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Title: Live and Let Die
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Date of first publication: 1954
Date first posted: 24 November 2015
Date last updated: 24 November 2015
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1285

This ebook was produced by Alex White, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Canada Team
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

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                            LIVE AND LET DIE

                              Ian Fleming





                                Contents


               1 The Red Carpet
               2 Interview with M
               3 A Visiting-Card
               4 The Big Switchboard
               5 Nigger Heaven
               6 Table Z
               7 Mister Big
               8 No Sensayuma
               9 True or False?
              10 The Silver Phantom
              11 Allumeuse
              12 The Everglades
              13 Death of a Pelican
              14 'He Disagreed with Something that Ate Him'
              15 Midnight Among the Worms
              16 The Jamaica Version
              17 The Undertaker's Wind
              18 Beau Desert
              19 Valley of Shadows
              20 Bloody Morgan's Cave
              21 'Good Night to You Both'
              22 Terror by Sea
              23 Passionate Leave




                           1. The Red Carpet


There are moments of great luxury in the life of a secret agent. There
are assignments on which he is required to act the part of a very rich
man; occasions when he takes refuge in good living to efface the memory
of danger and the shadow of death; and times when, as was now the case,
he is a guest in the territory of an allied Secret Service.

From the moment the BOAC Stratocruiser taxied up to the International
Air Terminal at Idlewild, James Bond was treated like royalty.

When he left the aircraft with the other passengers he had resigned
himself to the notorious purgatory of the US Health, Immigration and
Customs machinery. At least an hour, he thought, of overheated,
drab-green rooms smelling of last year's air and stale sweat and guilt
and the fear that hangs round all frontiers, fear of those closed doors
marked PRIVATE that hide the careful men, the files, the teleprinters
chattering urgently to Washington, to the Bureau of Narcotics, Counter
Espionage, the Treasury, the FBI.

As he walked across the tarmac in the bitter January wind he saw his own
name going over the network: BOND, JAMES. BRITISH DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT
0094567, the short wait and the replies coming back on the different
machines: NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE. And then, from the FBI: POSITIVE
AWAIT CHECK. There would be some hasty traffic on the FBI circuit with
the Central Intelligence Agency and then: FBI TO IDLEWILD: BOND OKAY
OKAY, and the bland official out front would hand him back his passport
with a 'Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Bond.'

Bond shrugged his shoulders and followed the other passengers through
the wire fence towards the door marked US HEALTH SERVICE.

In his case it was only a boring routine, of course, but he disliked the
idea of his dossier being in the possession of any foreign power.
Anonymity was the chief tool of his trade. Every thread of his real
identity that went on record in any file diminished his value and,
ultimately, was a threat to his life. Here in America, where they knew
all about him, he felt like a negro whose shadow has been stolen by the
witch-doctor. A vital part of himself was in pawn, in the hands of
others. Friends, of course, in this instance, but still...

'Mr Bond?'

A pleasant-looking nondescript man in plain clothes had stepped forward
from the shadow of the Health Service building.

'My name's Halloran. Pleased to meet you!'

They shook hands.

'Hope you had a pleasant trip. Would you follow me, please?'

He turned to the officer of the Airport police on guard at the door.

'Okay, Sergeant.'

'Okay, Mr Halloran. Be seeing you.'

The other passengers had passed inside. Halloran turned to the left,
away from the building. Another policeman held open a small gate in the
high boundary fence.

''Bye, Mr Halloran.'

''Bye, Officer. Thanks.'

Directly outside a black Buick waited, its engine sighing quietly. They
climbed in. Bond's two light suitcases were in front next to the driver.
Bond couldn't imagine how they had been extracted so quickly from the
mound of passengers' luggage he had seen only minutes before being
trolleyed over to Customs.

'Okay, Grady. Let's go.'

Bond sank back luxuriously as the big limousine surged forward, slipping
quickly into top through the Dynaflow gears.

He turned to Halloran.

'Well, that's certainly one of the reddest carpets I've ever seen. I
expected to be at least an hour getting through Immigration. Who laid it
on? I'm not used to VIP treatment. Anyway, thanks very much for your
part in it all.'

'You're very welcome, Mr Bond.' Halloran smiled and offered him a
cigarette from a fresh pack of Luckies. 'We want to make your stay
comfortable. Anything you want, just say so and it's yours. You've got
some good friends in Washington. I don't myself know why you're here but
it seems the authorities are keen that you should be a privileged guest
of the Government. It's my job to see you get to your hotel as quickly
and as comfortably as possible and then I'll hand over and be on my way.
May I have your passport a moment, please?'

Bond gave it to him. Halloran opened a brief-case on the seat beside him
and took out a heavy metal stamp. He turned the pages of Bond's passport
until he came to the US Visa, stamped it, scribbled his signature over
the dark blue circle of the Department of Justice cypher and gave it
back to him. Then he took out his pocket-book and extracted a thick
white envelope which he gave to Bond.

'There's a thousand dollars in there, Mr Bond.' He held up his hand as
Bond started to speak. 'And it's Communist money we took in the
Schmidt-Kinaski haul. We're using it back at them and you are asked to
co-operate and spend this in any way you like on your present
assignment. I am advised that it will be considered a very unfriendly
act if you refuse. Let's please say no more about it and,' he added, as
Bond continued to hold the envelope dubiously in his hand, 'I am also to
say that the disposal of this money through your hands has the knowledge
and approval of your own Chief.'

Bond eyed him narrowly and then grinned. He put the envelope away in his
notecase.

'All right,' he said. 'And thanks. I'll try and spend it where it does
most harm. I'm glad to have some working capital. It's certainly good to
know it's been provided by the opposition.'

'Fine,' said Halloran; 'and now, if you'll forgive me, I'll just write
up my notes for the report I'll have to put in. Have to remember to get
a letter of thanks sent to Immigration and Customs and so forth for
their co-operation. Routine.'

'Go ahead,' said Bond. He was glad to keep silent and gaze out at his
first sight of America since the war. It was no waste of time to start
picking up the American idiom again: the advertisements, the new car
models and the prices of second-hand ones in the used-car lots; the
exotic pungency of the road signs: SOFT SHOULDERS--SHARP CURVES--SQUEEZE
AHEAD--SLIPPERY WHEN WET; the standard of driving; the number of women
at the wheel, their menfolk docilely beside them; the men's clothes; the
way the women were doing their hair; the Civil Defence warnings: IN CASE
OF ENEMY ATTACK--KEEP MOVING--GET OFF BRIDGE; the thick rash of
television aerials and the impact of TV on hoardings and shop windows;
the occasional helicopter; the public appeals for cancer and polio
funds: THE MARCH OF DIMES--all the small, fleeting impressions that were
as important to his trade as are broken bark and bent twigs to the
trapper in the jungle.

The driver chose the Triborough Bridge and they soared across the
breath-taking span into the heart of uptown Manhattan, the beautiful
prospect of New York hastening towards them until they were down amongst
the hooting, teeming, petrol-smelling roots of the stressed-concrete
jungle.

Bond turned to his companion.

'I hate to say it,' he said, 'but this must be the fattest atomic-bomb
target on the whole face of the globe.'

'Nothing to touch it,' agreed Halloran. 'Keeps me awake nights thinking
what would happen.'

