High Time To Kill

by Raymond Benson

  “Just you and M. Moneypenny and Helena, of course. Major Boothroyd, Head of S., Records … well, I suppose there could be quite a few people, Bill.”

  “No one outside the firm?”

  “No, not even my housekeeper. She never knows where I am.”

  “Right,” Tanner said. “Look, don’t worry, we’ll see if we can find the hole and plug it. In the meantime, M has new orders for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Since Agent Hollander has tracked down Harding, you are to observe him. Repeat, observe him. We want to find out who he’s working for or dealing with. He must have Skin 17 or he wouldn’t have fled the UK.”

  “Understood. You do realize that there is the possibility that he doesn’t have it anymore.… What would you like me to do when he makes a move?”

  “Use your judgment. We’d like him brought back to the UK, certainly. We’re already making arrangements for extradition. If it looks like we might lose Skin 17, do whatever it takes to retrieve it.”

  Bond signed off and stretched back in the large reclining leather armchair behind the desk. Right on cue, Gina brought Bond’s vodka and a bottle of Orval beer for herself. She sat on the sofa bed and put her feet up.

  He held up his glass and said, “Cheers.” He took a sip of the ice cold vodka and was pleasantly surprised. “Wolfschmidt from Riga. Well done. I think you and I will get along splendidly.”

  “Thanks. I save it for special occasions,” she said. “I heard that Brits are hard to impress.” She laughed.

  “Quite the opposite. England is such a bore most of the time, so we’re really quite easy. Anyway, you impressed this one. Is that the stuff made by Trappist monks?” he asked, indicating her beer.

  She nodded, taking a long drink from the bottle. She managed to keep the toothpick sticking out of her mouth as she swallowed. For the first time, Bond noticed how fit she really was. Her shapely, strong leg muscles could be traced through her clothing. Her arms were also well toned. Although she was dressed as if she might be the manager of an upmarket women’s department store, the toothpick in her mouth gave her an impish, mischievous quality. There was no mistaking that this woman was streetwise. She was a mature little Peter Pan with breasts, which also happened to be quite shapely.

  “So, tell me about Dr. Harding,” Bond said.

  “When I got the alert on him from London, I ran a routine check with immigration at the Midi terminal. They caught him on camera, coming through as Donald Peters. Once I knew that, it was a matter of finding the right hotel with a Donald Peters registered there. He was at the Métropole. I waited at the café just outside. I drank a hell of a lot of coffee! He finally came out last night after dinner.” She giggled slightly and said, “He went to the street where women … where women sell sexual favors.”

  Bond smiled with her. “Did he have a good time?”

  She blushed. “Don’t ask me,” she said. “Afterward he went back to the hotel. I tipped a bellhop to phone my pager if he left. He was there all night. This morning he took a taxi somewhere … and I lost him. He hasn’t checked out of the hotel, though.”

  “So there was nearly a complete period of twenty-four hours when he could have done anything.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And he could be making a deal right now.”

  “It’s possible.”

  “We had better go,” he said, sitting up. “I want to get into his room.”

  SEVEN

  BITTER SUITE

  BOND LEFT GINA, DROVE THE JAGUAR TO THE HOTEL, AND LEFT IT WITH THE valet. She followed him and sat in her usual seat in the sidewalk café outside the building. The plan was that she would watch the front while Bond was inside.

  As he checked in, he was reminded of the time he had stayed at the Métropole when he was a young man. He had become involved with a French film star who had a husband in Paris and a career in London. They would meet in Brussels to escape the press. It was a stormy, passionate affair that went on for several months before she landed a role in a picture being shot in the Far East. He never saw her again.

