“Hats off, strangers,” he called, and walked slowly towards the Speaker’s chair, holding the heavy mace before him. The clock on the gallery above, still set on London time, read 11:50. Alligator was holding an animated finger conversation with his two bodyguards and did not even look at him.
B*nd walked slowly, every muscle tensed, measuring distances, timing his movements. Seven feet. Four. He held the mace out as if to place it on the table before the Chair. Two more steps.
Kynstondi glanced up. He gave a startled grunt, and pointed at B*nd. Now! Already Pazardzhik’s right arm was in the air, ready to begin its deadly, downward arc. The mace smashed into it, and the artificial limb ripped from the Bulgarian’s shoulder. B*nd swung savagely down and felt the sickening crunch as Kynstondi’s head split open. Behind him feet thudded, and B*nd turned to see Alligator’s small, powerful frame half way to the door.
The Luger barked once. Alligator did a half turn and stumbled, but did not fall. B*nd pulled the trigger again, cursing the inferior weapon. Jammed. He cursed again and ran out of the room after Alligator. The M.P.’s made way for him to cries of “Hear, hear,” and scattered applause.
Alligator’s trail, plainly marked by droplets of blood, was easy to follow. The man obviously had no idea where to go. There were larger pools of blood where he had hesitated at doors and then hurried on. The trail finally ended at one which was locked. B*nd threw his shoulder against it. Pain wracked his body, but the old hinges gave. Steps led up, Alligator’s blood dark on their surfaces.
B*nd climbed for what seemed hours. The higher he went, the louder grew a strange grinding and whirring. Now the noise seemed only inches away, and he threw open the door before him. The clockworks of Big Ben!
Alligator stood in the centre of the room. His purple face was blotched and his tongue rasped between his steel teeth. The great, round eyes were distorted with fear. Slowly he backed away. B*nd watched grimly as Alligator’s knees buckled and he toppled slowly back into the clockworks. His scream was drowned in the mighty vibrations of Big Ben striking noon.
21. “When’s Supper?”
THE button on the scrambler flicked to the en clair position and * replaced the white ’phone receiver in its cradle. He turned to J*mes B*nd.
“That was the P.M.,” he said. “Something about a V.C. Told him, of course, that we didn’t go in for that sort of thing. Said he quite understood, but to pass along the message.” He looked at B*nd and the high forehead above the frosty grey eyes was clear of worry. The 100-watt Osram bulb in the green-shaded reading lamp threw a pool of light across the red leather desk top.
B*nd nodded gratefully. It was Monday afternoon. It seemed incredible that he was back where he had started less than a week before. His body beneath his clothes was swathed in bandages, and he sat in a wheel chair. A cigarette hung precariously from his bruised and puffy lips. * lit his pipe and threw the box of matches across his desk. B*nd fielded it clumsily.
“What’s to happen now sir?”
“The Prime Minister saw the editors this morning. The truth would have caused a panic, so they’re going to try the biggest cover-up job in history. Told them that this was simply a test run for moving the seat of government in case of enemy attack. Purple colour of the House explained as a new type of camouflage. Terribly sorry about the bridges and all the worry caused, but of course it had to be kept top secret. Everyone involved has been sworn to secrecy and the Loyal Opposition had pledged its full support.”
From outside came the soft rumble of traffic and the, sound of an occasional laughing voice. How different it might have been; barricades in the streets, the gutters running with blood, everywhere the sounds of revolution and chaos. And then what? War with Germany? With Russia? God knows there were plenty of people who would feed the fires on both sides.
And it all would have happened but for a man who stoked the furnace of his maniac ego by scornfully cheating at cards; but for an obscure station head who died tracking down a vague suspicion; but for an American detective who followed him; but for Anagram’s relationship with British secret agent 004; but for an intricate web of tiny circumstances.
Who was the spider who controlled this great web?
*’s pipe rasped and B*nd looked into the damnably clear, frosty grey eyes set unwaveringly in the lined, weathered, sailor’s face. B*nd looked at him in awe.
“You,” said B*nd quietly. “You’re the spider.”
* looked at him narrowly and then smiled one of the rare smiles that lit up his face with quick brightness and warmth. B*nd smiled back. They understood the things that had been left unsaid.
“That’s all, 007. Take a leave. Two weeks.”
B*nd knew instinctively that it was time to go.
“Thank you sir.”
He trundled out the door, winked at Penny, and then down the long corridor to the lift. In two minutes he was on the street below. The big Stutz glinted dully in the evening light as it pulled away from the curb, B*nd’s mechanic at the wheel.
He glanced at his watch as he put his key in the lock and pushed open the door. Five minutes to six. Five minutes to tidy up before she arrived. He got stiffly out of the wheel chair and limped with the aid of a cane to his bedroom.
She was sitting on the bed, wearing nothing but the magazine in her lap. Without a word B*nd sat down awkwardly beside her. It was over, and he thought of the fourteen long tomorrows ahead of them. The battle was won, and the prize was at his side.
There was a crash of crockery from the kitchen and a string of Welsh swear-words.
Anagram laughed. “Llewylla,” she said. “She’s fixing your favourite cheese-rarebit. And I brought some Schlitz.” There was open sensuality in her eyes as she looked at B*nd. She reached up and brushed back the question mark of black hair.
He ran his left hand across the flat soft plain of her stomach to her breast. It was firm and hard with desire.
“My favourite dish is right here,” he murmured.
She looked at the passionate, rather cruel mouth waiting above hers, gazed deep into the fiercely slitted grey eyes.
“When’s supper?” she breathed.
B*nd twined his hand in her long silken hair and pulled her forcibly back onto the pillow. He said softly, “Now.” His mouth came ruthlessly down on hers.
MKF-CBC
Harvard Lampoon
Alligator Page 9