by Ian Fleming
But this girl drove like a man. She was entirely focused on the road ahead and on what was going on in her driving mirror, an accessory rarely used by women except for making up their faces. And, equally rare in a woman, she took a man’s pleasure in the feel of her machine, in the timing of her gear changes, and the use of her brakes.
She didn’t talk to Bond or seem to be aware of him, and this allowed him to continue his inspection without inhibition. She had a gay, to-hell-with-you face that, Bond thought, would become animal in passion. In bed she would fight and bite and then suddenly melt into hot surrender. He could almost see the proud, sensual mouth bare away from the even white teeth in a snarl of desire and then, afterwards, soften into a half-pout of loving slavery. In profile the eyes were soft charcoal slits such as you see on some birds, but in the shop Bond had seen them full face. Then they had been fierce and direct with a golden flicker in the dark brown that held much the same message as the mouth. The profile, the straight, small uptilted nose, the determined set of the chin, and the clean-cut sweep of the jawline were as decisive as a royal command, and the way the head was set on the neck had the same authority – the poise one associates with imaginary princesses. Two features modified the clean-cut purity of line – a soft, muddled Brigitte Bardot haircut that escaped from under the straw hat in endearing disarray, and two deeply cut but soft dimples which could only have been etched by a sweet if rather ironic smile that Bond had not yet seen. The sunburn was not overdone and her skin had none of that dried, exhausted sheen that can turn the texture of even the youngest skin into something more like parchment. Beneath the gold, there was an earthy warmth in the cheeks that suggested a good healthy peasant strain from the Italian Alps and her breasts, high-riding and deeply V-ed, were from the same stock. The general impression, Bond decided, was of a wilful, high-tempered, sensual girl – a beautiful Arab mare who would only allow herself to be ridden by a horseman with steel thighs and velvet hands, and then only with curb and saw-bit – and then only when he had broken her to bridle and saddle. Bond thought that he would like to try his strength against hers. But that must be for some other time. For the moment another man was in the saddle. He would first have to be unhorsed. And anyway, what the hell was he doing fooling with these things? There was a job to be done. The devil of a job.
The MG swept out of Shirley Street on to Eastern Road and followed the coast. Across the wide harbour entrance were the emerald and turquoise shoals of Athol Island. A deep-sea fishing boat was passing over them, the two tall antennae of her twelve-foot rods streaming their lines astern. A fast motorboat came hammering by close in shore, the water-skier on the line behind her executing tight slaloms across the waves of her wake. It was a sparkling, beautiful day and Bond’s heart lifted momentarily from the trough of indecision and despondency created by an assignment that, particularly since his arrival at dawn that day, seemed increasingly time-wasting and futile.
The Bahamas, the string of a thousand islands that straggle five hundred miles south-east from just east of the coast of Florida to just north of Cuba, from latitude 27° down to latitude 21°, were, for most of three hundred years, the haunt of every famous pirate of the Western Atlantic, and today tourism makes full use of the romantic mythology. A road-sign said ‘Blackbeard’s Tower 1 mile’ and another ‘Gunpowder Wharf. Sea Food. Native Drinks. Shady Garden. First Left’.
A sand track showed on their left. The girl took it and pulled up in front of a ruined stone warehouse against which leant a pink clapboard house with white window-frames and a white Adam style doorway over which hung a brightly painted inn sign of a powder keg with a skull and crossbones on it. The girl drove the MG into the shade of a clump of casuarinas and they got out and went through the door and through a small dining-room with red and white checked covers and out on to a terrace built on the remains of a stone wharf. The terrace was shaded by sea-almond trees trimmed into umbrellas. Trailed by a shuffling coloured waiter with soup stains down his white coat, they chose a cool table on the edge of the terrace looking over the water. Bond glanced at his watch. He said to the girl, ‘It’s exactly midday. Do you want to drink solid or soft?’
The girl said, ‘Soft. I’ll have a double Bloody Mary with plenty of Worcester sauce.’
Bond said, ‘What do you call hard? I’ll have a vodka and tonic with a dash of bitters.’
