by John Gardner
Stealthily, Bond made his way through the trees, climbing the wall, taking care that there were no alarm devices, or electronic eyes to trigger. Silently he moved towards the back of the house, and the door which led directly to the kitchen. He knelt down, removed the wallet from his hip pocket and extracted, first, a pinlight torch, and second, that simplest of lock-picking devices known in the trade as a ‘rake’.
The lock was easy enough. Old and well used. He inserted the rake into the keyhole and moved it slowly back and forth in a gentle, steady sawing movement, listening for the moment when the curves in the tool made contact with the pins and drivers inside the lock’s cylinder. Gradually, Bond increased speed and, within a minute, heard the pins snap up and the driver disengage. There was a click and the lock gave way, the door opening slightly.
If he went out the same way, Bond knew he could close the door and the lock would click back into place, leaving no trace that it had been forced. He stepped inside and made his way through the kitchen and main rooms, up the stairs, moving by feel and with no torch, for this could have been detected by the two cops outside.
At last he reached Leiter’s study. He had wanted to visit it sooner, but M’s sudden arrival had prevented it. He stepped inside and switched on the light. This could not be seen from the street, and he had to gamble on there being no guards on the rear of the house.
The last time he had been in the room it was a shambles, drawers turned over, books pulled from place and – the screaming horror still made his flesh creep and the back of his neck tingle – Felix had been dumped on the couch.
Since that incident, though, he had thought of his penultimate visit, during the wedding when he had walked in to find the tall brunette called Pam leaning over Felix’s shoulder as he tapped in something on the computer which still stood on the desk. He faithfully recalled everything Felix did at the time, and knew that whoever had turned over the room had left what he had been searching for. Bond knew, because Felix had hidden it in plain sight.
He walked over to the shelves near the desk and reached up to the lovely photograph of Della. There, in a small holder behind the picture, was a 3·5 computer disk. It had been there since Felix put it in place while Bond had waited to take him down for the cake-cutting ceremony.
He moved to the desk, sat down and touched the power switch on the extended keyboard. The drive and fan began to whirr slightly and the screen gave out its start-up message. Then the screen cleared, leaving the lozenge-shaped icon of a hard-disk drive in the top right-hand corner, and a small menu line across the top.
Bond slipped the 3·5 disk into the external drive. A moment later the icon of the disk came up below the hard-drive icon. Two clicks, with the mouse, on the image of the disk and the entire thing began to open up, the screen blacking out, then turning to grey, the application programme on the hard drive taking over whatever had been saved on the disk.
Then, almost before he realised it had happened, the screen filled with data. A list of files spread themselves over the screen, each in a little folder icon. The folder icons each had a name – Sanchez: US Assets; Sanchez: Swiss Bank Accounts; Sanchez: Isthmus Accounts; and finally, Sanchez: Informants.
Bond clicked on the last file. Eight names scrolled down the screen. Against each of the names there were details, but the one word, Deceased completed the data. Except for the final name. Bond peered at the screen and read – Lexington Contact – P Bouvier. CIA Maximum support and protection, plus technical back-up. Next meeting: 21:00hrs, Thursday, Barrelhead. Bimini W.I.
Bond nodded, as though he knew exactly what was supposed to happen. Indeed he did know the Barrelhead Saloon was in one of the worse areas of Bimini’s West Island. Tomorrow was Thursday, so P Bouvier would be waiting there for Felix. There was only one thing he could do. Take Felix’s place. He did not even think about who the contact Bouvier might possibly be. But he would know by tomorrow night. What worried him now was that this had only been a backup disk. He opened up the machine’s hard drive and checked through the programs. The data was there also. He would bet a hundred to one that Sanchez’s people had read everything here. They did not need the backup. It would interesting to see if the Bouvier contact actually turned up.
Back at the hotel, he checked that no intruders had found their way into his room – he had left the usual little traps: a matchstick here and a piece of cotton there. Nobody had searched the place.
