High Time To Kill

by Raymond Benson

“We have plenty to do,” Bond said with little humor. “Mostly cleaning up messes left by others. How about you? The RAF still treating you better than you deserve?”

  Marquis laughed. “The RAF treats me like a bloody king.”

  The other man stepped up to the table. A man in his late thirties, he was smaller in stature, thin, and had glasses, a long nose, and bushy eyebrows, all of which gave him a birdlike appearance.

  “This is my partner, Dr. Steven Harding,” Marquis said. “He’s with the Defence Evaluation and Research Agency. Dr. Harding, I present you James Bond and Bill Tanner. They work for the Ministry of Defence, in that gaudy building next to the Thames.”

  “SIS? Really? How do you do!” Harding held out his hand. Both men shook hands with him.

  “Join us for a drink?” Tanner asked. “We’re just waiting for our friends to make up the fourball.”

  Marquis and Harding pulled up chairs. “Bill, I haven’t met your new chief,” Marquis said. “What’s she like?”

  “She runs a very tight ship,” Tanner replied. “Things are not that different since Sir Miles retired. What about you? I think the last time we spoke you were working at Oakhanger?”

  “I’ve moved,” Marquis said. “They’ve got me liaising with the DERA now. Dr. Harding here is one of their top engineers in the aeronautics division. Almost everything he does is classified.”

  “Well, you can tell us. We won’t say a word,” Bond said.

  “You’ll hear about it soon enough, I should think. Won’t they, doctor?”

  Harding was in the middle of taking a sip from a gin and tonic. “Hmmm? Oh, quite right. I must be sure to phone Tom after we play the front nine. We’re almost there.”

  “Almost where? Marquis, what are you up to that you haven’t told us?” Tanner asked.

  “Actually we have told you,” Marquis said with a broad grin. “Your chief knows all about it. Ever heard of Thomas Wood?”

  “Sure,” Bond said. “He’s Britain’s top aeronautics physicist.”

  At the mention of Wood’s name, Tanner nodded his head. “You’re right, I do know all about it, Marquis. I just didn’t know that you were involved.”

  “It’s my pet project, Tanner,” he said smugly.

  “Dr. Wood is my boss,” Harding said.

  Bond was impressed. To be working with a man of Wood’s stature would require a considerable amount of gray matter. Harding must be smarter than he looked. In contrast, Bond had never thought much of Roland Marquis’s brain or any other part of him. His greatgrandfather, a Frenchman, had married into a wealthy English military family. The Marquis name was passed down from son to son, every one of them becoming a distinguished and decorated officer. Roland Marquis inherited his family’s snobbishness and was, in Bond’s estimation, an egotistical overachiever.

  Ralph Pickering, the club’s general manager, looked in the bar and spotted Bond. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Bond,” he said. He stepped over to them and gave Bond and Tanner a message that their other two partners would not be joining them. “They said they had to go away on business unexpectedly and that you would understand. They send their apologies,” he said.

  “Thank you, Ralph,” Bond said. He wasn’t as annoyed with them for not showing up as he was with the fact that they had received orders and had probably left the country. Even after two weeks Bond was restless. He was ready to do anything to get out of London and away from Helena for awhile.

  After Pickering left the room, Bond looked at Tanner and asked, “What do you want to do now? Play by ourselves?”

  “Why not play with us?” Marquis asked. “I’m sure we could make it interesting. Dr. Harding and I against the two of you? Straight Stableford-level handicaps?”

  Bond looked at Tanner. Tanner nodded in approval.

  “I assume you’re talking money?” Bond asked.

  “You’d better believe it. How about two hundred and fifty pounds per man for every point by which the winners beat the losers?” Marquis suggested with a sly grin.

  Tanner’s eyes widened. That could be a lot of money. He didn’t like gambling.

  Nevertheless, the glove had been thrown. Bond took challenges very seriously and couldn’t resist accepting it.

  “All right, Roland,” Bond said. “Let’s meet at the starter’s shed in, say, half an hour?”

  “Splendid!” Marquis said, grinning widely. His straight white teeth sparkled. “We’ll see you on the course, then! Come along, Dr. Harding.” Harding smiled sheepishly, downed the rest of his drink, and got up with Marquis.