  As a hotel catering to the rich and famous, the Métropole’s staff respected the guests’ privacy. It was everything Bond expected from a good hotel with tasteful luxury and unique personal character. Full of gilded coffers, Italian stucco, modern wrought iron, Renaissancestyle blue stained-glass windows, and glittering chandeliers, it was a true palace. Bond was given a room on the fifth floor that he thought would do nicely. He unpacked his bag and removed an electric toothbrush. He snapped off the brush and unscrewed the bottom of the device. Next to the three C-cell batteries was a set of thin, stiff wires. Old-fashioned skeleton keys were still being used at the hotel, so Q Branch’s electric pick gun would be the best tool for the job. Made of aluminum, it could pick pin tumbler locks much faster and easier than hand picks and could even open some of the pick-resistant locks that other tools wouldn’t.

  Bond slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, then reached for the phone. He called the front desk and asked to be connected to Donald Peters’s room. There was no answer. Good. That was what Bond wanted.

  He checked the magazine in his Walther PPK and slipped the gun in the custom-made Berns chamois shoulder holster, then left the room. He descended the grand staircase two floors and peered down the corridor. There was no one around. He moved quickly to Room 1919 and knocked. When there was no answer, he took out the pick gun, selected an attachment, and had the door unlocked in three seconds.

  Closing the door behind him, he moved from the entry hall to the sitting room, where Harding had deposited his attaché case and other personal items. Harding had written “Hospital Erasme” on a notepad next to the phone. Bond tried the briefcase, but it was locked. He selected another attachment for the pick gun and inserted the wires into the keyholes. The snaps flipped open.

  There wasn’t much there. A map of Brussels, rail timetables, calculator, paper, pens … and a strange sketch on a piece of physician’s stationery.

  It was the torso of a man with a small rectangle drawn over his left breast. Bond noted the name and address on the stationery and replaced everything.

  He quickly went through the cupboard and found nothing of interest, then went into the bedroom. Harding’s suitcase was in the wardrobe, along with a few items of clothing he had hung up. Bond reached for the suitcase but stopped cold when he heard a rattling of keys outside the door.

  He bolted forward and slipped into the small bathroom. He quickly closed the door, leaving it slightly ajar, then stepped behind the frosted glass panel over the bathtub. Bond heard the suite door open, and the approaching voices of three men.

  “You have to take it easy, Mr. Lee,” one of them said. Bond recognized Harding’s voice. “Basil here will make sure you get on the flight. How do you feel now?”

  The door closed and the men went into the sitting room.

  “It’s not too sore,” another man said with an Asian accent. “Except when I laugh.” Mr. Lee … Chinese, perhaps?

  “Basil,” Harding said, “I’m leaving Brussels now. My job is done. You follow Mr. Lee and make damn sure he gets on that flight without any problems. Understand?”

  “Yeah,” came a deep voice.

  “Sit down, Mr. Lee, while I pack,” Harding said. “You want something out of the minibar?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll just watch TV.” Bond heard the television in the sitting room switch on. A newscaster spoke in French.

  “I want a beer after I go piss,” Basil said. He had a pronounced French accent, but Bond thought he might be Senegalese.

  “Go ahead, it’s right in there,” Harding said.

  Christ! Therewas nowhere to hide. Bond’s shape could easily be seen through the frosted glass. He squatted in the tub and drew the gun.

  The door swung open. Through the foggy glass Bond could see a huge bulk of a man. He was black, and was dressed in a dark T-shirt and trousers. Although the image was distorted through
the glass, his shoulders looked as wide as a dam’s.

  Basil stood in front of the toilet and started to urinate. Bond couldn’t help but think that he was looking at the evil counterpart to Manneken-Pis.

  “Basil?” Harding called from the other room.

  “One minute, monsieur!” he yelled.

  Bond didn’t wait for him to finish. He stood up slowly and stepped out from behind the glass. Basil was so busy watching his stream that he didn’t notice. When he felt the nuzzle of the gun in his back, he didn’t stop urinating.

  “Don’t say a word,” said Bond. “Just finish up.”

  The man nodded. After a few seconds, his bladder was empty.

  “Go on, give it a good shake and zip up.”

  The man did as he was told.

  “Better flush. Someone else may want to use it.”

  Basil reached out and pulled the steel bulb on top of the commode. The toilet flush was loud. Bond took the opportunity to cold-cock the man on the back of the head.