He put the Walther under his pillow, secured the door, stripped off, performed his nightly toilet and slid into bed. He could do nothing until the morning – there was no point in worrying about things now – so he blanked everything from his mind, dropping into a deep, dreamless sleep.
At 8.45 the following evening, Bond drove the sleek powerboat alongside other light craft tied up at the dock in front of the Barrelhead Saloon.
There had been fun in buying the craft that morning, and Bond reflected that, with the many thousands of dollars at his disposal, much more fun was in store. After breakfasting, he had informed the hotel that he would be away for a day or two and asked them if they would put his luggage in their secure baggage area. They were delighted, and, after removing what amounted to a great deal of cash from one of the suitcases, he saw the baggage stowed, then left to walk down to the Key West Marina, thinking that a likely craft might be for sale.
In the event, there was nothing and the only likely target was a slim and sleek powerboat.
A young, rather unpleasant-looking man was tinkering with the engines and Bond called to him.
‘I rent your boat?’ he asked.
The young man did not even look up. ‘Not a chance,’ he mouthed.
‘What’s up. Engines faulty?’
‘No way. This baby’ll outstrip anything else in her class.’
‘Okay,’ Bond smiled. ‘How much to buy her from you?’
This time the man did look up, his lips twisting in a condescending smile. ‘More than you could afford, wise ass.’
Bond smiled again. ‘Name your price.’
The boat owner looked at him steadily. The look said, ‘What have I done to deserve meeting a nut this morning?’ Aloud he sneered, ‘To you? Two hundred K.’
‘That include a full tank of petrol?’ Bond began to pull cash from his pockets in ten-thousand-dollar packets. Carefully, he counted out twenty of the packets, revelling in the shocked look on the man’s face.
But now it was night, and in fifteen minutes he would be meeting Bouvier, Leiter’s final contact.
Right on time, he climbed from the boat and walked the few paces towards the saloon, thinking that it certainly was not the Ritz Grill. Inside it was even worse than he had expected. The decor was random and decidedly faded. The clientele looked to be the dregs of humanity. Some looked to be downright dangerously wicked as well. On a small stage, in the far corner, just about visible, a tired-looking stripper performed in a manner that would make it fun to watch paint dry. Cigarette smoke clogged the air and the noise level would have worried anyone who lived near the edge of a major airport’s runway.
A pair of men in outdated, and slightly mouldy dinner jackets stood inside the door. You did not have to be brain of the year to mark them down as bouncers. Bond approached them with caution.
‘Looking for someone called Bouvier,’ he said.
The larger of the two men, who, at a guess, had suffered from a broken nose at least half-a-dozen times, give or take a break, gestured, pointing into the darkest recesses of the room. Bond could just make out a shadowy silhouette sitting alone at a table at the far end of the long bar which reached from the stripper’s stage to the wall.
He made his way through the room with as much caution as he had approached the bouncers. There were only a few women in the place, and he would not have trusted them very far, while the men could not be trusted at all. They obviously did not like strangers, and were affronted by anyone trying to push through the crowd, for the tables were crammed into the place; ch
airback touched chairback, and Bond added extra courtesy into his journey. At last, he shouldered his way to the lone figure.
She looked up, surprised to see it was him. Bond had first seen her outside the church before Felix’s ill-fated wedding; then again in the study. It was Pam, the beautiful brunette in the crisp pink suit. The one with the legs that went on for ever.
‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, noticing that she now looked very different. Her hair was slicked back and tied with a headband; she wore grubby white pants and a padded jacket. Also she did not look pleased to see him.
‘Where’s Leiter?’ she snapped as he took the chair next to her.
‘He’s in intensive care. Where we’re likely to be if we don’t get out of here fast. I’m pretty sure Sanchez has all of Leiter’s files, and your name’s all over them, as you know.’
‘Hell!’ she muttered. ‘I knew something was wrong. Don’t look around but there’re a couple of heavy guys right at the end of the bar. They’re just Sanchez’s speed and they’ve been there for some time. They’re professional something-or-others, but they’re not professional watchers. Probably been waiting to see who turns up to meet me.’ She stopped short as a waitress appeared at the table.