  After they had left the bar, Tanner said, “My God, James, are you mad? Two hundred and fifty pounds a point?”

  “I had to accept, Bill,” Bond said. “Roland and I go way back.”

  “I knew that. You were at Eton together, right?”

  “Yes, for the two years I was there we were bitter rivals. We often competed in the same athletic arenas. Whereas I left Eton and went to Fettes, Marquis went through Eton and Cranwell. As you know, he distinguished himself in the RAF and was rapidly promoted to his present rank.”

  “Didn’t I read somewhere that he’s a mountaineer?”

  “That’s right,” Bond said. “He’s actually quite famous in the world of mountain climbing. He made international headlines a few years ago after climbing the ‘Seven Summits’ in record time.”

  “ ‘Seven Summits’?”

  “The highest peaks on each of the seven continents.”

  “Ah, right. So he’s been up Everest, then?”

  “More than once, I believe,” Bond said. “I’ve run into him from time to time over the years. We still regard each other as rivals. I don’t know why. It’s extraordinary, really.”

  Tanner frowned and shook his head. “We’re not going to have a boxing match out on the course, are we?”

  “I’m afraid that whenever I’m thrust into a situation with Roland Marquis, it ends up that way. Cheers.” Bond finished his bourbon and asked the bartender to put the drinks on his tab.

  They went downstairs to the changing room. Bond put on a Mulberry golf shirt, gray sweater, and pleated navy slacks—his preferred attire for the golf course. He hung his Sea Island short-sleeve cotton shirt and khaki trousers inside a polished wooden locker and shut the door. Even the changing room was opulent, with paintings of Sir Edward Coke and Elizabeth I on the walls. Coke, one of the estate’s more famous tenants, was theman who sentenced Guy Fawkes to death and often entertained the queen when she stayed at the manor house in 1601. Bond never took the splendor of Stoke Poges for granted.

  “Do we want caddies?” Tanner asked.

  Bond shook his head. “I don’t. Do you?”

  “I can use the exercise.”

  They walked through the corridors and an outdoor tunnel that smelled faintly of fertilizer. This led to the Pro Shop. Bond paused there long enough to purchase another set of Titleist balls with the number 3 imprinted on them, then followed Tanner outside to the beautiful course. Large, gnarled cedar redwood trees adorned the edges of the fairways. The freshly cut green grass was once prime grazing for deer, so the turf was very fine. It could hardly have been better for golf.

  “They’ve really changed things in the past year,” Tanner observed. “The fifteenth hole used to cross the main road here, didn’t it?”

  Nolan Edwards, who was standing nearby, answered, “That’s right, sir. We actually had a couple of broken windscreens in the parking lot. We redesigned a few holes. It keeps the players on their toes.”

  Roland Marquis and Steven Harding were on the putting green. Bond and Tanner retrieved their clubs and put them on trolleys. Bond had recently purchased the Callaways, which he felt were the most advanced golf clubs on the market. The set included BBX-12 regular flex graphite irons, which he had chosen because he could swing through the shot more easily with the regular flex than with the stiffshafted clubs.

  They all met at the first tee, and the game began at precisely 10:45 A.M. The
sun was shining brightly behind them, although several dark clouds were moving around the sky. It was breezy and cool, which invigorated Bond. He took a moment to take in his surroundings, for he believed that in golf his human opponents were not his only adversaries. The course itself was the real enemy, and the only way to conquer it was to treat it with respect.

  “Bond, I hope you brought your checkbook,” Marquis said, sauntering up to the tee. Harding trailed behind him, struggling with his own trolley.

  “I’m ready if you are, Roland,” Bond said. He looked over at Tanner, who held two golf balls in his hand. Bond picked his Titleist 3, leaving Tanner with a Slazenger. Marquis and Harding were also using Titleist balls, with the numbers 5 and 1, respectively, marked on them.

  After winning the toss, Bond was the first to tee off. He was currently delighted with the results he was getting off the tee with the Callaway firm-shafted War Bird driver. He found that a firm-shafted driver allowed him the maximum distance and, unlike many good players using firm-shafted equipment, Bond avoided hooking his drives with it.

