Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill

by John Gardner

  ‘What’re we waiting for, then?’

  The Ocean Exotica Warehouse was sited within a small cove on the eastern side of the Key. Sharky said that his father, who had lived around the Florida Keys all his life, maintained the area had been a favourite beach party and swimming place until it was bought up by some firm in Miami in the early 1970s. Certainly whoever owned the company had a great strategic advantage, for the pier on which the large building stood could be approached only from one road. Anyone watching from the place would spot visitors a long way off.

  Using Sharky’s car they drove almost to the door. Bond got out and looked around. There was a light breeze but the afternoon had turned hot, the air clear and pleasant. The first thing that Bond took in was the camouflage.

  From a distance, the warehouse looked as though it was built in a clapboard style which had become decayed and even crumbling over the years. Close to, however, you could see it was a stout two-storey stone building with a rough clapboard overlay which seemed almost to have been antiqued by human hand.

  From the metalled roadway there was a walk of fifty yards or so to the gable end of the place which towered above, built on a very solid pier, the piles of which had no trace of decay about them. A metal catwalk, complete with guard-rails, ran around the outside, and the entire area must have taken up at least fifteen thousand cubic feet.

  There was one door in the gable end, and next to it a polished brass plaque which read ‘Ocean Exotica Inc’.

  Alone by the door, with Sharky in the car, Bond composed himself, allowing his face to take on the look of a man who was a little out of his depth. He reached for the little metal silver card case he usually carried and selected a business card with care. Only then did he press the bell-push set next to the plaque.

  It was several minutes before someone slid back bolts on the other side of the door, which opened to reveal a man in shirt and blue jeans, carrying a shotgun in the crook of his arm. ‘Yeah?’ he asked, as though he did not care a damn about what the caller wanted.

  ‘This is the Ocean Exotica Warehouse?’ Bond asked, pitching his voice high and using an exaggerated and affected English accent.

  ‘Yeah,’ the guard said. This time the word was an answer, last time it had been a question. Bond, with Felix Leiter very much to the forefront of his mind, recalled the early days of their friendship when Leiter had cautioned him about American language. You could get by with three words, Leiter said – ‘yeah’, ‘nope’ and ‘sure’. But that was long ago and very far away.

  Bond burst into rapid speech. ‘I’m from Universal Exports, Marine Branch, of course. You’ve corresponded with us and I’m here on behalf of the Regent’s Park Zoological Gardens – Aquarium Department. I have to arrange for the shipment of a Charcharadon carcharias.’

  ‘A what?’ the guard moved a little further towards him. Bond had already glimpsed the inside of the warehouse which was well lit, the walls filled with huge glass tanks – very much like the London Regent’s Park Zoo Aquarium but on a much larger scale. He also took in a humming noise, as though some electrical engine was at work.

  ‘Charcharadon carcharias,’ Bond repeated. ‘Great White Shark.’

  The man made as though to close the door, but Bond put his foot inside.

  ‘We’re closed,’ said the guard firmly, then a hand appeared on his shoulder quietly pushing him to one side and opening the door a little wider. The man who had appeared was dressed in smart leisure clothes. Apart from that he was distinctly unsavoury. He was short, running to fat and with the florid complexion of a heavy drinker. He stood, legs apart trying to stare Bond down. A bully if ever there was one.

  ‘I’ve come all the way from London,’ Bond pleaded, still using his English yuppy accent. ‘I understood . . .’

  ‘I heard you. The name’s Krest. Milton Krest.’ He still tried to stare Bond down and a small smile of superiority played around his lips.

  ‘Oh, how d’you do . . .’ Bond began, edging his way forward so that he was now just inside the door.

  ‘Our sharks were sold off years ago.’ The smile had gone from Krest’s lips, and his eyes glazed over as though made of ice. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. In the centre of this forward part of the building stood a strange machine which reminded Bond of some unpleasant piece of sci-fi equipment. It looked as thought it was made of grey plastic, cone-shaped with long tubes running from its main body, snaking everywhere, like giant tendrils, across the floor and into the tanks. There must have been sixty or seventy of these tubes, and the whole thing shook gently from side to side.

