Licence to Kill

by John Gardner

  Among the players, Bond immediately picked out the six orientals he had seen, first at the airport, and again at the bank. In particular he took note of one large and fine-looking Hong Kong Chinese. Very impressive, he thought, especially next to the smaller, fragile woman on his arm. She could easily be Japanese. ‘The Chinese gentleman over there,’ he turned to the manager. ‘I think I know him from somewhere.’

  ‘A personal friend of our owner, Senor Sanchez.’ The manager lowered his voice. ‘A very important man from Hong Kong. His name is Kwang. You know him?’

  ‘I don’t think it can be the man I was thinking of. His name was Lee Chin. Perhaps I might speak with Mr Kwang later. And his charming . . . er . . . wife?’

  ‘Friend,’ the manager corrected him. ‘Indeed, it is a case of East meets East. She is from Tokyo. A Miss Loti.’

  ‘Charming,’ said Bond. ‘Charming . . .’ feeling Pam’s fingers dig into his arm. I wonder, could I have a private table? Blackjack?’

  ‘But certainly, Senor Bond. I have your plaques here,’ handing over a package wrapped and sealed, letting Bond glimpse at a card on which a number was written.

  Bond nodded, ‘That’ll do for tonight, I think.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty more where they came from, senor.’ The manager led them across the room, snapping his fingers for a tall blonde dealer, and a pit boss who looked as though he had just stepped over from Caesar’s Palace in Vegas.

  The dealer greeted them with a smile that showed teeth as perfect as her hair. Her accent was unequivocally Texan, for the words came out as ‘Heidi yawl. Yawl Markin?’

  ‘I’m American,’ Pam said sweetly. ‘My friend’s from England.’

  ‘Oh! Ah bin to London once. Real suede that city of yahrs.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bond laid a $5,000 plaque at each place at the table. ‘You don’t mind if we raise the limit to five thousand a box, do you?’

  The dealer almost blinded them with her smile and turned to the pit boss, holding up five fingers. He nodded laconically.

  ‘That’ll be fahn.’ She began to deal.

  Twenty minutes later, the pile of plaques in front of Bond had dramatically decreased. With a deep sigh he said, ‘I’d like to double the limit. Ten grand a box.’

  The dealer looked at the pit boss who picked up a telephone. Bond’s eyes did not leave him, and the man spoke clearly enough so it was easy to lip-read, an art Bond had learned many years ago.

  ‘Got a live one for ya, chief,’ the pit boss was saying. ‘British sucker who dropped five hundred grand. Now he wants to play the limit.’

  His lips were still while he listened. Then he said, ‘The English. Table one. Plays like a real jerk-off.’ Then, ‘Okay.’ He nodded to the dealer.

  ‘Good.’ Bond slapped a large $10,000 plaque down on each of the empty places. The Texan dealer flipped the cards like the expert she was.

  He had drawn a five and a six. Both spades. He slapped another $10,000 plaque on to the table. ‘Double down.’

  His next card was a ten. A straight twenty-one.

  On the following deal he ended up with a pair of eights which he split, increasing his bet. And so it went on, the pile of plaques rising rapidly. From being half a million down he was now a quarter of a million ahead. A few people had gathered to watch the fun, and, out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw the pit boss pick up the phone again.

  The dealer called for a virgin deck, and they waited a few moments. The big Chinese, Kwang, hovered on the edge of the crowd and Bond kept his eyes down. He was conscious that the Texan dealer had moved away. A new pair of beautifully manicured hands were stripping the wrapping off a deck of Bicycles. A superb emerald bracelet twinkled on a slim wrist. It bore the name ‘Lupe’ in smaller stones.

  ‘The new deck,’ Lupe skilfully discarded the jokers and score cards, riffle-shuffled the cards and offered them for Bond to cut. He looked full into Lupe’s face, but she kept her eyes down so, turning to Pam, he quietly asked, ‘Would you mind very much if I asked you to get me a vodka martini. You know how I like it.’

  ‘And how you like your martinis,’ she whispered with a wicked little smile. ‘Medium dry. Shaken not stirred.’

  ‘Right.’

  As Pam left his side, so Lupe completed the deal.

  ‘Most professional.’

  ‘I used to work here,’ she said quietly.