  Unfortunately it was like hitting an anvil. This took Bond by surprise, and Basil took advantage of the hesitation. He swung around, using his huge girth to slam Bond against the frosted glass panel, shattering it. The Walther PPK fell to the floor of the bathroom, discharging a round.

  Basil grabbed Bond by his jacket collar and lifted him as if he were paper. Now that he was face-to-face with the thug, Bond could see that he was well over six feet tall and probably weighed in the neighborhood of three hundred pounds. His upper arms had a circumference of at least twenty inches.

  Like a cat with a mouse, the big man slammed Bond back and forth against the walls around the bathtub. The tiles broke off in chunks.

  “What the hell?” Harding looked in the bathroom. He stood in horror for a second, then turned to Lee, who was behind him. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

  Bond caught a glimpse of Harding and the Chinese man before Basil grabbed hold of his hair with one hand, then punched him in the face with the other. It might as well have been a wrecking ball. Once again Bond crashed back into the tub on top of shards of broken glass. Basil then raised his left leg and stomped on Bond’s chest with his heavy boot, over and over.

  Harding ran into the sitting room, gathered his attaché case and a couple of items from the bedroom, and pulled Lee out of the room. “Leave them, come on!” he shouted.

  Bond was stunned, nearly unconscious. He could feel the boot slamming down on his rib cage and felt a terrible sharp pain. If he didn’t get out of that tub fast, the man would kick him so hard that his chest cavity would collapse.

  Blinded and in agony, Bond groped beside him and felt pieces of broken glass. His fingers wrapped around a long one with a sharp point. When the boot came down again, Bond thrust the weapon as hard as he could into Basil’s calf.

  The thug yelled so loudly that it snapped Bond out of the fog. He clutched the boot with both hands and shoved upward, throwing the big man off balance so that he toppled to the bathroom floor.

  Bond jackknifed to his feet and leaped over the edge of the tub. He saw the Walther lying in the opposite corner, near the door. He tried to jump over Basil’s body, but the brute managed to trip him and shove him against the toilet. Bond landed hard against the porcelain, striking his lower back. He felt the edge of the toilet dig into his kidneys, sending jolts of anguish up his spine.

  Basil rose and put his hands around Bond’s throat. He began to tighten his viselike grip. The man was so strong that he wouldn’t merely choke Bond to death. The man was about to crush his windpipe, and possibly his neck.

  Bond’s eyes rolled into the back of head as the pressure on his neck increased. Instinctively, he reached up to the counter by the sink to his left to feel for a weapon—anything that might give him an advantage. He found it in a can of spray deodorant. With the thumb and fingers of one hand, Bond flicked the top off and positioned his index finger on the button. He aimed it in front of him and sprayed.

  Basil screamed again and let go of Bond’s neck.

  Bond immediately brought his legs up to his chest and kicked forward, knocking Basil off him and back against the bathroom wall.

  There was barely enough room for one person in the bathroom, let alone two grown men, one of whom was a giant. Bond struggled to get to his feet, gasping for air as the black man bounced off the wall. The glass shard was still in his leg. Bond scooped the rest of Harding’s toiletries off the counter into Basil’s face. It gave Bond just enough time to get up and leap for the gun. The black man was just as fast, though. He tackled Bond and the two of them burst out of the bathroom into the entry hall. The gun was still in the bathroom.

  They had a little more room here. Bond rolled backward so that he could get to his feet in the bedroom. Basil thundered after him. Bond picked up one of the chairs and threw it at the black man, who brushed it away as if he were swatting a mosquito. The chair smashed against the full-length mirror, breaking it into a hundred pieces.

  “Now look what you went and did,” Bond said, completely out of breath. “Your seven years of bad luck is just beginning.”

  Basil made a grotesque sound that resembled the roar of a lion, then charged Bond. They both fell back onto the king-sized bed, then rolled off the other side onto the floor. Bond got in two good punches, but the man was so strong, they didn’t seem to bother him at all. Bond twisted out from under him and got to his feet. He performed a neat back kick and struck Basil in the face. Basil, in retaliation, simply lifted the huge mattress off the bed as if it were a pillow. He threw it at Bond with the strength of a rhinoceros. The mattress knocked Bond into the dresser. Bond grabbed a lamp and clubbed the black man with it, smashing the lamp shade and bulb.