  ‘We only do research here now,’ Krest continued. ‘The company’s working on a project which will help to feed the Third World.’

  ‘Oh, how jolly interesting,’ Bond gushed, almost ashamed of himself. Then, any other thoughts were removed from his mind for behind the strange, pulsating piece of equipment he spotted a large undersea sledge with a smooth plexiglass dome. The sledge would probably take ten people, including its crew, and, while it would not be any use at great depths, it was certainly just the thing for inshore work – even for pulling people out of armoured security vans.

  Krest was still talking, ‘That’s a maggot incubator. Dispenses the right kind, and right number of maggots to the tanks. From that, we feed a special breed of genetically engineered fish.’

  ‘How very interesting.’

  ‘Yeah, ain’t it? We use hormones to make them all males. Sex changes’re our speciality here. Makes ’em grow.’ He had allowed Bond to come a few feet into the warehouse now. Red fish, some of them fat and up to five feet in length, were crowded into the tanks along the wall to the right. Other species swam in even larger tanks to the left. Behind both sets of tanks there were long walkways, and Bond could see other walkways higher, above the larger tanks.

  ‘Yes, very interesting indeed,’ Bond gestured towards the long underwater sledge. ‘That from your shark-hunting days?’

  The guard with the shotgun moved slightly, as though about to become threatening.

  Krest smiled thinly. ‘Why are you so interested in sharks?’

  ‘Because I was sent from London to . . .’

  ‘Nuts. Nobody here has been in touch with London. I bet you’re one of those busybody ecology people who don’t approve of our kind of fish farming.’

  ‘I do assure you, sir . . .’

  ‘Time you left, buddy.’ Krest motioned to the guard.

  ‘Well, if you really haven’t . . . I mean my instructions were quite explicit . . .’

  ‘I don’t care if the Queen Mother herself sent you. On your way, brother. Now. Okay?’

  As Bond turned in the doorway a flash of white caught his eye, low down among a pile of swept dirt near the tanks to his left. Even in that brief moment he had a chance to see the object clearly. It was a white rose, with silver paper around the stem. One of the white roses they had worn at the wedding. He had no doubt that it was Felix Leiter’s rose.

  ‘Well?’ Sharky asked when Bond was back in the car.

  ‘Sent packing with a flea in my ear,’ he paused. ‘Though I suppose I’m lucky it wasn’t a bullet. Felix was there, Sharky, and we’ve got to get in and find out what happened.’

  They had driven back on to the main road again. ‘Tonight?’ Sharky asked.

  ‘How?’

  ‘I got a dinghy. Quiet enough. Looks like the only way in is from the sea.’

  Bond thought for a full minute. ‘Let’s hit them at a good strategic time. About an hour before dawn. Now, I suppose I’d better go and re-register at the Pier House.’

  ‘Okay. Just before dawn.’ Sharky thought he had a great deal to do before then.

  4

  WHAT A TERRIBLE WASTE

  Once in the small bay where the Ocean Exotica Warehouse was situated they were guided by a single red warning light at the far end of the pier, and dim lights which burned within the warehouse itself.

  It had taken Sharky over an hour to row
, close in-shore, to the spot, and now he brought the dinghy silently in around the pier on which the warehouse stood. In the half-light of dawn they could see that it was a very solid structure indeed. Not only had the piles been sunk into great stone foundations, but also a whole solid concrete wall had been erected around, and between, the piles.

  They became aware of tunnel-like gaps within the walls, each one leading deep into the area directly below the warehouse. Slowly and silently they traversed the entire structure, in an attempt to find an acceptable entrance – one which would afford them access to the building above.

  Finally, they came to rest in an area which did not appear to have any direct entrance, but was one to which boats could be tied. The concrete came up to their shoulders if they stood in the dinghy which bumped against old tyres that hung down from this area and were obviously used as fenders for docking craft.