They drew up at the best hotel in New York, the St Regis, at the corner
of Fifth Avenue and 55th Street. A saturnine middle-aged man in a dark
blue overcoat and black homburg came forward behind the commissionaire.
On the sidewalk, Halloran introduced him.

'Mr Bond, meet Captain Dexter.' He was deferential. 'Can I pass him
along to you now, Captain?'

'Sure, sure. Just have his bags sent up. Room 2100. Top floor. I'll go
ahead with Mr Bond and see he has everything he wants.'

Bond turned to say goodbye to Halloran and thank him. For a moment
Halloran had his back to him as he said something about Bond's luggage
to the commissionaire. Bond looked past him across 55th Street. His eyes
narrowed. A black sedan, a Chevrolet, was pulling sharply out into the
thick traffic, right in front of a Checker cab that braked hard, its
driver banging his fist down on the horn and holding it there. The sedan
kept going, just caught the tail of the green light, and disappeared
north up Fifth Avenue.

It was a smart, decisive bit of driving, but what startled Bond was that
it had been a negress at the wheel, a fine-looking negress in a black
chauffeur's uniform, and through the rear window he had caught a glimpse
of the single passenger--a huge grey-black face which had turned slowly
towards him and looked directly back at him, Bond was sure of it, as the
car accelerated towards the Avenue.

Bond shook Halloran by the hand. Dexter touched his elbow impatiently.

'We'll go straight in and through the lobby to the elevators. Half-right
across the lobby. And would you please keep your hat on, Mr Bond.'

As Bond followed Dexter up the steps into the hotel he reflected that it
was almost certainly too late for these precautions. Hardly anywhere in
the world will you find a negress driving a car. A negress acting as a
chauffeur is still more extraordinary. Barely conceivable even in
Harlem, but that was certainly where the car was from.

And the giant shape in the back seat? That grey-black face? Mr Big?

'Hm,' said Bond to himself as he followed the slim back of Captain
Dexter into the elevator.

The elevator slowed up for the twenty-first floor.

'We've got a little surprise ready for you, Mr Bond,' said Captain
Dexter, without, Bond thought, much enthusiasm.

They walked down the corridor to the corner room.

The wind sighed outside the passage windows and Bond had a fleeting view
of the tops of other skyscrapers and, beyond, the stark fingers of the
trees in Central Park. He felt far out of touch with the ground and for
a moment a strange feeling of loneliness and empty space gripped his
heart.

Dexter unlocked the door of No. 2100 and shut it behind them. They were
in a small lighted lobby. They left their hats and coats on a chair and
Dexter opened the door in front of them and held it for Bond to go
through.

He walked into an attractive sitting-room decorated in Third Avenue
'Empire'--comfortable chairs and a broad sofa in pale yellow silk, a
fair copy of an Aubusson on the floor, pale grey walls and ceiling, a
bow-fronted French sideboard with bottles and glasses and a plated
ice-bucket, a wide window through which the winter sun poured out of a
Swiss-clear sky. The central heating was just bearable.

The communicating door with the bedroom opened.

'Arranging the flowers by your bed. Part of the famous CIA "Service With
a Smile".' The tall thin young man came forward with a wide grin, his
hand outstretched, to where Bond stood rooted with astonishment.

'Felix Leiter! What the hell are you doing here?' Bond grasped the hard
hand and shook it warmly. 'And what the hell are you doing in my
bedroom, anyway? God! It's good to see you. Why aren't you in Paris?
Don't tell me they've put you on this job?'

Leiter examined the Englishman affectionately.

'You've said it. That's just exactly what they have done. What a break!
At least, it is for me. CIA thought we did all right together on the
Casino job[1] so they hauled me away from the Joint Intelligence chaps
in Paris, put me through the works in Washington and here I am. I'm sort
of liaison between the Central Intelligence Agency and our friends of
the FBI.' He waved towards Captain Dexter, who was watching this
unprofessional ebullience without enthusiasm. 'It's their case, of
course, at least the American end of it is, but as you know there are
some big overseas angles which are CIA's territory, so we're running it
joint. Now you're here to handle the Jamaican end for the British and
the team's complete. How does it look to you? Sit down and let's have a
drink. I ordered lunch directly I got the word you were downstairs and
it'll be on its way.' He went over to the sideboard and started mixing a
Martini.

'Well, I'm damned,' said Bond. 'Of course that old devil M never told
me. He just gives one the facts. Never tells one any good news. I
suppose he thinks it might influence one's decision to take a case or
not. Anyway, it's grand.'

Bond suddenly felt the silence of Captain Dexter. He turned to him.

'I shall be very glad to be under your orders here, Captain,' he said
tactfully. 'As I understand it, the case breaks pretty neatly into two
halves. The first half lies wholly on American territory. Your
jurisdiction, of course. Then it looks as if we shall have to follow it
into the Caribbean. Jamaica. And I understand I am to take over outside
United States territorial waters. Felix here will marry up the two
halves so far as your government is concerned. I shall report to London
through CIA while I'm here, and direct to London, keeping CIA informed,
when I move to the Caribbean. Is that how you see it?'

Dexter smiled thinly. 'That's just about it, Mr Bond. Mr Hoover
instructs me to say that he's very pleased to have you along. As our
guest,' he added. 'Naturally we are not in any way concerned with the
British end of the case and we're very happy that CIA will be handling
that with you and your people in London. Guess everything should go
fine. Here's luck,' and he lifted the cocktail Leiter had put into his
hand.

They drank the cold hard drink appreciatively, Leiter with a faintly
quizzical expression on his hawk-like face.

There was a knock on the door. Leiter opened it to let in the bellboy
with Bond's suitcases. He was followed by two waiters pushing trolleys
loaded with covered dishes, cutlery and snow-white linen, which they
proceeded to lay out on a folding table.

'Soft-shell crabs with tartare sauce, flat beef Hamburgers, medium-rare,
from the charcoal grill, French-fried potatoes, broccoli, mixed salad
with thousand-island dressing, ice-cream with melted butterscotch and as
good a Liebfraumilch as you can get in America. Okay?'

'It sounds fine,' said Bond with a mental reservation about the melted
butterscotch.

They sat down and ate steadily through each delicious course of American
cooking at its rare best.

They said little, and it was only when the coffee had been brought and
the table cleared away that Captain Dexter took the fifty-cent cigar
from his mouth and cleared his throat decisively.

'Mr Bond,' he said, 'now perhaps you would tell us what you know about
this case.'

Bond slit open a fresh pack of King Size Chesterfields with his
thumb-nail and, as he settled back in his comfortable chair in the warm
luxurious room, his mind went back two weeks to the bitter raw day in
early January when he had walked out of his Chelsea flat into the dreary
half-light of a London fog.

-----

[1] This terrifying gambling case is described in the author's _Casino
Royale_.




                          2. Interview with M


The grey Bentley convertible, the 1933 4-litre with the
Amherst-Villiers supercharger, had been brought round a few minutes
earlier from the garage where he kept it and the engine had kicked
directly he pressed the self-starter. He had turned on the twin fog
lights and had driven gingerly along King's Road and then up Sloane
Street into Hyde Park.

M's Chief of Staff had telephoned at midnight to say that M wanted to
see Bond at nine the next morning. 'Bit early in the day,' he had
apologized, 'but he seems to want some action from somebody. Been
brooding for weeks. Suppose he's made up his mind at last.'

'Any line you can give me over the telephone?'

'A for Apple and C for Charlie,' said the Chief of Staff, and rang off.

