by John Gardner
Now, the money hung in sacks disguised as fenders over the starboard side of the pilot boat.
When they were within hailing distance of Wavekrest Bond whispered that it was Pam’s big chance. ‘Get ready, and do your worst.’ He smiled grimly in the darkness.
‘If I do my worst, I’ll still be doing my best.’ She hunched her shoulders in the warm night air.
‘Ahoy there, Wavekrest!’ Bond called through the megaphone. ‘Stand by to receive the pilot.’
They got some garbled reply, but, as they came alongside, so a Jacob’s ladder came down from the larger vessel. Pam swarmed up it and mounted the rail to be met by a startled mate. In Spanish she asked to be taken to the bridge.
‘You are the harbour pilot?’ The mate’s voice matched his look of amazement.
‘No,’ Pam grinned at him. ‘No, I’m his secretary.’
The sarcasm was lost on the mate.
Back on the pilot boat, Q and Bond watched the progress, staying close to Wavekrest as she entered the harbour.
‘She’s doing very well, really,’ Q said.
They both winced as Wavekrest hit a sandbar, going over it with a nasty crunch.
‘Very well indeed.’ Bond was stripped to the waist. ‘She’s now got to make that tricky turn towards the main dock. That should be fun. Look, Sanchez, Heller and some of his gentlemen are waiting for Krest.’
‘After what you’ve told me, I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they meet.’ Q was at the wheel and doing better than Pam.
‘I intend to be a fly on the wall, Ouch!’ Wavekrest came around in a half-circle, smashing an untended dory into matchwood. ‘I rather think she’s going to take that ship right into the dock wall.’
Certainly that was what it looked like from the bridge of Wavekrest. ‘Senorita, are we not coming in a little fast, and the angle is bad . . .’ the captain began.
Pam looked at him blankly. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m the pilot, but if you want to do the driving you’d better take the wheel.’
The moment had been timed well, for Pam merely walked away, leaving the captain and navigation officers shouting orders. They struggled to put engines into reverse, but it was too late. Wavekrest made it into the side of the dock with a shuddering crunch which made Sanchez smile grimly.
Nobody saw Pam leave the bridge, but everyone heard Krest’s cries of rage, even Bond who was by this time in the stern of the pilot boat, slipping into the water, taking the disguised sacks of money from Q who cut them adrift as Bond gave the order. With the bags around his neck he went deep, heading for the well in Wavekrest’s stern where Pam had, by this time, opened the well doors.
She put a hand down and helped Bond up, past Sentinel, into the area near the decompression chamber.
‘Well done,’ Bond squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, we won’t have much time. The decompression chamber.’ They lugged the bags of money over to the door, with its thick glass panel, and big lever of a lock, ripping the bags open and letting hundred-dollar bills loose in the chamber. When it was done they closed the door again and looked around for a good hiding place.
Already, above them on deck they could hear Krest greeting Sanchez. ‘I didn’t expect you to come aboard personally.’
‘And I didn’t think you would, but I like surprises. You’ve been having a lot of surprises lately, Milton.’
‘We got some crazy woman harbour pilot . . .’
‘Let’s talk about the money, eh? That’s what I came for. Does he have a safe?’
The last question obviously directed at Lupe, for she answered. ‘In the owner’s stateroom. I show you.’
The conversation died away.
‘Trouble,’ Bond whispered. ‘Better than we hoped for.’ They had found that there was room to hide behind a bank of lockers which gave them seclusion, dark and a good view of the decompression chamber, now almost bloated with cash.
They waited for around fifteen minutes, then there was the sound of doors banging, footsteps and angry words. Sanchez was shouting, ‘Search the whole ship. We know he hasn’t put in anywhere. Either the money’s on board or he’s got it wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the ocean. Search everywhere.’
Krest’s voice was shrill, ‘I swear, Franz. It happened like I said . . .’
‘Oh yeah, and pigs might fly.’ The footsteps overhead seemed to be getting nearer to the companionway, and the voices were more clear. ‘So, let’s go over it again. Make sure I’ve got it right.’ Sanchez’s voice was gritty, laced with a well-honed edge. ‘You say he waterskied behind the plane, then jumped on to it. What is this guy? A circus artist?’