  Sharky motioned to Bond and they both took short wooden gaffs from the bottom of the boat, hauling the dinghy in close to the pier. Bond was just about to tell his friend that he would climb on to the wall and explore when they were both frozen into immobility by the whirr of running engines from some point near at hand.

  Without further warning, a section of the tyres to their left was thrust apart by the bows of the underwater sledge Bond had seen in the warehouse earlier in the day. Light streamed out for a moment from the area behind them. Three men crouched within the plexiglass dome, and Bond glimpsed the legend Wavekrest on the stern of the craft which slid under the water as soon as it had cleared the pier.

  Far away, from under the pier they could hear the mutter of voices, receding, and Bond nodded, gesturing towards the point where the tyres had parted. They waited a few more minutes, then, using the gaffe, pulled the dinghy through.

  They were in a lighted tunnel which ran, it appeared, to a larger docking bay and a high wall which could be climbed using a firm-looking metal ladder.

  Bond checked his automatic was in the holster he had attached to his belt so that it would lie snugly against the rear of his right hip. Using the gaff he pulled himself up on to the dock, then went down on one knee to speak low to Sharky. ‘Just stay and listen out. If there’s trouble I want you to get away as quickly as possible and warn someone like Felix’s partner.’

  ‘No way,’ the black man whispered back. ‘If you’ve got problems up there, I’m coming to give you a hand.’

  Bond did not argue. He turned away with a brisk nod, stuck the gaff in his belt and slowly climbed the steel ladder which took him to a bare concrete walkway. On the left was a strong wire-mesh cage, three or four layers deep, which protruded from water, going on above the ladder. To the right a plain wall rose to what seemed to be the wooden floor of the warehouse; while ahead another ladder rose to a closed trapdoor. Silently he prayed there were no bolts or locks on the upper side.

  Quietly, he began to move towards the ladder, and was nearly there when the gaff sticking from his belt hit the wire mesh with a rasping bump. The entire caged area seemed to rattle and thud, as though something enormous had hit the side, and the next moment he recoiled, almost in terror – he was looking at three sets of razor-sharp teeth, and the ugly snout of a huge shark.

  Flattening himself against the wall, Bond watched. The massive creature made another run at the side of the cage, its mouth once more coming from the water, biting the air as though frustrated that it could not attack. So, he thought, that beast was probably Felix Leiter’s last enemy. He drew the gaff from his belt, and, holding it in his left hand began to climb slowly up the final ladder until he was able to gently push at the trapdoor, which moved.

  He climbed the last few rungs, levering the trapdoor open quietly. A few moments later he was able to peer into the warehouse.

  The area in which Bond now found himself had been hidden from his view when he was visiting the place during the previous afternoon. As he eased himself through the trapdoor he could see there were a couple of large tanks on thick stands, in front and to the right. Directly to the left there was a large sunken area, around fifteen square feet. He crept towards the left and saw that the sunken section was protected by four very strong sheets of steel mesh, in the centre of which was a firm-looking large steel, hinged, trapdoor. About ten feet down the water glinted, motionless.

  Forward, to the left, were the huge tanks he had seen before – a walkway running directly behind them, and a steel ladder leading to a kind of viewing platform, which he had taken as another walkway, running the length of the building.

  In the centre of the main floor, the obscene-looking grey object, with its many tubes, hummed away, sending food into the main tanks. But from this angle, Bond could see a further piece of the machine: a long, high container from which lights blinked and glowed.

  There was no sign of any human being; no movement or the sound of conversation. The warehouse was pleasantly warm, and smelled slightly of sea-water and fish. Bond decided he would investigate the two big tanks to his right. The first one appeared to be empty. There was a sand bottom – which he presumed went below the bottom of the tank, and a cluster of rocks in the far left corner. From where he stood, he could reach in with the gaff to probe the sand. His hand brushed the surface of the water as he stirred. Nothing.