That meant that the case concerned Stations A and C, the sections of the
Secret Service dealing respectively with the United States and the
Caribbean. Bond had worked for a time under Station A during the war,
but he knew little of C or its problems.

As he crawled beside the kerb up through Hyde Park, the slow drumbeat of
his two-inch exhaust keeping him company, he felt excited at the
prospect of his interview with M, the remarkable man who was then, and
still is, head of the Secret Service. He had not looked into those cold,
shrewd eyes since the end of the summer. On that occasion M had been
pleased.

'Take some leave,' he had said. 'Plenty of leave. Then get some new skin
grafted over the back of that hand. "Q" will put you on to the best man
and fix a date. Can't have you going round with that damn Russian
trade-mark on you. See if I can find you a good target when you've got
cleaned up. Good luck.'

The hand had been fixed, painlessly but slowly. The thin scars, the
single Russian letter which stands for SCH, the first letter of _Spion_,
a spy, had been removed, and as Bond thought of the man with the
stiletto who had cut them he clenched his hands on the wheel.

What was happening to the brilliant organization of which the man with
the knife had been an agent, the Soviet organ of vengeance, SMERSH,
short for _Smyert Spionam_--Death to Spies? Was it still as powerful,
still as efficient? Who controlled it now that Beria was gone? After the
great gambling case in which he had been involved at Royale-les-Eaux,
Bond had sworn to get back at them. He had told M as much at that last
interview. Was this appointment with M to start him on his trail of
revenge?

Bond's eyes narrowed as he gazed into the murk of Regent's Park and his
face in the faint dashlight was cruel and hard.

He drew up in the mews behind the gaunt high building, handed his car
over to one of the plain-clothes drivers from the pool and walked round
to the main entrance. He was taken up in the lift to the top floor and
along the thickly carpeted corridor he knew so well to the door next to
M's. The Chief of Staff was waiting for him and at once spoke to M on
the intercom.

'007's here now, Sir.'

'Send him in.'

The desirable Miss Moneypenny, M's all-powerful private secretary, gave
him an encouraging smile and he walked through the double doors. At once
the green light came on, high on the wall in the room he had left. M was
not to be disturbed as long as it burned.

A reading lamp with a green glass shade made a pool of light across the
red leather top of the broad desk. The rest of the room was darkened by
the fog outside the windows.

'Morning, 007. Let's have a look at the hand. Not a bad job. Where did
they take the skin from?'

'High up on the forearm, Sir.'

'Hm. Hairs'll grow a bit thick. Crooked too. However, can't be helped.
Looks all right for the time being. Sit down.'

Bond walked round to the single chair which faced M across the desk. The
grey eyes looked at him, through him.

'Had a good rest?'

'Yes thank you, Sir.'

'Ever seen one of these?' M abruptly fished something out of his
waistcoat pocket. He tossed it half way across the desk towards Bond. It
fell with a faint clang on the red leather and lay, gleaming richly, an
inch-wide, hammered gold coin.

Bond picked it up, turned it over, weighed it in his hand.

'No, Sir. Worth about five pounds, perhaps.'

'Fifteen to a collector. It's a Rose Noble of Edward IV.'

M fished again in his waistcoat pocket and tossed more magnificent gold
coins on to the table in front of Bond. As he did so, he glanced at each
one and identified it.

'Double Excellente, Spanish, Ferdinand and Isabella, 1510; Ecu au
Soleil, French, Charles IX, 1574; Double Ecu d'or, French, Henry IV,
1600; Double Ducat, Spanish, Philip II, 1560; Ryder, Dutch, Charles
d'Egmond, 1538; Quadruple, Genoa, 1617; Double louis,  la mche courte,
French, Louis XIV, 1644. Worth a lot of money melted down. Much more to
collectors, ten to twenty pounds each. Notice anything common to them
all?'

Bond reflected. 'No, Sir.'

'All minted before 1650. Bloody Morgan, the pirate, was Governor and
Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica from 1675 to 1688. The English coin is the
joker in the pack. Probably shipped out to pay the Jamaica garrison. But
for that and the dates, these could have come from any other
treasure-trove put together by the great pirates--L'Ollonais, Pierre le
Grand, Sharp, Sawkins, Blackbeard. As it is, and both Spinks and the
British Museum agree, this is almost certainly part of Bloody Morgan's
treasure.'

M paused to fill his pipe and light it. He didn't invite Bond to smoke
and Bond would not have thought of doing so uninvited.

'And the hell of a treasure it must be. So far nearly a thousand of
these and similar coins have turned up in the United States in the last
few months. And if the Special Branch of the Treasury, and the FBI, have
traced a thousand, how many more have been melted down or disappeared
into private collections? And they keep on coming in, turning up in
banks, bullion merchants, curio shops, but mostly pawnbrokers of course.
The FBI are in a proper fix. If they put these on the police notices of
stolen property they know the source will dry up. They'd be melted down
into gold bars and channelled straight into the black bullion market.
Have to sacrifice the rarity value of the coins, but the gold would go
straight underground. As it is, someone's using the negroes--porters,
sleeping-car attendants, truck-drivers--and getting the money well
spread over the States. Quite innocent people. Here's a typical case.' M
opened a brown folder bearing the Top Secret red star and selected a
single sheet of paper. Through the reverse side as M held it up, Bond
could see the engraved heading: 'Department of Justice. Federal Bureau
of Investigations.' M read from it:

'Zachary Smith, 35, Negro, Member of the Sleeping Car Porters
Brotherhood, address 90b West 126th Street, New York City.' (M looked
up: 'Harlem,' he said.) 'Subject was identified by Arthur Fein of Fein
Jewels Inc., 870 Lenox Avenue, as having offered for sale on November
21st last four gold coins of the sixteenth and seventeenth century
(details attached). Fein offered a hundred dollars which was accepted.
Interrogated later, Smith said they had been sold to him in Seventh
Heaven Bar-B-Q (a well-known Harlem bar) for twenty dollars each by a
negro he had never seen before or since. Vendor had said they were worth
fifty dollars each at Tiffany's, but that he, the vendor, wanted ready
cash and Tiffany's was too far anyway. Smith bought one for twenty
dollars and on finding that a neighbouring pawnbroker would offer him
twenty-five dollars for it, returned to the bar and purchased the
remaining three for sixty dollars. The next morning he took them to
Fein's. Subject has no criminal record.'

M returned the paper to the brown folder.

'That's typical,' he said. 'Several times they've caught up with the
next link, the middle man who bought them a bit cheaper, and they find
that he bought a handful, in one case a hundred of them, from some man
who presumably got them cheaper still. All these larger transactions
have taken place in Harlem or Florida. Always the next man in the link
was an unknown negro, in all cases a white-collar man, prosperous,
educated, who said he guessed they were treasure-trove, Blackbeard's
treasure.

'This Blackbeard story would stand up to most investigations,' continued
M, 'because there is reason to believe that part of his hoard was dug up
around Christmas Day, 1928, at a place called Plum Point. It's a narrow
neck of land in Beaufort County, North Carolina, where a stream called
Bath Creek flows into the Pamlico River. Don't think I'm an expert,' he
smiled, 'you can read all about this in the dossier. So, in theory, it
would be quite reasonable for those lucky treasure-hunters to have
hidden the loot until everyone had forgotten the story and then thrown
it fast on the market. Or else they could have sold it en bloc at the
time, or later, and the purchaser has just decided to cash in. Anyway
it's a good enough cover except on two counts.'

