by John Gardner
Bond detected the anxiety flowing from Dario and Braun who still held him down, hard, seemingly oblivious to the raging fire, smoke or people coming and going in panic. Then Sanchez bent closer. ‘You want to do this the hard way, or the easy way, Bond? You see I’ve still got a very large business to run, so I have to know who you’ve been working for. Understand?’
Bond took a deep breath and told Sanchez that he was the least of the drug baron’s problems. ‘If you couldn’t trust your old buddy Krest, who can you trust, Franz? Truman-Lodge has gone off with all that money in his case. He going to give that back to you? And what of the missiles? Who’s in charge of those? Your precious Colonel Heller? He could use them on you with ease. Did you know he already almost sold you out to the Bouvier girl?’
‘What do you know about the missiles?’ For the first time, doubt clouded into Sanchez’s eyes. Smoke began to eddy into Section One as one of the other henchmen, Perez, came coughing through the door.
‘Patron, we gotta go soon. This whole place’s gonna blow.’ There were tears streaming from his eyes, and the smoke was getting thicker.
‘Where’s Heller?’ Sanchez snapped back at him.
‘He went to get the missiles, patron. We didn’t want them near the fire.’
‘That’s the last you’ll see of the gallant colonel,’ Bond said loudly.
‘Find Heller. Don’t let him out of your sight! Get him, you understand?’ Perez was out of sight before Sanchez had completed his orders.
‘Thank you, Mr Bond, for your advice.’ Sanchez’s arm came up, a closed fist crashing into Bond’s jaw as he moved away.
Bond saw the raised fist, felt a flash of pain, then the grey clouds of half-consciousness. Through the fog and mist he realised that he was moving, and a voice somewhere in the back of his head was telling him to do something: to rouse himself. His mind sent out orders to his limbs, but they refused all commands. The voice became louder and louder, more urgent, and with a massive effort, Bond began scrabbling with his legs and the movement helped clear the grey film that surrounded him.
He looked down to see that he was being relentlessly carried along the chute leading to the pulveriser. There were three blocks of cocaine ahead of him, and he rammed his feet down in the nearest block in an attempt to give him purchase. The block held for a second, and he was able to make a grab at the steel guiding wall on the right of the belt. His hands slipped and burned as he clung on, using every ounce of strength to pull himself to the top of the wall. He managed to slow down the movement, but his hands still slipped, and his body still moved. Inch by inch he saw the block of cocaine on which his feet rested being drawn closer and closer to the gnashing steel teeth of the pulveriser.
Then, with a final effort he hauled himself upwards, so that his shoulders now rested on the metal wall. But he was still slipping. He pulled again, then saw a movement, by the door, near the knife-switch that operated the conveyor belt. Smoke and flame seemed to be close and the figure took on a strange, almost warped shape. It was coming towards him, and, in another moment, Dario stood close to the wall of the conveyor belt.
‘I came to make sure. I’m glad I am not too late,’ he hissed, climbing up so that his paunchy stomach pressed on to Bond’s slipping hands. Above him, Bond saw Dario’s arm raised, and the long knife in the man’s right hand flashing, reflecting the flames.
‘You’re a dead man, Bond!’ The knife began to descend. Bond tensed, waiting for the pain that would send him to oblivion and the steadily chewing jaws of death, already chomping down on the block of cocaine under his feet.
16
GOODBYE JAMES BOND
‘You’re a dead man, Bond!’ As Dario yelled, so something else completed the words like a violent exclamation mark. The hand remained poised for the strike, but Dario’s eyes widened with shock.
It took a second for Bond to realise that the exclamation mark was a shot. Then someone spoke, and the voice seemed to come from far away.
‘You took the words right out of my mouth,’ the voice said, and Bond could not believe his ears.
Dario’s hand opened and the knife clattered down the chute and through the crunching teeth. There was not much blood, just a little around the man’s right shoulder, and as he pitched forward he was still very much alive, if not in control. He made one terrifying sound – half-scream, half-cry for help – as he went straight down and into the steel teeth of the pulveriser.
The scream hung on the air like some bad odour. Bond looked down, still clinging to the side of the chute. The powdered cocaine had turned from white to red. He blinked twice, not believing what he saw by the door – a vision in a long billowing white robe with a gun in her hand. For a fraction in time he wondered if he was indeed dead. Then the woman in white stretched out to her right, closing the knife-switch to off, and the conveyor belt ground to a stop.
‘You’re an angel, Pam,’ Bond said quietly as he came towards her, still a little unsteady. ‘You’re an absolute angel.’
‘Somebody else told me that, quite recently.’ She grinned at him. Then, nodding at the machinery, asked, ‘Did I . . . ?’
‘Let’s say you chewed him out.’ Bond went back and looked over the side of the metal, once more thinking that the conveyor belt looked like a bobsleigh run. Slay ride, he said to himself, must tell Sanchez. ‘Sanchez?’ he said aloud, as he walked back to Pam.
‘You okay, James?’
‘Will be in a minute. But what about Sanchez?’
‘Well, your uncle arrived with the local law . . .’
‘And they got him?’