  ‘So? Am I going to win or lose?’

  She did not answer, so he asked, ‘Is that why he sent you?’

  ‘That, and to find out more about you.’

  Bond concentrated, playing all five hands simultaneously, standing on two of them, and busting on the other three. Lupe showed her house cards: a ten and a three. Flicking herself a third card she turned it over. An eight. ‘Twenty-one,’ she said. ‘House wins.’ Then, more quietly, ‘Looks like your luck changed.’

  ‘When that happens I usually quit for the night, it’s the only way to stay ahead.’ He smiled at Lupe and walked from the table, conscious she was coming after him. He slowed, and when she reached his side she spoke fast, with great urgency. ‘You’ve got to walk straight out. Go from here. Go to airport and never come back. You understand?’

  ‘Where’s Sanchez?’

  ‘Upstairs. In his office. He has some people over from the East. Orientals. He’s been here all day, planning a big party for them tomorrow night.’

  As she spoke, Bond saw a pair of waiters entering a service lift area, set back in an alcove. ‘What did you tell him about Wavekrest?’ he asked.

  ‘I told him nothing. Nothing at all. Please go.’

  ‘Take me to Sanchez, Lupe. Now.’

  ‘You crazy? You’ll get us killed. Both of us. You want that?’

  Bond took her by the elbow, propelling her towards the elevators. ‘We won’t get killed. Just take me, and stay calm.’

  ‘Look, I know Sanchez, and he’s got something big going down at the moment. He’s setting up a big meeting with that crowd of orientals for tomorrow night. Here, in his private boardroom.’

  As she led the way to Sanchez’s private elevator he felt her shaking with fear. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, glancing back to see Pam, looking stunned and angry, holding his martini.

  He looked at her, smiling and wondering if he would ever see her again. For all he knew, Lupe could be right. But it was necessary for him to come face to face with Sanchez if anything was to be done to avenge Della’s death, Felix’s injury, and the untold misery this man was prepared to mete out in cities the world over.

  He winked at Pam. She merely turned away and tilted her head as she swallowed his martini.

  9

  FACE TO FACE

  There was a reception committee of two waiting in the lobby beside Sanchez’s private elevator when Bond stepped out, Lupe hanging back slightly.

  He thought these men had been among the party at Crab Cay, on that first day, but there was no way in which they could have recognised Bond. In fact the men were the two Sanchez henchman, Perez and Braun, and it was the former who came up to Bond, a heavy ·45 Colt in his hand, a nasty leer on his face, and an even nastier stink to his breath.

  ‘Whoever you are, my friend, I should get them to hold the garlic for a few days.’ Bond gently pushed the man’s hand, including the Colt, to one side. ‘You should be careful of those things. They can be very dangerous.’

  For a moment he thought the thug was going to hit him, but the doorway facing the elevator opened and a third man stepped into the lobby. From the room came the sound of a television, a soft, pleasant voice talking with some eagerness. The man who came out was Heller, one time Green Beret captain, now chief of Sanchez’s security.

  ‘Hands on your head, please,’ Heller had a convincing manner and Bond did as he asked. ‘I presume you wish to see Senor Sanchez?’ Heller’s eyes moved to Lupe for a second.

  ‘I couldn’t stop him. He says he must see Franz now.’ Lupe sounded frightened.

  Heller smiled
as he began to search Bond. ‘Lupe, my dear, there’s no need for you to look so concerned. Franz’s door is open to anyone who visits this casino. Particularly someone who has the sense to walk away when his luck changes. Our friend, here, will collect his original stake plus his winnings. An extra $200,000 is not to be sneezed at, is it, Mr . . . ?’ he took out Bond’s passport. ‘Is it, Mr Bond?’

  ‘I’ve never suffered from hay fever, Mr Heller. Or should I say, Captain Heller, or even Colonel Heller?’

  ‘So . . . You seem to have a name for me.’

  ‘Good news travels fast in Isthmus City.’

  ‘So does bad news.’ He removed the Walther P.38K from its shoulder holster. ‘This is bad news. A nice little piece. Far better than the old, outdated PPK.’ Bond could have sworn there was a half-smile on the man’s face as he gestured to Sanchez’s door. The room was ornate, though comfortable. Sanchez sat, with the whizz-kid Truman-Lodge, engrossed in a TV programme. A kindly-looking man in strange robes was backed by what looked like an Inca temple. He was asking for viewers to continue sending donations to the ‘OMI’, whatever that was.