M paused and relit his pipe.

'Firstly, Blackbeard operated from about 1690 to 1710 and it's
improbable that none of his coin should have been minted later than
1650. Also, as I said before, it's very unlikely that his treasure would
contain Edward IV Rose Nobles, since there's no record of an English
treasure-ship being captured on its way to Jamaica. The Brethren of the
Coast wouldn't take them on. Too heavily escorted. There were much
easier pickings if you were sailing in those days "on the plundering
account" as they called it.

'Secondly,' and M looked at the ceiling and then back at Bond, 'I know
where the treasure is. At least I'm pretty sure I do. And it's not in
America. It's in Jamaica, and it is Bloody Morgan's, and I guess it's
one of the most valuable treasure-troves in history.'

'Good Lord,' said Bond. 'How... where do we come into it?'

M held up his hand. 'You'll find all the details in here,' he let his
hand come down on the brown folder. 'Briefly, Station C has been
interested in a Diesel yacht, the _Secatur_, which has been running from
a small island on the North Coast of Jamaica through the Florida Keys
into the Gulf of Mexico, to a place called St Petersburg. Sort of
pleasure resort, near Tampa. West Coast of Florida. With the help of the
FBI we've traced the ownership of this boat and of the island to a man
called Mr Big, a negro gangster. Lives in Harlem. Ever heard of him?'

'No,' said Bond.

'And curiously enough,' M's voice was softer and quieter, 'a
twenty-dollar bill which one of these casual negroes had paid for a gold
coin and whose number he had noted for Peaka Peow, the Numbers game, was
paid out by one of Mr Big's lieutenants. And it was paid,' M pointed the
stem of his pipe at Bond, 'for information received, to an FBI
double-agent who is a member of the Communist Party.'

Bond whistled softly.

'In short,' continued M, 'we suspect that this Jamaican treasure is
being used to finance the Soviet espionage system, or an important part
of it, in America. And our suspicion becomes a certainty when I tell you
who this Mr Big is.'

Bond waited, his eyes fixed on M's.

'Mr Big,' said M, weighing his words, 'is probably the most powerful
negro criminal in the world. He is,' and he enumerated carefully, 'the
head of the Black Widow Voodoo cult and believed by that cult to be the
Baron Samedi himself. You'll find all about that here,' he tapped the
folder, 'and it'll frighten the daylights out of you. He is also a
Soviet agent. And finally he is, and this will particularly interest
you, Bond, a known member of SMERSH.'

'Yes,' said Bond slowly, 'I see now.'

'Quite a case,' said M, looking keenly at him. 'And quite a man, this Mr
Big.'

'I don't think I've ever heard of a great negro criminal before,' said
Bond, 'Chinamen, of course, the men behind the opium trade. There've
been some big-time Japs, mostly in pearls and drugs. Plenty of negroes
mixed up in diamonds and gold in Africa, but always in a small way. They
don't seem to take to big business. Pretty law-abiding chaps I should
have thought, except when they've drunk too much.'

'Our man's a bit of an exception,' said M. 'He's not pure negro. Born in
Haiti. Good dose of French blood. Trained in Moscow, too, as you'll see
from the file. And the negro races are just beginning to throw up
geniuses in all the professions--scientists, doctors, writers. It's
about time they turned out a great criminal. After all, there are
250,000,000 of them in the world. Nearly a third of the white
population. They've got plenty of brains and ability and guts. And now
Moscow's taught one of them the technique.'

'I'd like to meet him,' said Bond. Then he added, mildly, 'I'd like to
meet any member of SMERSH.'

'All right then, Bond. Take it away.' M handed him the thick brown
folder. 'Talk it over with Plender and Damon. Be ready to start in a
week. It's a joint CIA and FBI job. For God's sake don't step on the
FBI's toes. Covered with corns. Good luck.'

Bond had gone straight down to Commander Damon, Head of Station A, an
alert Canadian who controlled the link with the Central Intelligence
Agency, America's Secret Service.

Damon looked up from his desk. 'I see you've bought it,' he said,
looking at the folder. 'Thought you would. Sit down,' he waved to an
armchair beside the electric fire. 'When you've waded through it all,
I'll fill in the gaps.'




                           3. A Visiting-Card


And now it was ten days later and the talk with Dexter and Leiter had
not added much, reflected Bond as he awoke slowly and luxuriously in his
bedroom at the St Regis the morning after his arrival in New York.

Dexter had had plenty of detail on Mr Big, but nothing that threw any
new light on the case. Mr Big was forty-five years old, born in Haiti,
half negro and half French. Because of the initial letters of his
fanciful name, Buonaparte Ignace Gallia, and because of his huge height
and bulk, he came to be called, even as a youth, 'Big Boy' or just
'Big'. Later this became 'The Big Man' or 'Mr Big', and his real names
lingered only on a parish register in Haiti and on his dossier with the
FBI. He had no known vices except women, whom he consumed in quantities.
He didn't drink or smoke and his only Achilles' heel appeared to be a
chronic heart disease which had, in recent years, imparted a greyish
tinge to his skin.

The Big Boy had been initiated into Voodoo as a child, earned his living
as a truck-driver in Port au Prince, then emigrated to America and
worked successfully for a hi-jacking team in the Legs Diamond gang. With
the end of Prohibition he had moved to Harlem and bought half-shares in
a small nightclub and a string of coloured call-girls. His partner was
found in a barrel of cement in the Harlem River in 1938 and Mr Big
automatically became sole proprietor of the business. He was called up
in 1943 and, because of his excellent French, came to the notice of the
Office of Strategic Services, the wartime secret service of America, who
trained him with great thoroughness and put him into Marseilles as an
agent against the Ptain collaborationists. He merged easily with
African negro dock-hands, and worked well, providing good and accurate
naval intelligence. He operated closely with a Soviet spy who was doing
a similar job for the Russians. At the end of the war he was demobilized
in France (and decorated by the Americans and the French) and then he
disappeared for five years, probably to Moscow. He returned to Harlem in
1950 and soon came to the notice of the FBI as a suspected Soviet agent.
But he never incriminated himself or fell into any of the traps laid by
the FBI. He bought up three nightclubs and a prosperous chain of Harlem
brothels. He seemed to have unlimited funds and paid all his lieutenants
a flat rate of twenty thousand dollars a year. Accordingly, and as a
result of weeding by murder, he was expertly and diligently served. He
was known to have originated an underground Voodoo temple in Harlem and
to have established a link between it and the main cult in Haiti. The
rumour had started that he was the Zombie or living corpse of Baron
Samedi himself, the dreaded Prince of Darkness, and he fostered the
story so that now it was accepted through all the lower strata of the
negro world. As a result, he commanded real fear, strongly substantiated
by the immediate and often mysterious deaths of anyone who crossed him
or disobeyed his orders.

Bond had questioned Dexter and Leiter very closely on the evidence
connecting the giant negro with SMERSH. It certainly seemed conclusive.

In 1951, by the promise of one million dollars in gold and a safe refuge
after six months' work for them, the FBI had at last persuaded a known
Soviet agent of the MWD to turn double. All went well for a month and
the results exceeded the highest expectations. The Russian spy held the
appointment of an economic expert on the Soviet delegation to the United
Nations. One Saturday, he had gone to take the subway to Pennsylvania
Station en route for the Soviet week-end rest camp at Glen Cove, the
former Morgan estate on Long Island.