‘I don’t think so. Not yet. They’re in the Institute parking lot, dealing with Professor Joe’s disciples.’
‘They didn’t stop the convoy? The tankers?’
‘What tankers?’
Bond was already moving towards the door. ‘There’re five tankers and all Sanchez’s people, heading away from here. I suspect towards the airport. You mean, the police didn’t . . . ?’ He saw the look on Pam’s face and knew the answer. ‘You got transport?’
‘Only the little crop duster.’
‘Let’s go then . . .’
‘James, you’ve done enough. Let the police handle this.’
‘Oh no!’ He was up and running. ‘I want Sanchez for myself. Come on.’ He passed through the door, dragging at Pam who was hampered by the robe, and just as they got through the exit, an explosion caved in the factory roof.
They went back the way Pam had come, down wide corridors, and walled mazes. Behind them the heat and smoke became worse, and occasionally they passed people in the white Olimpatec robes, running in panic.
Just before they reached the final exit they turned sharp right. Pam stopped in a skid, hand to her mouth, eyes wide with fright. A fork-lift truck stood facing a brick wall, its sharp jutting forks skewering into a body crushed against the wall. It was Heller.
‘My God, what . . . ?’ Pam began.
‘Looks like he came to a dead end.’ Bond knew two things. First, his bluff with Sanchez had worked; second, that Sanchez had the missiles and would undoubtedly use them if any problem arose. It made action against the tanker convoy even more hazardous. ‘Where’s the plane?’ he asked.
‘A mile, mile and a half away.’
‘We have to get transport before that.’ People were still running about, there were cries of panic everywhere, white robes flapped and, behind, the awesome sound of fire increased as though someone had turned up a volume control.
Around the next corner they found themselves at an archway, and outside the temple, the great red-blocked walls seemed to rear up above them. It had to be a side entrance, for Bond could only see dusty dry grass, with the trees some four hundred yards away. Near the archway stood a little electric golf-cart. ‘There,’ he shouted, but Pam beat him to the driving seat, starting the motor. ‘I only hope this is fully charged. I always . . .’ They were moving and she stopped speaking suddenly, slewing the steering wheel o
ver the dry ground, sending up a spray of dust.
All Bond saw was a figure in white and gold robes, panting along at a steady trot. ‘You’re going to take that guy out, Pam. Careful . . .’ The cart hit the figure sideways on, throwing him into the dust, and Bond was aware of Pam reaching down and pulling a briefcase into the cart. ‘Good luck, Professor Joe!’ she yelled as they moved off, her foot down hard on the accelerator so that they must have been doing almost twenty-five miles an hour.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Bond shouted, making a grab for the briefcase.
‘What d’you think it is? Money, of course. I lent it to the Prof.’
‘What money?’
‘The walking-around money from the casino. The cheque was made out to me, remember?’
Bond smiled. ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ he said. ‘Just put your foot down!’
‘What d’you think I’m doing? Both my feet are through the floor.’
‘Look at her go!’ Bond raised his voice in what sounded like a yell of triumph, though he knew triumph had yet to be earned.
Captain Rojas had been very efficient, arriving with two helicopters within twenty minutes of Q’s call. ‘My people are shadowing Sanchez and his party. He has orientals with him, Chinese, yes?’
Q nodded. ‘Chinese, Koreans, you name it he has them. The major drug dealers of the Orient.’
‘Then I think they will be heading to the so-called Olimpatec Meditation Institute. The locals call it the temple. My own colleagues have suspected the place for some time, but nobody has ever been there. It is difficult to take action like that when the really big brass are on the take, you understand?’
‘Only too well.’ Q was itching to get going for he really was very worried about James and Pam now.
‘It is sensible first to make a small detour.’ Rojas was a man who knew exactly what to do, and Q could see there was no way he could be deflected from whatever he had decided. ‘So first, back to the helicopters. We’re going to do a little mopping up at the Sanchez estate. If the big man is away, there will not be many of the criminal element there.’
As the police chopper moved away Q shouted at the captain that they should at least take Sanchez’s mistress with them.
‘The Lamora woman?’ Rojas sneered. ‘Why bother with her? Her kind are two a penny.’
‘I think not,’ Q howled in his ear, telling him of the way she had shielded Bond from suspicion, and even come to the hotel that morning, putting herself at risk.
Roja’s attitude changed slightly. ‘We’ll see. You realise this is probably the only chance I’ll ever get to deal with Franz Sanchez and his people. Even if we get them all, I cannot vouch for any fair trial. Or any trial at all, come to that. Maybe it would be best if we just did away with them. We’ll see.’
There were only seven people left at Sanchez’s estate. Two gardeners, three chefs, one bodyguard and Lupe. The bodyguard made no fuss. The others seemed quite pleased to see the police doing their job properly. Lupe insisted on being taken with them. She was so insistent that even Rojas could not persuade her to stay. Oddly, she also made considerable fuss about taking Sanchez’s iguana with them. ‘Me? I don’t like the beast.’ She gave a prima donna performance, both voice and gestures in a high key. ‘But I want it to be there to see Sanchez’s end.’