  The first hole was a gentle opening to a test of skill laid out by an acknowledged master of golf course design. It was a par 5 with a long fairway of 502 yards. Tricky cross bunkers lay 100 yards short of the green. Bond placed his ball on the tee, took his stance, concentrated, swung, and achieved an even follow-through. The ball sailed a good 225 yards to an impressive position just past the first tree on the right side of the fairway.

  “Nice one, James,” Tanner said.

  Marquis was next. His drive didn’t send the ball as far as Bond’s, but it landed square in the center of the fairway. It gave him a slight advantage in that all he had to do from then on was hit the next shot to an easy lie around 100 yards out.

  Tanner’s drive was terrible. The ball overshot the fairway and flew into the trees on the right.

  “Oh, damn,” he muttered.

  “Bad luck, Bill,” Marquis said, obviously enjoying himself.

  Harding was not much better. At least he hit the ball on the fairway, not much farther than 150 yards from the tee.

  As Bond and Tanner walked together toward their balls, Tanner said, “I think the prospect of losing hundreds of pounds has got me a little edgy, James.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Bill,” Bond said. “The man’s an insufferable boor. I shouldn’t have accepted his wager, but it’s done. If we lose, I’ll take care of it.”

  “I can’t let you do that.”

  “Just play your best, and we’ll see what happens.”

  The par for the course was 72. Using the Stableford system, players received one point for a bogey, or one over par; two points for par; three points for a birdie, or one under par; four points for an eagle, or two under par; and five points for the rare albatross, which was three under par.

  Bond put the ball on the green on his third stroke. If he could sink the putt in one more, then he’d have a birdie. Unfortunately, Marquis did the same and managed to put his ball three yards from the flag. Tanner’s bad luck continued: On his third stroke he landed in one of the bunkers. Harding made it on to the green in four.

  Marquis sunk his putt to get it out of Bond’s way. Bond took the Odyssey putter from the bag and stood over his ball. It was 25 feet to the pin, so he had to give the ball a good, firm tap. His stroke sent the ball across the green, where it spun around the lip of the cup and stopped a foot away from the hole.

  “Oh, bad luck, Bond,” Marquis said.

  At the end of the first hole Marquis had three points, Bond two, Harding two and Tanner one. At the end of the game Bond and Tanner would combine their scores, as would Marquis and Harding. The team with the most points would, of course, win.

  After the disastrous first hole, Tanner calmed down and began to play evenly. He made par on the next hole, as did the other three.

  The third hole was a par 3 that Bond made in two. The other players all made par. As the four men walked over to the fourth tee, Marquis said, “Bond, do you remember the fight we had?”

  Bond had never forgotten it. It had been at Eton after a grueling wrestling match in the gymnasium. The instructor, a friend of Marquis’s parents, had pitted Bond against Marquis because it was well known that the two boys couldn’t stand each other. Bond was obviously the better wrestler, but Marquis had surprised Bond with an illegal blow to the jaw. The instructor turned a blind eye, ultimately declaring Marquis the winner. After that a fistfight broke out.

  “That was a long time ago,” Bond said.

  “Still smarting from that, eh?” Marquis taunted. “Just be thankful the headmaster came in to save your arse.”

  “I seem to remember that it was you he rescued,” Bond replied.

  “Isn’t it funny how two grown men remember the same event differently?” Marquis slapped Bond on the back and gave a hearty laugh.

  By the time they had played through five holes, the score was twenty-one to nineteen in favor of Marquis and Harding.

  The sixth hole was a straight 412-yard par 4 with bunkers right and left at 195 and 225 yards from the tee. The green was uphill, small, and difficult to putt on because of its varied slopes.

  Bond drove the ball 200 yards off the tee. Tanner followed suit, putting both balls in position for a straight shot over the bunkers and onto the green. When Bond made his second shot, he put the ball just in front of a center bunker about 100 yards from the green. It would be a perfect opportunity to try to back up the ball. He could hit it over the bunker, onto the green behind the pin, and hopefully put enough of a backspin on the ball to make it roll near the hole. He had to try it; otherwise making par would be extremely difficult.