A huge negro, positively identified from photographs as The Big Man, had
stood beside him on the platform as the train came in and was seen
walking towards the exit even before the first coach had come to a
standstill over the bloody vestiges of the Russian. He had not been seen
to push the man, but in the crowd it would not have been difficult.
Spectators said it could not have been suicide. The man screamed
horribly as he fell and he had had (melancholy touch!) a bag of golf
clubs over his shoulder. The Big Man, of course, had had an alibi as
solid as Fort Knox. He had been held and questioned, but was quickly
sprung by the best lawyer in Harlem.

The evidence was good enough for Bond. He was just the man for SMERSH,
with just the training. A real, hard weapon of fear and death. And what
a brilliant set-up for dealing with the smaller fry of the negro
underworld and for keeping a coloured information network well up to the
mark!--the fear of Voodoo and the supernatural, still deeply, primevally
ingrained in the negro subconscious! And what genius to have, as a
beginning, the whole transport system of America under surveillance, the
trains, the porters, the truck-drivers, the stevedores! To have at his
disposal a host of key men who would have no idea that the questions
they answered had been asked by Russia. Small-time professional men who,
if they thought at all, would guess that the information on freights and
schedules was being sold to rival transport concerns.

Not for the first time, Bond felt his spine crawl at the cold, brilliant
efficiency of the Soviet machine, and at the fear of death and torture
which made it work and of which the supreme engine was _SMERSH_--SMERSH,
the very whisper of death.

Now, in his bedroom at the St Regis, Bond shook away his thoughts and
jumped impatiently out of bed. Well, there was one of them at hand,
ready for the crushing. At Royale he had only caught a glimpse of his
man. This time it would be face to face. Big Man? Then let it be a
giant, a homeric slaying.

Bond walked over to the window and pulled back the curtains. His room
faced north, towards Harlem. Bond gazed for a moment towards the
northern horizon, where another man would be in his bedroom asleep, or
perhaps awake and thinking conceivably of him, Bond, whom he had seen
with Dexter on the steps of the hotel. Bond looked at the beautiful day
and smiled. And no man, not even Mr Big, would have liked the expression
on his face.

Bond shrugged his shoulders and walked quickly to the telephone.

'St Regis Hotel. Good morning,' said a voice.

'Room Service, please,' said Bond. 'Room Service? I'd like to order
breakfast. Half a pint of orange juice, three eggs, lightly scrambled,
with bacon, a double portion of Caf Espresso with cream. Toast.
Marmalade. Got it?'

The order was repeated back to him. Bond walked out into the lobby and
picked up the five pounds' weight of newspapers which had been placed
quietly inside the door earlier in the morning. There was also a pile of
parcels on the hall table which Bond disregarded.

The afternoon before he had had to submit to a certain degree of
Americanization at the hands of the FBI. A tailor had come and measured
him for two single-breasted suits in dark blue light-weight worsted
(Bond had firmly refused anything more dashing) and a haberdasher had
brought chilly white nylon shirts with long points to the collars. He
had had to accept half a dozen unusually patterned foulard ties, dark
socks with fancy clocks, two or three 'display kerchiefs' for his breast
pocket, nylon vests and pants (called T-shirts and shorts), a
comfortable light-weight camel-hair overcoat with over-buttressed
shoulders, a plain grey snapbrim Fedora with a thin black ribbon and two
pairs of hand-stitched and very comfortable black Moccasin 'casuals'.

He also acquired a 'Swank' tie-clip in the shape of a whip, an
alligator-skin billfold from Mark Cross, a plain Zippo lighter, a
plastic 'Travel-Pak' containing razor, hairbrush and toothbrush, a pair
of horn-rimmed glasses with plain lenses, various other oddments and,
finally, a light-weight Hartmann 'Skymate' suitcase to contain all these
things.

He was allowed to retain his own Beretta .25 with the skeleton grip and
the chamois leather shoulder-holster, but all his other possessions were
to be collected at midday and forwarded down to Jamaica to await him.

He was given a military haircut and was told that he was a New Englander
from Boston and that he was on holiday from his job with the London
office of the Guaranty Trust Company. He was reminded to ask for the
'check' rather than the 'bill', to say 'cab' instead of 'taxi' and (this
from Leiter) to avoid words of more than two syllables. ('You can get
through any American conversation,' advised Leiter, 'with "Yeah", "Nope"
and "Sure".') The English word to be avoided at all costs, added Leiter,
was 'Ectually'. Bond had said that this word was not part of his
vocabulary.

Bond looked grimly at the pile of parcels which contained his new
identity, stripped off his pyjamas for the last time ('We mostly sleep
in the raw in America, Mr Bond') and gave himself a sizzling cold
shower. As he shaved he examined his face in the glass. The thick comma
of black hair above his right eyebrow had lost some of its tail and his
hair was trimmed close across the temples. Nothing could be done about
the thin vertical scar down his right cheek, although the FBI had
experimented with Cover-Mark, or about the coldness and hint of anger in
his grey-blue eyes, but there was the mixed blood of America in the
black hair and high cheek-bones and Bond thought he might get
by--except, perhaps, with women.

Naked, Bond walked out into the lobby and tore open some of the
packages. Later, in a white shirt and dark blue trousers, he went into
the sitting-room, pulled a chair up to the writing-desk near the window
and opened _The Travellers Tree_, by Patrick Leigh Fermor.

This extraordinary book had been recommended to him by M.

'It's by a chap who knows what he's talking about,' he said, 'and don't
forget that he was writing about what was happening in Haiti in 1950.
This isn't medieval black-magic stuff. It's being practised every day.'

Bond was half way through the section on Haiti.

    The next step [he read] is the invocation of evil denizens of
    the Voodoo pantheon--such as Don Pedro, Kitta, Mondongue,
    Bakalou and Zandor--for harmful purposes, for the reputed
    practice (which is of Congolese origin) of turning people into
    zombies in order to use them as slaves, the casting of
    maleficent spells, and the destruction of enemies. The effects
    of the spell, of which the outward form may be an image of the
    intended victim, a miniature coffin or a toad, are frequently
    stiffened by the separate use of poison. Father Cosme enlarged
    on the superstitions that maintain that men with certain powers
    change themselves into snakes; on the 'Loups-Garoups' that fly
    at night in the form of vampire bats and suck the blood of
    children; on men who reduce themselves to infinitesimal size and
    roll about the countryside in calabashes. What sounded far more
    sinister were a number of mystico-criminal secret societies of
    wizards, with nightmarish titles--'les Mackanda', named after
    the poison campaign of the Haitian hero; 'les Zobop', who were
    also robbers; the 'Mazanxa', the 'Caporelata' and the
    'Vlinbindingue'. These, he said, were the mysterious groups
    whose gods demand--instead of a cock, a pigeon, a goat, a dog,
    or a pig, as in the normal rites of Voodoo--the sacrifice of a
    'cabrit sans cornes'. This hornless goat, of course, means a
    human being...

Bond turned over the pages, occasional passages combining to form an
extraordinary picture in his mind of a dark religion and its terrible
rites.

    ...Slowly, out of the turmoil and the smoke and the
    shattering noise of the drums, which, for a time, drove
    everything except their impact from the mind, the details began
    to detach themselves...