When the two helicopters arrived over the temple the chaos was already mounting. They landed near the main entrance where Rojas’ other police had closed off the exit road with cars. Smoke and flame was rising from the rear of the building, but the police were busy checking queues of white-robed disciples. Buses belonging to the Institute were lined up, and the disciples had been sorted out, while the police helped them on board.
‘They look like some big choir, eh?’ Rojas said. ‘We’ll interrogate them later.’
Q was more concerned about Bond and Pam. ‘Find them and you’ll find Sanchez I’ll be bound,’ he said, suddenly pointing towards one of the buses. ‘Better take a look at that little lot.’ He was pointing to a group of orientals whose robes seemed to fit badly, some of them were swamped by the garments, others completely overwhelmed by them.
Rojas strode over to the bus, unholstering his pistol. ‘Okay, you people.’ They stopped, looking for a way of escape and, when finding none, slowly raised their hands. ‘You ready to sing, boys?’ Rojas asked with a chuckle.
The oriental drug-dealers were handcuffed and removed from the bus, then Rojas turned to Q. ‘I’ve instructed my men to get into the temple and look for Sanchez and your people.’ He clasped Q’s shoulder. ‘However, my friend, I have told them they must take no risks. To me it looks as though this building’s done for. It’ll take over an hour to get the fire department out here, and by that time . . . well.’
Sanchez, his remaining lieutenants, and the tankers were by this time long gone. As were James Bond and Pamela Bouvier.
It took them twenty minutes to reach the crop duster, and another fifteen, once airbone, to spot Sanchez. Bond was crammed in behind Pam, his legs resting on her shoulders, and his body crouched, head down just below the cockpit dome.
Bond had done the navigating, taking a chance on Sanchez and his convoy not going by any direct route. He had been right. From nearly two thousand feet they plainly saw Sanchez’s car first, just beginning to climb through the foothills.
The road looked perilously narrow, and, higher, when it reached the mountains, it snaked and climbed upwards, doubling back on itself, so that, at times, one part of the road twisted directly above another section. The convoy of tankers, led by the jeep, was spread out over two miles of roadway, the jeep about a mile ahead of the first tanker. Sanchez’s car and the pick-up followed, far behind.
‘Keep well above Sanchez’s car,’ Bond shouted. ‘I’m opening the canopy and I want you to put me slap on top of the last tanker in line.’
Pam nodded, concentrating on flying. They passed over the limousine. Bond slid the canopy back, and with a struggle, climbed out of the cockpit. The wind was so strong that his extra weight slewed the aircraft, making Pam readjust constantly by kicking the rudder bar, while it took Bond all his skill and concentration to stay on the wing.
Gently he grabbed the foothold in the fuselage below the cockpit, and, by stages, climbed down through the wing struts until he reached the undercarriage.
During the whole procedure the wind forced his body back, so that the least mistake, one wrong move and his body would be thrown from the plane like a piece of torn paper.
Pam had started to descend, and Bond could see the big tanker ahead of him, getting larger with every second. He tucked his legs around the strut between the wheels of the undercarriage, waiting for Pam to level off, match her speed with that of the tanker and drop to within inches of the long curved top.
The noise of the wind, and that of the tanker below, pounding over the primitive road, was almost unbearable. Dust flew up into Bond’s face so that he could hardly see what he was doing. Then, quite suddenly, everything changed for a tiny moment. The airplane seemed to float motionless over the tanker, and the wind dropped. He was within feet of the curved metal container. He dropped, scrabbling for a second on the slippery surface, then hanging on as he adjusted to the new mode of transport, the tanker bumping and jolting over the road’s bad surface.
The crop duster lifted and climbed away, leaving him with only the smooth metal and juddering tanker. Slowly Bond inched his way along the top of the tank, heading precariously towards the cab – the four-wheel detachable prime-mover unit – which seemed to be bounding over the road with ease, almost oblivious to the heavy load it pulled.
As he reached the end of the tank, Bond looked down into the space between it and the cab. He could clearly see the couplings and hydraulic tubes passing between the tank and the big prime-mover unit. Just as he was about to attempt the jump into the small area between the two parts of the vehicle, he heard the bullets whining and chipping around his head.
H
e looked back over the long tank and saw that Sanchez’s car was coming up fast, behind them. He thought he could see Sanchez’s chauffeur at the wheel and Truman-Lodge in the back. He could certainly see Sanchez himself, for the man was leaning out of the front passenger window, firing an Uzi.
Bond had no time to hesitate now. He dropped, and with a jarring crash found himself clinging on to part of the cab, his legs dangling, feet only inches from the road.
The fall winded him, and he hung on tightly until he had control of his breathing, then began to pull himself up among the couplings and tubes. The prime-mover hit several potholes in the road and, three times, Bond was in danger of being hurled to his death under the wheels.
It seemed to take an eternity to drag himself to the passenger side, and at first his brain refused to work out the moves that would carry him to the door of the cab. He could afford no delay. Already Sanchez’s car must be getting very close.
Then order returned to his mind. In four carefully-judged movements, Bond swung from behind the cab to the passenger side, reaching for the door handle, and conscious of bullets thwacking into the door under his arm as he pulled it open and swung into the cab.