  When Bond’s turn came, he removed the Lyconite 56-degree wedge from the bag and took a couple of practice swings.

  “Come on, Bond,” Marquis said patronizingly. “All you have to do is hit it over the bunker.”

  “Shhh, Roland,” said Tanner. Marquis just grinned. He was getting cocky. Even Harding grimaced.

  Bond swung and chopped the ball up and over the bunker. It fell just behind the pin but failed to roll toward the hole. Instead, it bounced forward off the green and into the rough.

  “Oh, bad luck!” Marquis said with glee. Bond eventually took a bogey on the hole, while the others made par. Marquis and Harding maintained their lead.

  While walking up the seventh fairway together, Tanner said to Bond, “Nice try.”

  “Bollocks,” Bond said. “You know, I think it’s taken me all these years to realize how intensely I dislike that man.”

  “Try not to let it affect your game, James,” Tanner advised. “I agree with you, he’s as obnoxious as hell.”

  “I can’t hate him too much, though.”

  “Why not?”

  Bond thought a moment before answering. “He’s made of the same stuff as me,” he said. “Roland Marquis, his personality faults notwithstanding, is good at what he does. You have to admit that he’s a bloody fine player, and he’s one hell of an athlete. His accomplishments in the RAF and in the mountains are impressive. He could just use some lessons in humility.”

  “I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man as well,” Tanner mused.

  “That’s right. England’s most eligible bachelor.”

  “Besides you.”

  Bond disregarded the quip. “He flaunts his dates with supermodels, actresses, very wealthy widows, and divorcees. He’s the sort of celebrity that bores me to tears.”

  “I’ll bet you were rivals over a girl when you were younger,” Tanner said perceptively.

  “As a matter of fact, we were,” Bond admitted. “He stole her right from under my nose. He engineered the entire seduction to get the better of me.”

  “What was her name?” Tanner said, smiling.

  Bond looked at him and said with a straight face, “Felicity Mountjoy.” The chief of staff pursed his lips and nodded, as if that explained everything.

  Bond got lucky on the ninth hole and made
a birdie, while the other three all made par. Bond was one under par on the front nine and Tanner was two over. Marquis, however, was two under par and his partner was two over. The Stableford score was Marquis and Harding thirty-six, Bond and Tanner thirty-five.

  They sat outside in back of the clubhouse to have a drink before playing the back nine. Bond ordered vodka, on the rocks, and set his gun-metal cigarette case on the table beside the glass. Tanner had a Guinness. The sound of bagpipes and drums was coming faintly over the trees from outside the chapel on the estate grounds.

  “The Gurkhas are here,” Tanner observed.

  The Pipes and Drums marching band of the Royal Gurkha Rifles often played at Stoke Poges, for the Gurkha Memorial Garden was located near the course. Elite fighting men recruited from Nepal to serve with the British army since 1815, Gurkhas are considered to be among the fiercest and bravest soldiers on the planet.

  “We’re not far from Church Crookham.” Bond said, referring to the regiment’s home base.

  Marquis and Harding joined them, each earning a pint.

  “Vodka, Bond?” Marquis pointed. “That’s right, I remember now. You’re a vodka man. You like martinis.” He pronounced the word with exaggerated erudition. “Vodka will dull your sense’s, my boy.”

  “Not at all,” Bond said. “I find it sharpens them.” He opened the gunmetal case and removed one of the specially made cigarettes with the three distinctive gold bands.

  “What kind of cigarettes are those?” Marquis asked.

  “I have them custommade,” Bond explained. Morland’s and H. Simmons had gone out of business, so he now ordered his cigarettes directly from a company called Tor Importers, which specialized in Turkish and Balkan tobacco. His was a blend with low tar that he liked.

  Marquis chuckled, “Well, let’s try one then!”

  Bond offered the case to him, and then the other men. Harding took one, but Tanner refused.

  Marquis lit the cigarette and inhaled. He rolled the smoke around inside his mouth as if he were tasting wine. He exhaled and said, “Can’t say I care for it much, Bond.”

  “It’s probably too strong for your taste,” Bond replied.