  Sanchez barely looked up, but waved them forward, giving Bond a pleasant smile as he did so. The man on TV referred to himself as Professor Joe, and Bond took in the fact that the OMI was the Olimpatec Meditation Institute, connected with research, philosophy, lifestyle and the religion of the old Olimpatec indians.

  ‘It’s almost over,’ Sanchez said. ‘I wish to see the end.’

  There was a large picture window which took up the best part of the far wall, looking out over the city. He went to it, noticing that Lupe had also joined him. The most bizarre thing was a pillow, near Sanchez, on which sat a medium-sized iguana, which had a diamond collar around its neck. Occasionally, Sanchez put out a hand to stroke the reptile. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lupe give a little shudder when she looked at the iguana.

  He stood for some time looking out of the large window, examining what he could see of the roofs and buildings across the street from the casino. Slightly to the right, a decrepit block of houses was in the process of demolition, and the thought struck Bond that this might well be a good place for a sniper. With the right rifle and scope he could take out Sanchez with ease.

  Then he spotted a tiny logo engraved into the glass of the picture window. The wording on the logo said ‘Armourlite-III’. Ah well, bang went that idea. Or, rather it did not go bang at all. This glass was as tough as the metal on a light tank.

  He turned to Lupe. ‘A lovely view, isn’t it, Senorita – I didn’t catch your name.’

  ‘Lamora.’ She did not even look up at him. ‘Lupe Lamora.’ And, as she said it, so music came up from the TV, signalling the end of this Professor Joe’s programme which seemed to be part genuine interest in an old, almost forgotten culture, and part fund-raiser. Behind him, Sanchez spoke to Truman-Lodge. ‘Send Professor Joe an anonymous donation. Say, ten thousand bucks. Those people do wonderful work. Now . . .’

  Bond began to walk towards him. Lupe moved in quickly, ‘Franz, this is . . .’

  ‘Bond,’ 007 cut in. ‘James Bond. But I suspect you already know that.’ He reached out to shake Sanchez’s hand, but Heller moved between them and Sanchez went on stroking the iguana, which looked suspiciously towards Bond.

  ‘Sit!’ Heller commanded, pointing to a chair on the other side of an occasional table set before Sanchez. The hood who had been careless with the Colt ·45 stood directly behind Bond’s chair, and Heller sat down to their left.

  Lupe sounded frightened. ‘He insisted on seeing you, Franz!’

  Sanchez raised his eyes lazily towards here. Dark, coal-black eyes, bright and bearing the look of a man obsessed by something, though all his mannerisms were slow and calculated.

  ‘It’s okay, baby.’ He gestured for Truman-Lodge to leave them, while Heller placed the passport and Walther on the table.

  ‘A well-travelled man.’ He riffled through the passport pages, then put the passport back on the table. ‘I gather you did well at the tables tonight.’

  ‘I quit while I was ahead. I had some instinct that my luck was about to change.’

  Sanchez nodded gently. ‘A wise man. Only good gamblers know when their luck’s run out.’ He reached forward and picked up the pistol, examining it as though it were some precious piece of art. ‘Why bring this into my house?’

  Bond’s lips curled up at one side in a half-smile, though his mouth retained that hard and cruel look that he sometimes allowed to be seen. ‘In my business you prepare for the unexpected.’

  Sanchez laid himself back in the big leather chair, still examining the pistol, ‘And what business is that?’ he asked.

  Bond allowed his fingers to stroke his cheek, then drop down towards the cummerbund he wore around his waist. Thumb and forefinger found the two tiny nodules tucked in separate little pockets. He withdrew one. Nobody could possibly have seen it. The movement attracted no attention, and the lethal little bug was only the size of a match head. He held it, covered by his thumb. ‘My business? Oh, I help people with problems, Senor Sanchez.’

  ‘A problem solver.’ Sanchez nodded, as though he knew all about problems and the best way to solve them.

  ‘Nooo,’ Bond drew the word out. ‘No, I’m more of a problem eliminator.’