The waiter said, ‘Yassuh,’ and mooched away.
‘I call vodka-on-the-rocks hard. All that tomato juice makes it soft.’ She hooked a chair towards her with one foot and stretched out her legs on it so that they were in the sun. The position wasn’t comfortable enough. She kicked off her sandals and sat back, satisfied. She said, ‘When did you arrive? I haven’t seen you about. When it’s like this, at the end of the season, one expects to know most of the faces.’
‘I got in this morning. From New York. I’ve come to look for a property. It struck me that now would be better than in the season. When all the millionaires are here the prices are hopeless. They may come down a bit now they’re gone. How long have you been here?’
‘About six months. I came out in a yacht, the Disco Volante. You may have seen her. She’s anchored up the coast. You probably flew right over her coming in to land at Windsor Field.’
‘A long low streamlined affair? Is she yours? She’s got beautiful lines.’
‘She belongs to a relative of mine.’ The eyes watched Bond’s face.
‘Do you stay on board?’
‘Oh no. We’ve got a beach property. Or rather we’ve taken it. It’s a place called Palmyra. Just opposite where the yacht is. It belongs to an Englishman. I believe he wants to sell it. It’s very beautiful. And it’s a long way away from the tourists. It’s at a place called Lyford Key.’
‘That sounds the sort of place I’m looking for.’
‘Well, we’ll be gone in about a week.’
‘Oh.’ Bond looked into her eyes. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘If you’ve got to flirt, don’t be obvious.’ Suddenly the girl laughed. She looked contrite. The dimples remained. ‘I mean, I didn’t really mean that – not the way it sounded. But I’ve spent six months listening to that kind of thing from these silly old rich goats and the only way to shut them up is to be rude. I’m not being conceited. There’s no one under sixty in this place. Young people can’t afford it. So any woman who hasn’t got a harelip or a moustache – well not even a moustache would put them off. They’d probably like it. Well I mean absolutely any girl makes these old goats get their bifocals all steamed up.’ She laughed again. She was getting friendly. ‘I expect you’ll have just the same effect on the old women with pince-nez and blue rinses.’
‘Do they eat boiled vegetables for lunch?’
‘Yes, and they drink carrot juice and prune juice.’
‘We won’t get on then. I won’t sink lower than conch chowder.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘You seem to know a lot about Nassau.’
‘You mean about conch being an aphrodisiac ? That’s not only a Nassau idea. It’s all over the world where there are conchs.’
‘Is it true?’
‘Island people have it on their wedding night. I haven’t found it has any effect on me.’
‘Why?’ She looked mischievous. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’ Bond smiled across into her eyes. ‘Are you?’
‘No.’
‘Then we might both try some conch soup some time and see what happens.’
‘That’s only a little better than the millionaires. You’ll have to try harder.’
The drinks came. The girl stirred hers with a finger, to mix in the brown sediment of Worcester sauce, and drank half of it. She reached for the carton of Dukes, broke it open, and slit a packet with her thumbnail. She took out a cigarette, sniffed it cautiously, and lit it with Bond’s lighter. She inhaled deeply and blew out a long plume of smoke. She said doubtfully, ‘Not bad. At least the smoke looks like smoke. Why did you say you wer
e such an expert on giving up smoking?’
‘Because I’ve given it up so often.’ Bond thought it time to get away from the small-talk. He said, ‘Why do you talk such good English? Your accent sounds Italian.’
‘Yes, my name’s Dominetta Vitali. But I was sent to school in England. To the Cheltenham Ladies’ College. Then I went to R.A.D.A. to learn acting. The English kind of acting. My parents thought that was a ladylike way to be brought up. Then they were both killed in a train crash. I went back to Italy to earn my living. I remembered my English but’ – she laughed without bitterness – ‘I soon forgot most of the rest. You don’t get far in the Italian theatre by being able to walk about with a book balanced on your head.’
‘But this relative with the yacht.’ Bond looked out to sea. ‘Wasn’t he there to look after you?’
‘No.’ The answer was curt. When Bond made no comment she added, ‘He’s not exactly a relative, not a close one. He’s a sort of close friend. A guardian.’
