in on the probe.’

  ‘You waken me up for . . .’

  ‘To warn you, bimbo. You seen anybody?’

  ‘I’ve been asleep.’

  ‘Okay. Lock your door and stay out of sight. There’s work to be done and I don’t want the crew distracted.’

  ‘And I want to get back to sleep.’ She pulled the door closed, clicked the lock and looked at Bond, whispering, ‘I did okay, yes?’

  He nodded and smiled as she walked across the cabin, the light from the sun’s first rays catching her back. Bond saw the marks with horror, a criss-cross pattern of deep welts, only just starting to heal. ‘Who whipped you like that?’ he asked.

  She shrugged into her robe, not answering. In the background Bond was aware of another boat’s engine which sounded all too familiar.

  ‘Who whipped you?’ he asked again. ‘Was it Sanchez?’

  Another pause. Then, ‘It was my own fault. I know Sanchez and what he does to people who cross him. I crossed him, and I’m lucky to be alive.’

  Outside the engine noise grew louder, and she crossed the cabin, back to the port through which they both looked.

  They heard the voice from somewhere outside, shouting, ‘Clive’s back, Mr Krest.’

  Then the boat came into view, the engine note dipping as she prepared to tie up next to Wavekrest.

  Lupe gave a little moan, and Bond felt anger and horror rise in equal portions. He put an arm around Lupe’s shoulder and turned her head from the sight. Sharky’s fishing boat was abreast Wavekrest, the three scuba divers he had passed under water standing on deck. The fishing boat’s ‘catch’ hung netted from the side. There were two young sharks and, between them, the terribly mutilated body of Sharky.

  ‘Well done, Clive.’ It was Krest’s voice, probably from the bridge.
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  The diver in the centre of the three, a short, pugnacious-looking man, waved back. ‘Thank you, Mr Krest,’ he shouted. ‘But, guess what? His name was Sharky. Neat eh?’

  There was laughter, broken by another engine note, further away. Then Krest’s voice again. ‘Best get aboard, Clive. Here comes the plane. We got work to do.’

  Bond turned to Lupe, knowing his face was contorted in anger and grief. ‘I want Sanchez,’ he said, grabbing hold of the girl’s shoulders.

  ‘Your name. Please. Your name.’

  ‘Bond,’ he said. ‘James Bond.’

  ‘Mr Bond, I’d truly like to help you. Please believe that. But you must go now . . .’

  ‘Oh, I’m going. We’ve all got work to do. You heard what Krest said . . .’

  ‘. . . If you don’t go now, we’ll both be killed.’

  ‘I’m going. But, like the man said, keep your door locked.’ Cautiously he opened the cabin door and squeezed out on to the deck. Two of the men who had been with the infamous Clive were disappearing down a hatch, while Krest, followed by other men, climbed an external ladder towards the bridge. Bond ran to the lifeboat and looked down over the side of Wavekrest. Sharky’s boat, with its grim cargo had been tied up for’ard while the two catamarans rode in station, about three hundred yards off the port beam.

  The man called Clive had started to climb the gangway. Bond looked to his right, remembering the spear-guns racked against the superstructure. The guns were there, and the rack stood almost opposite the gate leading to the gangway, up which Clive was plodding in his scuba kit.

  He ran forward, glancing at the guns, some were normal undersea C02 powered spear-guns, but there were also three loaded, high-powered harpoon guns. Bond had one out of the rack and pointing at Clive just as he reached the deck.

  Krest’s lieutenant, his mask and air mouthpiece hanging around his neck, stopped stock still, face registering surprise more than fear. He smiled, slowly raising his hands, and, as he did so, his eyes drifted upwards towards the bridge. The smile widened slightly, and in that fraction of a second, Bond, knowing he had just been spotted from the bridge, spoke, ‘Compliments of Sharky, Clive.’ He pressed the trigger as he spoke, and the little harpoon hit Clive in the centre of his chest. Everything seemed to stand still for a second, then the harpoon’s small explosive charge went off, leaving the harpoon buried in a large hole of blood, bone and flesh.

  With a half scream, Clive pitched backwards. The harpoon line tightened in Bond’s hands, and, still clinging to the gun, he found himself lifted off his feet and pulled towards the gangway, hurtling through space into the sea below.

  As he fell, he was vaguely aware of shots buzzing past him, and shouts from all around. Then the sea came up and hit him full in the face. The harpoon line had become wrapped around his wrist, so that he was dragged down and down until his lungs began to feel the strain and pain as Clive’s dead body acted as a plummet. It seemed to go on forever, and Bond could think of only one thing: was this to be the end of the manta ray’s journey? Then his brain cleared and he realised there was one hope. Stretching his body into a diving position, he caught hold of the taut line with both hands and began to pull himself down towards Clive’s body, which, as he hauled, came up to meet him.

  There was a bloom of blood around Clive’s chest where the harpoon had struck, exploded and left a great gaping wound. Bond’s lungs were almost at bursting point when he reached the man, splayed out like a huge starfish. He hoped there were no sharks near, for the place would be full of them in minutes if they sensed the blood.

  With Clive’s mouthpiece, clutched from the corpse’s neck, in his own mouth, Bond was now able to breath. Carefully, and with difficulty in the water, he managed to unbuckle the air bottle, get Clive’s mask around his face and strap the whole scuba pack on to himself.

  Above, he thought, they were probably searching for him. Maybe they thought he was dead, either from the shots fired as he had gone overboard, or drowned as he was pulled down by the harpoon line.