‘No, well, yes. He was kinda dragged into the air. Then, well, like I told you, he threw the pilots out and flew away . . .’
‘Like a bird, flapping his wings, I suppose.’
‘I’m telling you the truth, Franz. He took every cent. Would I make up a story like that? You gotta believe me . . .’
‘I gotta get my money back, Milton. I don’t have to believe anybody. What’s down here?’ They were right above, standing at the top of the companionway ladder.
‘Only the docking well for the probe. For Sentinel. Docking area, and the decompression chamber.’
‘Let’s take a little look. Colonel Heller, you organise the search.’
There were four of them: Sanchez, Krest, and the two hoodlums, Perez and Braun, and it took less than a minute for Sanchez to see the money in the decompression chamber. Bond and Pam pressed themselves against the metal bulkhead, glad of the darkness.
‘So what in hell’s this, Milton? A tax shelter?’
Krest gave a cry. A cross between a turkey being strangled and a man with severe digestive trouble. ‘Franz! I swear it! That’s not my money. I’ve never seen it before. I . . .’
‘Too damned right it’s not your money, amigo. It’s my money.’ Sanchez’s hand went out to the door lever. The clunk of it opening seemed to echo right through the ship. ‘My money. You think I’m that stupid, Krest? I know all about it. The water-skiing, plane-riding expert already gave me the evidence. You rip me off, then plan to use my money to pay a hit team. You have the nerve to put a contract out on me?’
They could see everything: the open door to the chamber, Sanchez screaming, holding Krest by the collar as he propelled him towards the chamber.
‘You want the money so much? Okay, Krest, take it!’ With a kick he sent Krest flying into the chamber, slamming the door on him, then looking around.
Pam clung to Bond, and he put his hand up, trying to blot out the picture from her eyes. Already he had a fair idea of what Sanchez meant to do.
They could see Krest’s face through the thick glass, his cries muffled and his banging fists making no impression on anyone. Meanwhile, Sanchez had turned up the pressure valve to maximum: the needle on the big round depth gauge indicated fifty feet.
Sanchez shook his head, like a boxer going in for the kill, then grabbed at a fire axe, smashing the glass around the firefighting equipment to get at it.
Already the depth gauge was showing five hundred feet below sea level and Krest was sprawled against the huge pile of money, fighting for breath.
‘Let’s bring him to the surface! Fast!’ Sanchez shouted, raising the axe and grinding it through the pipe labelled ‘Vent’ running from the chamber to the service area. There was a terrible whoossssshhhhh! as the pipe gave way, the pressure dropping in a fraction of a second.
Krest’s eyes bulged, his face contorted and then his head quite simply exploded, as though a balloon filled with blood and offal had been burst. Bond turned away as the horrible mess spattered over the glass, and he put his hand firmly over Pam’s face.
‘Good.’ Sanchez did not seem to show any emotion. ‘Poor old Milton Krest just had a blow-out.’ He moved back towards the ladder.
Perez, in a weak voice, asked what should be done with the money.
‘What d’you think?’ Sanchez snapped. ‘Launder it.’
> They heard his feet clumping as he ascended the ladder, then Braun, sounding sick said, ‘Come on. We’ll get some of the boys to clean up the mess.’
‘Now,’ Bond whispered. ‘Don’t look, just follow me into the well.’
Within minutes they were out through the well and open docking doors, swimming gently towards the pilot boat which was moving very slowly away from Wavekrest.
Stripping off his shirt, James Bond stretched out on the bed, and pulled the sheets over him. By the sound of voices in the corridor he reckoned that he had only just got back in time.
Pam had swum strongly, keeping pace with him, and Q was there, ready to help them on board. He knew now that he had to move quickly. He hurried away below, turning to Q and asking him to get the inflatable ready, and put his gear on board. Five minutes later he came back on deck, dried off and in slacks, shirt and a pair of his favourite moccasins.
‘It’s all ready, James.’ Q, the old devil, sounded almost emotional.