‘Oh yes.’
‘You must come and visit us on the yacht.’ She felt that a bit of gush was needed. ‘He’s called Largo, Emilio Largo. You’ve probably heard. He’s here on some kind of a treasure hunt.’
‘Really?’ Now it was Bond’s turn to gush. ‘That sounds rather fun. Of course I’d like to meet him. What’s it all about? Is there anything in it?’
‘Heaven knows. He’s very secretive about it. Apparently there’s some kind of a map. But I’m not allowed to see it and I have to stay ashore when he goes off prospecting or whatever he does. A lot of people have put up money for it, sort of shareholders. They’ve all just arrived. As we’re going in a week or so, I suppose everything’s ready and the real hunt’s going to start any moment now.’
‘What are the shareholders like? Do they seem sensible sort of people? The trouble with most treasure hunts is that either someone’s been there before and sneaked off with the treasure or the ship’s so deep in the coral you can’t get at it.’
‘They seem all right. Very dull and rich. Terribly serious for something as romantic as treasure hunting. They seem to spend all their time with Largo. Plotting and planning I suppose. And they never seem to go out in the sun or go bathing or anything. It’s as if they didn’t want to get sunburned. As far as I can gather, none of them have ever been in the tropics before. Just a typical bunch of stuffy businessmen. They’re probably better than that. I haven’t seen much of them. Largo’s giving a party for them at the Casino tonight.’
‘What do you do all day?’
‘Oh, I fool around. Do a bit of shopping for the yacht. Drive around in the car. Bathe on other people’s beaches when their houses are empty. I like underwater swimming. I’ve got an aqualung and I take one of the crew out or a fisherman. The crew are better. They all do it.’
‘I used to do it a bit. I’ve brought my gear. Will you show me some good bits of reef some time?’
The girl looked pointedly at her watch. ‘I might do. It’s time I went.’ She got up. ‘Thanks for the drink. I’m afraid I can’t take you back. I’m going the other way. They’ll get you a taxi here.’ She shuffled her feet into her sandals.
Bond followed the girl through the restaurant to her car. She got in and pressed the starter. Bond decided to risk another snub. He said, ‘Perhaps I’ll see you at the Casino tonight, Dominetta.’
‘P’raps.’ She put the car pointedly into gear. She took another look at him. She decided that she did want to see him again. She said, ‘But for God’s sake don’t call me Dominetta. I’m never called that. People call me Domino.’ She gave him a brief smile, but it was a smile into the eyes. She raised a hand. The rear wheels spat sand and gravel and the little blue car whirled out along the driveway to the main road. It paused at the intersection and then, as Bond watched, turned right-handed towards Nassau.
Bond smiled. He said, ‘Bitch,’ and walked back into the restaurant to pay his bill and have a taxi called.
12 ....... THE MAN FROM THE C.I.A.
THE TAXI took Bond out to the airport at the other end of the island by the Interfield Road. The man from the Central Intelligence Agency was due in by Pan American at 1.15. His name was Larkin, F. Larkin. Bond hoped he wouldn’t be a muscle-bound ex-college man with a crew-cut and a desire to show up the incompetence of the British, the backwardness of their little Colony, and the clumsy ineptitude of Bond, in order to gain credit with his chief in Washington. Bond hoped that at any rate he would bring the equipment he had asked for before he left London through Section A, who looked after the liaison with C.I.A. This was the latest transmitter and receiver for agents in the field, so that the two of them could be independent of cable offices and have instant communication with London and Washington, and the most modern portable Geiger counters for operating both on land and under water. One of the chief virtues of C.I.A., in Bond’s estimation, was the excellence of their equipment, and he had no false pride about borrowing from them.
New Providence, the island containing Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, is a drab sandy slab of land fringed with some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. But the interior is nothing but a waste of low-lying scrub, casuarinas, mastic, and poison-wood with a large brackish lake at the western end. There are birds and tropical flowers and palm trees, imported fully grown from Florida, in the beautiful gardens of the millionaires round the coast, but in the middle of the island there is nothing to attract the eye but the skeleton fingers of spidery windmill pumps sticking up above the pine barrens, and Bond spent the ride to the airport reviewing the morning.