  He was aware of the catamarans ploughing up and down above, and of another thrumming noise, the aircraft, he supposed.

  For a few moments, Bond waited taking deep breaths, unsure of which way he should now move. Up, he considered, was the only way, so he allowed himself to rise slowly, surprised when he discovered himself to be almost directly under Wavekrest. The next thing he saw was Sentinel, obviously just leaving its dock. He kicked, then grabbed the umbilical cord, hanging on as the probe dragged him through the water.

  He recalled what he had heard. There was to be some kind of exchange between Wavekrest and the plane. Drugs for cash, he thought, hanging on more tightly than ever as the probe skimmed the surface of the water just above him. Below, tendrils of weed and undersea flora waved in the probe’s wake. Twice he nearly had to allow himself to surface in order to avoid outcrops of rock and coral.

  Then there was another noise, the unmistakable chugging of one of the catamarans’ engines. Turning he saw the floats coming directly towards him, and thought he could glimpse another spear-armed diver swimming below and behind.

  He let go and swam down to an overhang of coral, pressing himself against the rocks, praying the diver would not see him.

  The catamaran and its diver passed overhead, and Bond wondered how long he could hold out. He had not checked the scuba pack he had taken from Clive’s body. There might be an hour’s supply of air, or five minutes’.

  He swam out from the overhang of rock, and swam slowly in the direction the catamaran had been going. It might just be possible to ambush the diver and make certain he had enough air. In readiness he drew the knife from its sheath, pacing himself, swimming gently, listening and ready.

  The next thing he saw was the sub-like shape of Sentinel making its return journey. Well, he could do some damage there. If he had been correct, and the exchange was drugs, from Wavekrest, and money from the plane – a seaplane he presumed – then he could at least try to spread the money out among the fishes.

  Grabbing at the umbilical cord, Bond pulled himself to the stern of Sentinel, then, staying as far into the water as possible, climbed up to the watertight compartment and wrestled with the locking lever on top, knowing that some of his body would, inevitably, be showing above water, even though the compartment was still submerged, but near the surface.

  He forced back the lock, the doors sprang open, and he found himself looking down at a store of large clear plastic bags, like the one he had seen at the warehouse. Better still, the money was in the plane, and the drugs were here. Of course, they were en route to the warehouse, and then all stations north, south, east or west.

  As though fighting some deadly beast, for that was exactly what Bond felt these kind of drugs were, he started to slash at the packets which exploded their white repulsive powder into the sea.

  Like a man on a crusade, he ripped the bags apart with knife and fingers. Then, just as he was completing the job, down to the last three packets, he heard a mechanism whirr inside the forward compartment. Looking up, he saw the periscope turned towards him like an evil eye. Bond looked straight into the eye, smiled, then waved as he pushed himself away from Sentinel, knowing he would have to go deep and hide, gambling on the amount of air left to him.

  But, already, one of the catamarans was near. He could hear the engines, and then saw the floats above him. Within seconds, they were on him. Four of them, in wetsuits and scuba gear, moving very fast indeed.

  He tried to turn and make a run for it, but they were fresh and faster. The first diver came straight at him from the front, but the man was already through his guard, his knife finding a target first. Bond’s air hose was neatly sliced in two. As he struck, so Bond slammed his hand through the water pressure, grabbing at his assailant’s face mask, which he ripped away. The driver struggled for a second, then went shooting upwards towards the surface.

  But it was far from over. As the first diver was still on his upward journey,
so a second crashed into Bond’s back, hanging on to the air tanks, forcing Bond, now struggling for air, on to his back, slashing the empty water with his knife.

  In a last desperate bid, Bond slipped from the scuba harness and the diver floated away with the tanks.

  Bond kicked, trying to make for the surface and air, but before he had even managed to get within yards, another man was behind him, slipping a spear-gun around Bond’s neck and pressing backwards, capturing 007 in a chokehold. His vision was beginning to blur and he knew there was little time left. He could just see a fourth diver moving in front of him, coming in for the kill.

  One last effort. Bond grappled with the spear-gun, found the trigger and pulled, hoping somehow that the fourth diver would be impaled. But the spear shot away, projected by the CO2, the line running out behind it.

  There was an almighty jerk, and Bond thought he could just see the underside of one of the catamaran’s floats. But the jerk was final and very strong. Still hanging on to the spear-gun, Bond felt himself being ripped away from the divers. For one horrific moment, he thought he had perhaps hit a shark. Then, he broke surface, a wall of water spouting out around him as he was dragged along.

  The spear had not hit the catamaran’s float, but the float of what looked like a Beaver 1 seaplane, its big radial AN-14B Wasp Junior, Pratt & Whitney engine roaring into full take-off power.

  James Bond was being towed behind the seaplane like a rag doll on the end of a string, bouncing on his back, slapping into the water heavily every few seconds.

  Common sense told him to let go of the spear-gun, but something in his brain countermanded the orders. Heaving with all his strength he pulled himself upwards, his eyes stinging with wind and spray. By now he had managed to get both hands together, on either side of the line, and with one last effort he found himself in the ideal position to waterski on his bare feet.

  The plane towing him was gradually increasing speed, but he now had control of his body. As an expert skier, on snow or water, his feet were correctly placed and he found he could even skid from side to side, sending up walls of spray, hoping these would confuse the men on the catamarans who were shooting at him. He had heard the crack and thump of bullets passing near too many times in his life not to recognise them now.