  Very slowly, Sanchez moved forward in his chair and he replaced the Walther on the table. His eyes lighted on Lupe.

  ‘Lupe, go play. Leave us, eh?’

  Lupe needed no reminders. She did not even nod, but walked, straight and quickly out of the door. When she had gone, Sanchez spoke again. This time, paradoxically, almost in a whisper. ‘You’re here on business?’

  Bond gave a small sigh. ‘I fear that I’m temporarily unemployed. In fact, I thought I might find work here. One of the reasons I came.’

  Slowly, Sanchez shook his head. When he looked up his face seemed to reflect great sadness. ‘It is very difficult to obtain work permits, here in Isthmus. You see, it is necessary for you to show some special talent. A talent that people here don’t have.’

  Bond reflected that he would not like to play poker with this man, he was a very good actor and they both knew they were speaking a kind of sub-text. The words bore little relation to the meaning. He looked at Heller pointedly, then slowly turned to glance up at the man behind his chair. ‘That shouldn’t be difficult,’ he said, dropping his right hand low under the chair arm. The tiny bug between his fingers was quickly transferred from hand to the underside of the chair arm. These bugs were coated with a thin solution which allowed them to remain easy to manipulate on skin or cloth, but they adhered as though stuck by superglue when gently placed against wood, plastic, glass or almost anything else.

  Sanchez gave a short laugh. It sounded as though he was genuinely amused. ‘Senor Bond, you have big conjones.’ He went on chuckling as he spoke. ‘You come here, to my place, with no references. You walk in carrying a piece. Throwing a lot of money around. But you know something? Nobody saw you come in. Nobody will remember you. So, nobody has to see you go out.’

  ‘Senor Sanchez, I don’t joke about my work. Believe me, I could be quite useful to a man in your position. I already know you have a reputation for rewarding those who serve you well and remain loyal. Sure, I carry a gun. It’s a habit you don’t get out of easily. As for the money? Well, I got very lucky with a hit. The people I was working for paid me a great deal, but men in my line never hang on to cash. Like life, it’s easy come, easy go.’

  There was silence for a good forty seconds and, in that time, Bond’s thumb and forefinger had retrieved the second bug from his cummerbund. ‘You have a very nice set-up here.’

  Sanchez rose: the same exaggerated slow motion. ‘It’s okay. What do you think of this?’ He pressed a stud in the side of his chair and the wall to their right rolled back to display a long room, twice the size of the one in which they stood. There was a polished glass table at least twenty feet in length, and chairs
were placed around it. Each place was set up for a meeting, with yellow legal scratch-pads, sharpened pencils, pens and blotters.

  ‘My boardroom.’ Sanchez smiled, gesturing for Bond to take a look. He did so, resting his hand on the edge of the long table, transferring a bug to the underside.

  ‘Now,’ Sanchez picked up the passport and settled back into his chair, waving for Bond to come back into his room. ‘I think I’ll keep this for a few days, then we’ll talk again. As I said, you have big conjones. I like that in a man. We’ll just have to see.’ He nodded towards the door, the lazy movement of his head signifying that the meeting was over.

  Bond reached for the Walther, but Sanchez moved, fast as a snake’s tongue. ‘No! No, Mr Bond. You will not need this in Isthmus. We have a very safe city.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He managed a smile as he walked towards the door. ‘If you need me, I’m at the Hôtel El Presidente.’

  He paused, looking back at Sanchez, the door half open.

  ‘Yes, I know you are.’ Sanchez gave his lazy smile. ‘In the meantime, you’re welcome to come to the casino and lose – or win – money any time you like.’

  As he closed the door, Bond heard Sanchez snap at, he presumed, Heller. ‘Check him out!’

  Riding down in the private elevator, Bond thought about the man he had just left, deciding he was probably one of the most callous people he had ever met, and that in a life filled with meeting villains and people of evil intent. On the surface, Sanchez was a calm, calculating man, with a penchant for the good things in life: behind that lazy charm lay complete indifference to suffering. Not only the suffering he saw with his own eyes, or knew of because he had ordered it, but the terrible cloak of despair, self-loathing, deceit and crime which he activated from afar by dealing in millions of dollars’ worth of street drugs.