  The fight moved into the sitting room, where they had even more space in which to move. There was an open bottle of wine on top of the wet bar. Bond took it by the neck and broke it against the wall, splashing bloodred liquid all over the place. Now he had a jagged weapon. The two men faced and circled each other slowly. Bond kept Basil at a distance with the sharp edge of the bottle.

  Basil smiled, then lunged at Bond. Bond swung. The razor-edged broken bottle scraped across the black man’s face, creating five even tracks of blood on his skin. Whereas any other man would have been blinded by the attack, Basil merely seemed annoyed.

  Bond swiped the bottle at him again, but this time Basil caught Bond’s arm and squeezed it. In pain, Bond dropped his weapon. Basil flung Bond over the writing desk and into the window. Like everything else in the beautiful hotel suite, it shattered on impact.

  The desk was between him and the black man. Bond kicked and toppled it over, but Basil easily brushed it aside. Before the man could catch him, Bond spun around and dived between Basil’s legs for a space on the floor behind him. This maneuver gave Bond the two seconds he needed to get back on his feet.

  Just as his sense of balance returned, his opponent got up and lunged. With split-second timing, Bond grabbed the man’s head and used the momentum to pull him hard and fast to his side.

  Basil’s head crashed into the television set that Lee had left on. It exploded with great force. There was a cloud of sparks and gray smoke as the black man suddenly tensed, then started shaking violently. After a few seconds he went limp. With the television still fitted around his head, he slumped to the carpet. It was over.

  Bond took stock of the damage to his body. His lower back was screaming in pain, and his ribs hurt like hell. One or two might be broken. His kidneys might be damaged. He was bleeding from several contusions on his face and hands.

  But he was alive.

  He found the phone on the floor and called Gina’s mobile.

  When she answered, he said, “Harding and a Chinese man just left the hotel. Did you see them?”

  “No. When did they leave?”

  “Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Damn. They must have gone out the back.”

  “Try to find them. Call me in my room in ten minut
es.”

  “Are you coming down?” she asked.

  The pain in Bond’s back was making him dizzy. “In a while” was all he could manage to say. He hung up, then opened the minibar and removed a bottle of bourbon. He unscrewed the top and took a long swig. The liquor made him cough once, but the warmth felt great.

  He limped to the bathroom and picked up his gun, then left the suite. Surprisingly, no one had heard the commotion. The corridor was empty.

  Bond climbed the stairs to his own floor and the sanctity of his room. He went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. There was a nasty gash above his right eyebrow, and there was a darkening bruise on his left cheekbone. He washed his hands and saw that the cuts on his knuckles were superficial. His lower back and ribs were the main problems.

  He plugged the drain in his own bathtub and ran the hot water until it was steaming. He undressed, gingerly pulling off his shirt and trousers. By the time he was naked, the tub was full.

  Wincing, Bond lowered his bruised and battered body into the near-scalding water and fell asleep within two minutes.

  EIGHT

  A TASTE OF BELGUIM

  THE NEXT MORNING, BOND ALLOWED GINA TO TAKE HIM TO A PRIVATE infirmary, where he submitted to an examination. Sore and stiff from the ordeal in the hotel suite, he felt particularly irritable. His conversation with M on the phone the night before hadn’t helped.

  “So you let Dr. Harding get away?” she had asked.

  “Ma’am, I didn’t let him do anything,” Bond had replied. “He escaped while I was fighting for my life.”

  “Hmpfh.” She was beginning to sound more and more like her predecessor.

  “And where was Ms. Hollander at the time?” she asked.

  “Doing her job. Harding and the Chinese man slipped out by a back exit. We know they haven’t left Brussels.”

  “How can you be sure? You seem to have butterfingers lately, Double-O Seven.”