‘Hi, y’all. What y’all havin’?’ The waitress was chewing gum and the only word that came to Bond’s mind was ‘buxom’.
‘Give me a Bud with lime.’ Pam did not even look up.
‘The same.’ Bond did look up and caught a glimpse of some new arrivals in the doorway, which was raised above the room by plain planked steps. ‘I have a feeling trouble’s just arrived,’ he said.
Pam turned her head. ‘Oh, shit!’ she groaned. ‘That’s one of Sanchez’s personal men. Dario. Very bad news. Used to be with the Contras, but even they kicked him out. Just the nice kind of guy Sanchez would send. The other one’s a run-of-the-mill hood. The kind that pulls wings off flies on a dull day. You carrying?’
Bond coughed, allowing his windbreaker to fall open, just enough for her to see the butt of the Walther P.38K. Pam saw, but made a tutting sound, pushing herself back slightly. Across her lap lay a Handgrip Model .38, 20-gauge shotgun.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw the bartender look across the room at the man called Dario, nodding in the direction of Pam and Bond.
‘Is there a back way out?’ he asked.
‘At the far end of the bar. The place where those two heavy guys have just been reinforced by another three.’ Pam seemed to be looking everywhere at once, planning some kind of escape. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Dario’s heading this way. If they start shooting just hit the deck and stay there.’
‘Well . . .’ Bond began when Dario appeared out of the crowd, standing on Pam’s right, while the other hood materialised beside Bond.
Dario smiled. Unaffably. ‘Que pasa, Senorita Bouvier? Don’ I know you from somewhere?’
Bond rose so that he was standing slightly behind Dario’s stable-mate as Pam gave an abrupt, ‘No.’
‘Sure I know you.’ Dario came closer. ‘You used to fly special charters for some of my friends. Listen, I got a job for you.’ He reached down and took her arm. ‘Let’s go outside. Talk about it, all private, eh?’
‘The lady’s with me,’ Bond said, very politely, but with a firmness that would have pleased a Marine drill instructor.
Dario looked across the table. ‘Nobody ask you, gringo!’ As he reached the last word it came out in a kind of gasp. Bond’s eyes flicked down. Pam had shoved the barrel of her shotgun right into the man’s crotch. He winced as Pam said, ‘He’s with me.’
The waitress, still chewing, arrived with the beers. ‘There you go. Three-fifty, unless your friends want something.’
Dario’s friend said, ‘Let me take care of it,’ reaching inside his coat. Nobody saw Bond’s hand come up and chop the back of his neck. The hood slumped forward and Bond caught him.
‘He’s had enough already.’ Bond slipped a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it on the waitress’ tray. ‘Keep the change.’
‘My! Thank y’all,’ she pouted, mainly with her chest. ‘Any time, hon.’
‘Now, let’s all sit down quietly.’ Bond looked at Dario as he lowered the other man into a chair. ‘You, my friend, are going to get us all out of here in one piece. Right?’
Dario’s eyes had lifted, to look past Bond’s shoulders. Pam raised her eyes also. ‘Keep your hands on the table,’ she ordered Dario, pressing with the shotgun to make him sit down. Then, to Bond she said. ‘How did you get here?’
‘Boat.’
‘Where is it?’
Bond nodded to the wall behind her, ‘On the other side of that.’ He was conscious of scuffling around the bar.
‘Sanchez’s other little friends are trying to push their way over. There’re some other people who don’t like being jostled.’ There was a crash and a shout. Bond glanced around to see quite a reasonable barroom brawl. One man was using another as a punchbag, and a further couple had started to slug it out, blow for blow. All they needed was a pianist who just continued to play.
‘Let’s go.’ Pam was on her feet, and, as she moved, so Dario whipped around, grabbing a bottle. Bond tapped him lightly on the head. ‘Night, Dario,’ said Bond, following Pam towards the wall.
There was a shout of ‘Hold it,’ and he turned to see another of Sanchez’s hoodlums pulling a gun. He raised the Walther, and for a second there was a Mexican standoff.