    ...Backwards and forwards, very slowly, the dancers shuffled,
    and at each step their chins shot out and their buttocks jerked
    upwards, while their shoulders shook in double time. Their eyes
    were half closed and from their mouths came again and again the
    same incomprehensible words, the same short line of chanted
    song, repeated after each iteration, half an octave lower. At a
    change in the beat of the drums, they straightened their bodies,
    and flinging their arms in the air while their eyes rolled
    upwards, spun round and round...

    ...At the edge of the crowd we came upon a little hut,
    scarcely larger than a dog kennel: 'Le caye Zombi'. The beam of
    a torch revealed a black cross inside and some rags and chains
    and shackles and whips: adjuncts used at the Ghd ceremonies,
    which Haitian ethnologists connect with the rejuvenation rites
    of Osiris recorded in the Book of the Dead. A fire was burning,
    in which two sabres and a large pair of pincers were standing,
    their lower parts red with the heat: 'le Feu Marinette',
    dedicated to a goddess who is the evil obverse of the bland and
    amorous Matresse Erzulie Frda Dahomin, the Goddess of Love.

    Beyond, with its base held fast in a socket of stone, stood a
    large black wooden cross. A white death's head was painted near
    the base, and over the crossbar were pulled the sleeves of a
    very old morning coat. Here also rested the brim of a battered
    bowler hat, through the torn crown of which the top of the cross
    projected. This totem, with which every peristyle must be
    equipped, is not a lampoon of the central event of the Christian
    faith, but represents the God of the Cemeteries and the Chief of
    the Legion of the Dead, Baron Samedi. The Baron is paramount in
    all matters immediately beyond the tomb. He is Cerberus and
    Charon as well as Aeacus, Rhadamanthus and Pluto...

    ...The drums changed and the Houngenikon came dancing on to
    the floor, holding a vessel filled with some burning liquid from
    which sprang blue and yellow flames. As he circled the pillar
    and spilt three flaming libations, his steps began to falter.
    Then, lurching backwards with the same symptoms of delirium that
    had manifested themselves in his forerunner, he flung down the
    whole blazing mass. The houncis caught him as he reeled, and
    removed his sandals and rolled his trousers up, while the
    kerchief fell from his head and laid bare his young woolly
    skull. The other houncis knelt to put their hands in the flaming
    mud, and rub it over their hands and elbows and faces. The
    Houngan's bell and 'aon' rattled officiously and the young
    priest was left by himself, reeling and colliding against the
    pillar, helplessly catapulting across the floor, and falling
    among the drums. His eyes were shut, his forehead screwed up and
    his chin hung loose. Then, as though an invisible fist had dealt
    him a heavy blow, he fell to the ground and lay there, with his
    head stretching backwards in a rictus of anguish until the
    tendons of his neck and shoulders projected like roots. One hand
    clutched at the other elbow behind his hollowed back as though
    he were striving to break his own arm, and his whole body, from
    which the sweat was streaming, trembled and shuddered like a dog
    in a dream. Only the whites of his eyes were visible as,
    although his eye-sockets were now wide open, the pupils had
    vanished under the lids. Foam collected on his lips...

    ...Now the Houngan, dancing a slow step and brandishing a
    cutlass, advanced from the fireside, flinging the weapon again
    and again into the air, and catching it by the hilt. In a few
    minutes he was holding it by the blunted end of the blade.
    Dancing slowly towards him, the Houngenikon reached out and
    grasped the hilt. The priest retired, and the young man,
    twirling and leaping, spun from side to side of the 'tonnelle'.
    The ring of spectators rocked backwards as he bore down upon
    them whirling the blade over his head, with the gaps in his
    bared teeth lending to his mandril face a still more feral
    aspect. The 'tonnelle' was filled for a few seconds with genuine
    and unmitigated terror. The singing had turned to a universal
    howl and the drummers, rolling and lolling with the furious and
    invisible motion of their hands, were lost in a transport of
    noise.

    Flinging back his head, the novice drove the blunt end of the
    cutlass into his stomach. His knees sagged, and his head fell
    forward...

There came a knock on the door and a waiter came in with breakfast. Bond
was glad to put the dreadful tale aside and re-enter the world of
normality. But it took him minutes to forget the atmosphere, heavy with
terror and the occult, that had surrounded him as he read.

With breakfast came another parcel, about a foot square,
expensive-looking, which Bond told the waiter to put on the sideboard.
Some afterthought of Leiter's, he supposed. He ate his breakfast with
enjoyment. Between mouthfuls he looked out of the wide window and
reflected on what he had just read.

It was only when he had swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and had
lit his first cigarette of the day that he suddenly became aware of the
tiny noise in the room behind him.

It was a soft, muffled ticking, unhurried, metallic. And it came from
the direction of the sideboard.

'Tick-tock... tick-tock... tick-tock.'

Without a moment's hesitation, without caring that he looked a fool, he
dived to the floor behind his armchair and crouched, all his senses
focused on the noise from the square parcel. 'Steady,' he said to
himself. 'Don't be an idiot. It's just a clock.' But why a clock? Why
should he be given a clock? Who by?

'Tick-tock... tick-tock... tick-tock.'

It had become a huge noise against the silence of the room. It seemed to
be keeping time with the thumping of Bond's heart. 'Don't be ridiculous.
That Voodoo stuff of Leigh Fermor's has put your nerves on edge. Those
drums...'

'Tick-tock... tick-tock... Tick--'

And then, suddenly, the alarm went off with a deep, melodious, urgent
summons.

'Tongtongtongtongtongtong...'

Bond's muscles relaxed. His cigarette was burning a hole in the carpet.
He picked it up and put it in his mouth. Bombs in alarm clocks go off
when the hammer first comes down on the alarm. The hammer hits a pin in
a detonator, the detonator fires the explosive and WHAM...

Bond raised his head above the back of the chair and watched the parcel.

'Tongtongtongtongtong...'

The muffled gonging went on for half a minute, then it started to slow
down.

'tong... tong... tong... tong... tong...

'C-R-A-C-K...'

It was not louder than a 12-bore cartridge, but in the confined space it
was an impressive explosion.

The parcel, in tatters, had fallen to the ground. The glasses and
bottles on the sideboard were smashed and there was a black smudge of
smoke on the grey wall behind them. Some pieces of glass tinkled on to
the floor. There was a strong smell of gunpowder in the room.

Bond got slowly to his feet. He went to the window and opened it. Then
he dialled Dexter's number. He spoke levelly.

'Pineapple... No, a small one... only some glasses... okay,
thanks... of course not... 'bye.'

He skirted the debris, walked through the small lobby to the door
leading into the passage, opened it, hung the DON'T DISTURB sign
outside, locked it and went through into his bedroom.

By the time he had finished dressing there was a knock on the door.

'Who is it?' he called.

'Okay. Dexter.'

Dexter hustled in, followed by a sallow young man with a black box under
his arm.

'Trippe, from Sabotage,' announced Dexter.

They shook hands and the young man at once went on his knees beside the
charred remnants of the parcel.

He opened his box and took out some rubber gloves and a handful of
dentist's forceps. With his tools he painstakingly extracted small bits
of metal and glass from the charred parcel and laid them out on a broad
sheet of blotting paper from the writing-desk.

While he worked, he asked Bond what had happened.