  He was about to withdraw the gaff when a shape moved, at speed from the rocks, lashing out, a yellow-brown patterned snake-like creature. Bond felt the strike on the gaff and had the impression of a mouth with sharp teeth. He whipped his hand back, to find the gaff neatly cut through as though a chain-saw had ripped it apart.

  The suddenness of the strike shook him, and he reflected that he had never seen a moray eel that close, or that big, before. He wondered what other hellish creatures were being bred, normally or genetically, in this place.

  There was still no sign of human life, so he now set off to examine the automatic feeding device, with its many tubes and pulsing throb. Climbing carefully over the tubes, Bond made his way behind the ugly machine, to the oblong box he had spotted. It was attached to the cone-like body of the machine and stood about six feet high, projecting around twelve feet. At the far end he could make out what seemed to be a sliding drawer, about four feet by four. Small red lights glowed next to it, and, beside the lights, a small on/off button. Through ventilation grilles, the interior of the box glowed with what looked like high-density light.

  As he searched, Bond noticed a logo and legend embossed into the top of the coffin-like structure. The legend read ‘Krestfeed Maggot Incubator. Patent Pending’. Feeling like a naughty child, Bond gently pressed the button near the drawer. There was a slight whirring noise and the drawer slid out towards him.

  At first he shrank back at the unpleasant sight of thousands of white maggots, a seething, squirming mess which filled the entire box. Well, you eventually got to know maggots pretty well, he thought. In a way they were a symbol of death, for it was the squirming maggot that fed on your putrefying flesh. It was still a revolting sight, and Bond, not usually so squeamish, had to screw his face into an idiot grimace before plunging his hand into this moving mass of tiny living predators. He scooped around, searching with his hand for anything that might have been hidden. Within a minute his fingers struck paydirt and he pulled out a clear heavy plastic bag. It was obviously waterproof, and he did not think the white powder which weighed heavy in his hand was a detergent. Most likely what had been hidden here was cocaine.

  He was about to lift the bag out of the live coffin of maggots when instinct suddenly signalled to his brain that he was not alone. He dropped the bag back amongst the maggots, where it had been hidden, but too late. The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck and a voice – he thought it was the guard who had greeted him on his previous visit – whispered, ‘Just hold it right there, friend.’ At the same time Bond felt his automatic being removed from its holster.

  An entire scenario of thoughts cracked through Bond’s mind in the fraction of a second. Like all trai
ned men in his profession, tactical movements in this kind of situation assembled themselves almost instinctively, and were acted upon with the same precise speed. He lowered his hands into the boiling sea of maggots.

  ‘Can I take my hands out?’ he asked, his voice cool, but heart and brain racing.

  ‘As long as you do it real slow, friend.’

  Bond cupped his hands and began to withdraw them, just like the man said, real slow. Then, at the last minute, he quickened the upward movement, and fast as the moray eel, swung the handfuls of maggots over his left shoulder, whirling upright, his body turning away from the pistol at his neck.

  The guard – it was the one he had seen earlier – gave a cry of disgust, both hands moving towards his face, which had taken the pile of wet maggots smack in the eyes. Bond closed in with a series of blurred moves. The hard edge of his right hand, outstretched with the thumb pulled back, chopped at the guard’s right wrist, sending the pistol clattering to the wooden floor. But before the gun hit the ground, Bond had both hands around the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling down hard so that, for a moment, the subclavian artery was pinched between muscle, cutting the flow to the jugular. The result, as always, was a fractional blackout, and in this eye-blink, Bond whipped the arm behind the guard’s back, moving behind him and pushing upwards. The movement was enough to flip the man’s body off-balance and upwards. With one last jerk he toppled his attacker into the long drawer of seething maggots.

  The man must have regained control of his brain as he hit the undulating live brew, for he screamed with terror. The scream came to abrupt end as Bond threw himself forward and banged at the on/off button in the main framework of the incubator. Silently the drawer, with its struggling occupant, slid into the closed position.