In that small space of time, Pam turned to face the wall, brought up the shotgun and fired. The whole room seemed to stand still, and Bond saw a four-foot hole had appeared in the wall. ‘If they will use cheap building materials,’ he said.
‘Come on,’ Pam shouted. ‘Get the thing going. I’ll hold them off,’ whirling towards the crowd, bringing the 20-gauge up. As Bond ducked through the hole and ran towards the powerboat, he thought that a weapon like the Handgrip Model .38 was quite a deterrent.
He made the edge of the dock in five seconds flat, and had the boat’s engines going in another five.
Pam came through the wall, turning and firing in the air, then running full tilt towards the jetty. She had just reached the edge when Dario appeared out of the hole, his gun-hand coming up. Bond fired and his target dodged back inside, but not without firing.
He heard Pam gasp as the shot threw her forward into the boat. With an oath, Bond gunned the engine and began to put distance between him and the jetty where another of Sanchez’s men had appeared, a stubby Uzi in his hands. There was one fast rip of bullets, and Bond felt the boat shudder from impact as he returned the fire and, to his pleasure, saw the gunman clutch at his stomach, dropping the Uzi into the water and following it with a cry.
He had to get right away from this place, and very fast. Pam almost certainly needed help. But, as he bumped along at speed, Bond saw her move, then sit up. He slowed slightly and watched her unzip the padded jacket, grope around the wadding and remove a bullet.
‘.357 Magnum.’ She threw it on to the deck.
‘Kevlar?’ asked Bond, knowing this was the new lightweight combination from which the best flak jackets were made these days.
‘In my business you never leave home without it.’
‘Tough business you picked.’
‘Speak for yourself, James Bond. Felix told me who you were, and what you did. Me? Well, I was an army pilot. Put in two years with Air America. What can a girl do after that? Be an air hostess? I still fly a lot. Even got my own little Beechcraft Baron. Keep me hand in.’
Under the jacket she wore only a pink silk camisole which gave Bond an admirable view. ‘I’ve got just the job for you.’ His voice carried an air of frivolity.
‘Oh, yes?’ she replied.
‘Oh, definitely yes. A private charter to Isthmus City. Nobody must know I’ve left the US.’
‘You serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘Why?’
‘To get Sanchez. I need a full br
iefing from you on the whole of his operation, everything you know. I’ll pay good money.’
‘You’re actually going after him?’ She looked appalled; and, when Bond did not reply, she asked how many men he had.
This time Bond smiled at her. ‘Just you and me.’
‘You’re crazy. That guy has a whole army down there. Everyone’s in his pocket.’
‘Okay. Just drop me there and leave. Fifty thousand dollars.’
She came towards him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘A job like that would cost you a hundred K.’
Bond throttled back, his hand going to her shoulder, their eyes locking. ‘Seventy-five,’ he said.
‘You pay the fuel.’
‘We use your plane.’
‘Deal.’ She looked happy as she said it, then, in the next moment the engines gave a stutter, then a rumble. They were slowing down.
‘Damn!’ Bond moved aft and leant over the side. ‘Several of that Uzi’s bullets ended up in our gas tank.’ By now they had slowed to almost a stop. He turned back towards her. ‘You’re not going to believe this . . .’
‘You’re out of gas? I haven’t heard that one since high school.’
‘Did it work then?’ He came back to her as she leant against the wheel. ‘It should only take us a couple of hours to drift into Miami.’ He was very close now.
‘And what will we do in the meantime? That was your next line, wasn’t it?’ She reached up and kissed him, open mouthed, on the lips.
‘Why don’t you wait till you’re asked?’
‘So ask me.’ Pam was in his arms and they both slid towards the deck. Slowly, moving gently, the powerboat drifted on the calm sea.
‘What a night to go sailing,’ Bond said.
8
DOLLARS AND DEALERS
In London on the fifth floor of the building overlooking Regent’s Park, which is the headquarters of the British Secret Service, M came out of his private office with a face like thunder.