'About a half-minute alarm? I see. Hullo, what's this?' He delicately
extracted a small aluminium container such as is used for exposed film.
He put it aside.

After a few minutes he sat up on his haunches.

'Half-minute acid capsule,' he announced. 'Broken by the first
hammer-stroke of the alarm. Acid eats through thin copper wire. Thirty
seconds later wire breaks, releases plunger on to cap of this.' He held
up the base of a cartridge. '4-bore elephant gun. Black powder. Blank.
No shot. Lucky it wasn't a grenade. Plenty of room in the parcel. You'd
have been damaged. Now let's have a look at this.' He picked up the
aluminium cylinder, unscrewed it, extracted a small roll of paper, and
unravelled it with his forceps.

He carefully flattened it out on the carpet, holding its corners down
with four tools from his black box. It contained three typewritten
sentences. Bond and Dexter bent forward.

'THE HEART OF THIS CLOCK HAS STOPPED TICKING,' they read, 'THE BEATS OF
YOUR OWN HEART ARE NUMBERED. I KNOW THAT NUMBER AND I HAVE STARTED TO
COUNT.'

The message was signed '1234567...?'

They stood up.

'Hm,' said Bond. 'Bogeyman stuff.'

'But how the hell did he know you were here?' asked Dexter.

Bond told him of the black sedan on 55th Street.

'But the point is,' said Bond, 'how did he know what I was here _for_?
Shows he's got Washington pretty well sewn up. Must be a leak the size
of the Grand Canyon somewhere.'

'Why should it be Washington?' asked Dexter testily. 'Anyway,' he
controlled himself with a forced laugh, 'Hell and damnation. Have to
make a report to Headquarters on this. So long, Mr Bond. Glad you came
to no harm.'

'Thanks,' said Bond. 'It was just a visiting-card. I must return the
compliment.'




                         4. The Big Switchboard


When Dexter and his colleague had gone, taking the remains of the bomb
with them, Bond took a damp towel and rubbed the smoke-mark off the
wall. Then he rang for the waiter and, without explanation, told him to
put the broken glass on his check and clear away the breakfast things.
Then he took his hat and coat and went out on the street.

He spent the morning on Fifth Avenue and on Broadway, wandering
aimlessly, gazing into the shop windows and watching the passing crowds.
He gradually assimilated the casual gait and manners of a visitor from
out of town, and when he tested himself out in a few shops and asked the
way of several people he found that nobody looked at him twice.

He had a typical American meal at an eating house called 'Gloryfried
Ham-N-Eggs' ('The Eggs We Serve Tomorrow Are Still in the Hens') on
Lexington Avenue and then took a cab downtown to police headquarters,
where he was due to meet Leiter and Dexter at 2.30.

A Lieutenant Binswanger of Homicide, a suspicious and crusty officer in
his late forties, announced that Commissioner Monahan had said that they
were to have complete co-operation from the Police Department. What
could he do for them? They examined Mr Big's police record, which more
or less duplicated Dexter's information, and they were shown the records
and photographs of most of his known associates.

They went over the reports of the US Coastguard Service on the comings
and goings of the yacht _Secatur_ and also the comments of the US
Customs Service, who had kept a close watch on the boat each time she
had docked at St Petersburg.

These confirmed that the yacht had put in at irregular intervals over
the previous six months and that she always tied up in the Port of St
Petersburg at the wharf of the 'Ourobouros Worm and Bait Shippers Inc.',
an apparently innocent concern whose main business was to sell live bait
to fishing clubs throughout Florida, the Gulf of Mexico and further
afield. The company also had a profitable sideline in sea-shells and
coral for interior decoration, and a further sideline in tropical
aquarium fish--particularly rare poisonous species for the research
departments of medical and chemical foundations.

According to the proprietor, a Greek sponge-fisher from the neighbouring
Tarpon Springs, the _Secatur_ did big business with his company,
bringing in cargoes of queen conchs and other shells from Jamaica and
also highly prized varieties of tropical fish. These were purchased by
Ourobouros Inc., stored in their warehouse and sold in bulk to
wholesalers and retailers up and down the coast. The name of the Greek
was Papagos. No criminal record.

The FBI, with the help of Naval Intelligence, had tried listening in to
the _Secatur's_ wireless. But she kept off the air except for short
messages before she sailed from Cuba or Jamaica and then transmitted _en
clair_ in a language which was unknown and completely indecipherable.
The last notation on the file was to the effect that the operator was
talking in 'Language', the secret Voodoo speech only used by initiates,
and that every effort would be made to hire an expert from Haiti before
the next sailing.

'More gold been turning up lately,' announced Lieutenant Binswanger as
they walked back to his office from the Identification Bureau across the
street. ''Bout a hundred coins a week in Harlem and New York alone. Want
us to do anything about it? If you're right and these are Commie funds,
they must be pulling it in pretty fast while we sit on our asses doin'
nothing.'

'Chief says to lay off,' said Dexter. 'Hope we'll see some action before
long.'

'Well, the case is all yours,' said Binswanger grudgingly. 'But the
Commissioner sure don't like having this bastard crappin' away on his
own front doorstep while Mr Hoover sits down in Washington well to
leeward of the stink. Why don't we pull him in on tax evasion or misuse
of the mails or parkin' in front of a hydrant or sumpn? Take him down to
the Tombs and give 'em the works? If the Feds won't do it, we'd be glad
to oblige.'

'D'you want a race riot?' objected Dexter sourly. 'There's nothing
against him and you know it, and we know it. If he wasn't sprung in half
an hour by that black mouthpiece of his, those Voodoo drums would start
beating from here to the Deep South. When they're full of that stuff we
all know what happens. Remember '35 and '43? You'd have to call out the
Militia. We didn't ask for the case. The President gave it to us and
we've got to stick with it.'

They were back in Binswanger's drab office. They picked up their coats
and hats.

'Anyway, thanks for the help, Lootenant,' said Dexter with forced
cordiality, as they made their farewells. 'Been most valuable.'

'You're welcome,' said Binswanger stonily. 'Elevator's to your right.'
He closed the door firmly behind them.

Leiter winked at Bond behind Dexter's back. They rode down to the main
entrance on Center Street in silence.

On the sidewalk, Dexter turned to them.

'Had some instructions from Washington this morning,' he said
unemotionally. 'Seems I'm to look after the Harlem end, and you two are
to go down to St Petersburg tomorrow. Leiter's to find out what he can
there and then move right on to Jamaica with you, Mr Bond. That is,' he
added, 'if you'd care to have him along. It's your territory.'

'Of course,' said Bond. 'I was going to ask if he could come anyway.'

'Fine,' said Dexter. 'Then I'll tell Washington everything's fixed.
Anything else I can do for you? All communications with FBI, Washington,
of course. Leiter's got the names of our men in Florida, knows the
Signals routine and so forth.'

'If Leiter's interested and if you don't mind,' said Bond, 'I'd like
very much to get up to Harlem this evening and have a look round. Might
help to have some idea of what it looks like in Mr Big's back yard.'

Dexter reflected.

'Okay,' he said finally. 'Probably no harm. But don't show yourselves
too much. And don't get hurt,' he added. 'There's no one to help you up
there. And don't go stirring up a lot of trouble for us. This case isn't
ripe yet. Until it is, our policy with Mr Big is "live and let live".'

Bond looked quizzically at Captain Dexter.

'In my job,' he said, 'when I come up against a man like this one, I
have another motto. It's "live and let die".'