He had arrived at seven a.m. to be met by the Governor’s A.D.C. – a mild error of security – and taken to the Royal Bahamian, a large old-fashioned hotel to which had recently been applied a thin veneer of American efficiency and tourist gimmicks – iced water in his room, a Cellophane-wrapped basket of dingy fruit ‘with the compliments of the Manager’, and a strip of ‘sanitized’ paper across the lavatory seat. After a shower and a tepid, touristy breakfast on his balcony overlooking the beautiful beach, he had gone up to Government House at nine o’clock for a meeting with the Commissioner of Police, the Chief of Immigration and Customs, and the Deputy Governor. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be. The MOST IMMEDIATES and the TOP SECRETS had made a superficial impact and he was promised full co-operation in every aspect of his assignment, but the whole business was clearly put down as a ridiculous flap and something that must not be allowed to interfere with the normal routine of running a small, sleepy colony, nor with the comfort and happiness of the tourists. Roddick, the Deputy Governor, a careful, middle-of-the-way man with a ginger moustache and gleaming pince-nez, had put the whole affair in a most sensible light. ‘You see, Commander Bond, in our opinion – and we have most carefully debated all the possibilities, all the, er, angles, as our American friends would say – it is inconceivable that a large four-engined plane could have been hidden anywhere within the confines of the Colony. The only airstrip capable of taking such a plane – am I right, Harling? – is here in Nassau. So far as a landing on the sea is concerned, a, er, ditching I think they call it, we have been in radio contact with the Administrators on all the larger outer islands and the replies are all negative. The radar people at the meteorological station …’
Bond had interrupted at this point. ‘Might I ask if the radar screen is manned round the clock? My impression is that the airport is very busy during the day, but that there is very little traffic at night. Would it be possible that the radar is not so closely watched at night?’
The Commissioner of Police, a pleasant, very military looking man in his forties, the silver buttons and insignia on whose dark blue uniform glittered as they only can when spit and polish is a main activity and there are plenty of batmen around, said judiciously, ‘I think the Commander has a point there, sir. The Airport commandant admits that things do slacken off a bit when there’s nothing scheduled. He hasn’t got all that amount of staff and of course most of them ar
e locals, sir. Good men, but hardly up to London Airport standards. And the radar at the met. station is only a G.C.A. set with a low horizon and range – mostly used for shipping.’
‘Quite, quite.’ The Deputy Governor didn’t want to be dragged into a discussion about radar sets or the merits of Nassavian labour. ‘There’s certainly a point there. No doubt Commander Bond will be making his own inquiries. Now there was a request from the Secretary of State,’ the title rolled sonorously forth, ‘for details and comments on recent arrivals in the island, suspicious characters, and so forth. Mr Pitman?’
The Chief of Immigration and Customs was a sleek Nassavian with quick brown eyes and an ingratiating manner. He smiled pleasantly. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The usual mixture of tourists and businessmen and local people coming home. We were asked to have details for the past two weeks, sir.’ He touched the briefcase on his lap. ‘I have all the immigration forms here, sir. Perhaps Commander Bond would care to go through them with me.’ The brown eyes flicked towards Bond and away. ‘All the big hotels have house detectives. I could probably get him further details on any particular name. All passports were checked in the normal manner. There were no irregularities and none of these people was on our Wanted List.’
Bond said, ‘Might I ask a question?’
The Deputy Governor nodded enthusiastically. ‘Of course. Of course. Anything you like. We’re all here to help.’
‘I’m looking for a group of men. Probably ten or more. They probably stick together a good deal. Might be as many as twenty or thirty. I guess they would be Europeans. They probably have a ship or a plane. They may have been here for months or only a few days. I gather you have plenty of conventions coming to Nassau – salesmen, tourist associations, religious groups, heaven knows what all. Apparently they take a block of rooms in some hotel and hold meetings and so forth for a week or so. Is there anything like that going on at the moment?’