‘I can’t tell you how much you’ve both helped.’ Bond took in a deep breath of night air. ‘Right, we split up now. You, Pam, take my old uncle in the plane. We meet again in Miami when it’s all over.’
‘Shouldn’t we stick together?’ For all her toughness, and the kind of life she had led, Pam had obviously been shaken by the manner of Krest’s death.
‘No. They could well be after me. Particularly if I don’t make it back in time. It’ll be safer if I’m alone.’
Pam tried to protest again, but he stopped her words with a kiss, then was away, over the side, scrambling down the ladder to the bobbing inflatable which contained his briefcase and overnight bag. With a final wave he started the near-silent electric motor and headed the rubber raft towards the shoreline.
He beached on the seaward side of Sanchez’s dock, and began the long climb up the hill, using his built-in sense of direction, occasionally glimpsing the lighted funicular railway, and finally, muscles aching, reached the well-lit guest and living quarters with its hideous white patio, plaster camels, concrete palm trees and couches. Now he only had to hope Sanchez had not already discovered his absence. He did not risk the French windows, but went around the side of the building, into the brightly lit corridor, with its perfectly spaced doors to the guest rooms.
He left the luggage outside, and did not switch the lights on. He was just about to close the door when he heard the voices. Sanchez and Lupe walking up the corridor. He stood beside his door, one ear to the tiny gap, listening.
‘Goodnight, Franz,’ Lupe said, and there was a pause during which, Bond presumed, they kissed.
‘You look very tired, baby. You get a good rest.’ Another pause, then, ‘What in hell is that?’ He had spotted the luggage, and Bond heard Lupe cough, gaining time before she spoke.
‘Bond’s clothes. He had the luggage sent over from the hotel this afternoon. He’s been sleeping all day.’
‘Perez!’ Sanchez called, and more footsteps came hurrying down the passage.
That was enough for Bond. In a moment he had stripped off his shirt and leapt into the bed.
A moment later, the door crashed open and the lights came on.
‘Wha . . . Oh! . . . Where . . .’ Bond sat up, bare-chested, rubbing imitation sleep from his eyes.
Sanchez came over to the bed, and smiled at him. Once more the gold in his mouth glittered. ‘Amigo! Sorry to wake you. You need the rest. But you should know that the information you gave me paid off. I got the one who had the gall to put out a contract on me.’
‘Any time I can be of service, as you well know.’
‘Good,’ Sanchez nodded. ‘You think you will be well enough to travel tomorrow?’
‘Of course,’ Bond felt a churning of anticipation in his stomach. He tried to sound disinterested. ‘Where’re we going?’
‘That will be my surprise. But I promise you won’t be disappointed. Now, get more rest. See you in the morning, okay?’
‘Right.’
Perez, who had been standing beside his master, holding Bond’s cases, nodded, putting the bags on the floor.
As soon as they had left Bond undressed down to his shorts, and began making preparations to shower.
He was heading for the bathroom when he heard the door move behind him. He swung around, hands up, ready for anything. Lupe had slipped in. She had a finger to her lips and wore only a filmy robe over an elaborate basque.
She approached him slowly. ‘I thought I heard that bastard talking to you.’
‘I think he probably trusts me now.’
She gave an exaggerated sigh, ‘You’re impossible.’
‘He says we’re going on a trip tomorrow. Where’s he taking me?’
‘I don’t know. Truly, I have no idea. There is a place he goes to often, but he’s never taken me. It is his big secret that he shares with everybody else around here – except me.’ She took him by the hand, pulling him towards the bed where they sat, side by side.
‘Surely, you must have heard something,’ Bond pressed.
‘Well, I do know he’s showing the Chinese around this special place of his. Some other oriental people arrived today. Mr Kwang and his friend left, I think. But there are more here now.’ Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Truly, James. I promise you, I don’t know where he’s taking you; I don’t really know what he intends for me – not in the end. James,’ she now clung to his arm. ‘James, what’s going to happen to us?’
She was a very beautiful woman, Bond thought. Sanchez did not know how lucky he was. At a snap of his fingers this lovely girl would follow him to hell, even though she hated him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to soothe her. ‘You’ll be safe. When all this is over I’ll see you get back to your family. Back home.’
It was as though he had put a torch to a fuse. He saw her fingers curl, their long nails like claws, and her eyes lit up with loathing. ‘No! I spent the first fifteen years of my life trying to get away from my home. People like you have no idea what it’s like, living in the shanty towns all over this country. I was one of ten children. Ten, with no food, no hope, no love!’ A fine spray came from between her lips as she spat out her hatred. ‘Bad and evil though he is, Sanchez got me out of there.’ She turned her head, looking up at him, her eyes soft, a yearning in her face replacing the rage. ‘James, can’t I stay with you?’
‘I’m not sure that would work out, Lupe.’ He knew it sounded half-hearted. Why could he never resist a beautiful girl?
Lupe’s arms came up around his neck. ‘How can we tell?’ she whispered. ‘How can we tell . . . ? Unless we try.’
Bond felt her cool lips on his, then her thrusting tongue and the pressure of her body on his as they fell back on to the bed.
The first time they came up for air, Lupe said, ‘I think this is going to work out very well.’
14
THE TEMPLE OF MEDITATION
Pam and Q were ready to leave the hotel at 7.30. Breakfast had been served, and their bags were already packed and waiting when the buzzer sounded.
It was Pam who opened the door, expecting a bellboy. She gave a little gasp when she saw the nubile Lupe Lamora standing there, breathless, with her face etched in concern.
When she spoke, the words tumbled over one another. ‘Ms Kennedy? I saw you at the casino with James.’ She glanced over at Q who had emerged from his bedroom. ‘I need to talk with you. In private.’
Pam glanced at Q. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, closing the door. ‘James’s uncle is with me. You can speak in front of him.’
‘It’s James . . .’
‘What’s happened?’ not disguising her alarm.
‘He’s in great danger. Sanchez is no fool. He might act as though James is his friend, but I know he’s still running very detailed checks on him.’
In spite of the small lump of jealousy that was rapidly getting larger in her mind, Pam smiled a reassurance. ‘It’s okay. James is well out of the country by now,’ she lied.
Lupe’s eyes widened. ‘But he’s not. Don’t you know? Last night he stayed at Sanchez’s place. In fact he stayed with me.’
Pam turned towards Q who saw she had gone pale, her mouth set in a hard line.
‘You mean he stayed at Sanchez’s place?’ Q asked, trying to pour metaphorical oil on proverbial troubled waters. The waters were starting to show, springing to Pam’s eyes.
‘Si! Yes. Franz is taking him on some trip. With the Chinese. They leave at ten. Please! Please! You must help him.’ She was also near tears. ‘I couldn’t go on living if anything happened to him. Lord help me, I love James so much.’
Q saw Pam’s back stiffen and knew what might come. He hurried over and took Lupe by the arm, leading her towards the door. ‘My dear, you must go back to Sanchez’s place before you’re missed. Now, don’t worry, we’ll think of something.’ And with that he hustled her out of the door.
When he turned back to Pam, the situation was much worse than he expected. The anger had flooded scarlet to her face, ‘The lousy, two-timing, double-crossing, lying, male chauvinist, son-of-a-bitch!’ she exploded. ‘ “Oh, I love James so much.” ’ She imitated Lupe’s voice with a fair degree of accuracy. ‘Well, damned if I’ll help him. Self-centred, reptilian, ungrateful, fornicating, useless cretin. James-bloody-Bond can go to hell in a handbasket as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t even help him to cross the road!’
‘I think I’d better go and organise some transport. A couple of clapped-out cars, I think. Vehicles people won’t look at too closely.’ He put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. ‘Pam, my dear, don’t judge him too harshly. Field operatives have to use every means at their disposal . . .’
‘Bullshit!’ she yelled, ‘I know all about bloody field agents . . . I’ve . . . I know . . .’ The next moment she was weeping on Q’s shoulder. ‘Oh damn him, Uncle Q. Did he have to do this?’
‘Quite probably. Let me go and get cars. Damn it, Pamela, the man’s in danger.’