Dexter shrugged his shoulders. 'Maybe,' he said, 'but you're under my
orders here, Mr Bond, and I'd be glad if you'd accept them.'

'Of course,' said Bond, 'and thanks for all your help. Hope you have
luck with your end of the job.'

Dexter flagged a cab. They shook hands.

''Bye, fellers,' said Dexter briefly. 'Stay alive.' His cab pulled out
into the uptown traffic.

Bond and Leiter smiled at each other.

'Able guy, I should say,' said Bond.

'They're all that in his show,' said Leiter. 'Bit inclined to be stuffed
shirts. Very touchy about their rights. Always bickering with us or with
the police. But I guess you have much the same problem in England.'

'Oh of course,' said Bond. 'We're always rubbing MI5 up the wrong way.
And they're always stepping on the corns of the Special Branch. Scotland
Yard,' he explained. 'Well, how about going up to Harlem tonight?'

'Suits me,' said Leiter. 'I'll drop you at the St Regis and pick you up
again about six-thirty. Meet you in the King Cole Bar, on the ground
floor. Guess you want to take a look at Mr Big,' he grinned. 'Well, so
do I, but it wouldn't have done to tell Dexter so.' He flagged a Yellow
Cab.

'St Regis Hotel. Fifth at 55th.'

They climbed into the overheated tin box reeking of last week's
cigar-smoke.

Leiter wound down a window.

'Whaddya want ter do?' asked the driver over his shoulder. 'Gimme
pneumony?'

'Just that,' said Leiter, 'if it means saving us from this gas chamber.'

'Wise guy, hn?' said the driver, crashing tinnily through his gears. He
took the chewed end of a cigar from behind his ear and held it up. 'Two
bits for three,' he said in a hurt voice.

'Twenty-four cents too much,' said Leiter. The rest of the drive was
passed in silence.

They parted at the hotel and Bond went up to his room. It was four
o'clock. He asked the telephone operator to call him at six. For a while
he looked out of the window of his bedroom. To his left, the sun was
setting in a blaze of colour. In the skyscrapers the lights were coming
on, turning the whole town into a golden honeycomb. Far below the
streets were rivers of neon lighting, crimson, blue, green. The wind
sighed sadly outside in the velvet dusk, lending his room still more
warmth and security and luxury. He drew the curtains and turned on the
soft lights over his bed. Then he took off his clothes and climbed
between the fine percale sheets. He thought of the bitter weather in the
London streets, the grudging warmth of the hissing gas-fire in his
office at Headquarters, the chalked-up menu on the pub he had passed on
his last day in London: 'Giant Toad & 2 Veg.'

He stretched luxuriously. Very soon he was asleep.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, 'The Whisper' was dozing over his
racing form. All his lines were quiet. Suddenly a light shone on the
right of the board--an important light.

'Yes, Boss,' he said softly into his headphone. He couldn't have spoken
any louder if he had wished to. He had been born on 'Lung Block', on
Seventh Avenue, at 142nd Street, where death from TB is twice as high as
anywhere in New York. Now, he only had part of one lung left.

'Tell all "Eyes",' said a slow, deep voice, 'to watch out from now on.
Three men.' A brief description of Leiter, Bond and Dexter followed.
'May be coming in this evening or tomorrow. Tell them to watch
particularly on First to Eight and the other Avenues. The night spots
too, in case they're missed coming in. They're not to be molested. Call
me when you get a sure fix. Got it?'

'Yes, Sir, Boss,' said The Whisper, breathing fast. The voice went
quiet. The operator took the whole handful of plugs, and soon the big
switchboard was alive with winking lights. Softly, urgently, he
whispered on into the evening.

                 *        *        *        *        *

At six o'clock Bond was awakened by the soft burr of the telephone. He
took a cold shower and dressed carefully. He put on a garishly striped
tie and allowed a broad wedge of bandana to protrude from his breast
pocket. He slipped the chamois leather holster over his shirt so that it
hung three inches below his left armpit. He whipped at the mechanism of
the Beretta until all eight bullets lay on the bed. Then he packed them
back into the magazine, loaded the gun, put up the safety-catch and
slipped it into the holster.

He picked up the pair of Moccasin casuals, felt their toes and weighed
them in his hand. Then he reached under the bed and pulled out a pair of
his own shoes he had carefully kept out of the suitcase full of his
belongings the FBI had taken away from him that morning.

He put them on and felt better equipped to face the evening.

Under the leather, the toe-caps were lined with steel.

At six twenty-five he went down to the King Cole Bar and chose a table
near the entrance and against the wall. A few minutes later Felix Leiter
came in. Bond hardly recognized him. His mop of straw-coloured hair was
now jet black and he wore a dazzling blue suit with a white shirt and a
black-and-white polka-dot tie.

Leiter sat down with a broad grin.

'I suddenly decided to take these people seriously,' he explained. 'This
stuff's only a rinse. It'll come off in the morning. I hope,' he added.

Leiter ordered medium-dry Martinis with a slice of lemon peel. He
stipulated House of Lords gin and Martini Rossi. The American gin, a
much higher proof than English gin, tasted harsh to Bond. He reflected
that he would have to be careful what he drank that evening.

'We'll have to keep on our toes, where we're going,' said Felix Leiter,
echoing his thoughts. 'Harlem's a bit of a jungle these days. People
don't go up there any more like they used to. Before the war, at the end
of an evening, one used to go to Harlem just as one goes to Montmartre
in Paris. They were glad to take one's money. One used to go to the
Savoy Ballroom and watch the dancing. Perhaps pick up a high-yaller and
risk the doctor's bills afterwards. Now that's all changed. Harlem
doesn't like being stared at any more. Most of the places have closed
and you go to the others strictly on sufferance. Often you get tossed
out on your ear, simply because you're white. And you don't get any
sympathy from the police either.'

Leiter extracted the lemon peel from his Martini and chewed it
reflectively. The bar was filling up. It was warm and companionable--a
far cry, Leiter reflected, from the inimical, electric climate of the
negro pleasure-spots they would be drinking in later.

'Fortunately,' continued Leiter, 'I like the negroes and they know it
somehow. I used to be a bit of an aficionado of Harlem. Wrote a few
pieces on Dixieland Jazz for the _Amsterdam News_, one of the local
papers. Did a series for the North American Newspaper Alliance on the
negro theatre about the time Orson Welles put on his _Macbeth_ with an
all-negro cast at the Lafayette. So I know my way about up there. And I
admire the way they're getting on in the world, though God knows I can't
see the end of it.'

They finished their drinks and Leiter called for the check.

'Of course there are some bad ones,' he said. 'Some of the worst
anywhere. Harlem's the capital of the negro world. In any half a million
people of any race you'll get plenty of stinkeroos. The trouble with our
friend Mr Big is that he's the hell of a good technician, thanks to his
OSS and Moscow training. And he must be pretty well organized up there.'

Leiter paid. He shrugged his shoulders.

'Let's go,' he said. 'We'll have ourselves some fun and try and get back
in one piece. After all, this is what we're paid for. We'll take a bus
on Fifth Avenue. You won't find many cabs that want to go up there after
dark.'

They walked out of the warm hotel and took the few steps to the bus stop
on the Avenue.

It was raining. Bond turned up the collar of his coat and gazed up the
Avenue to his right, towards Central Park, towards the dark citadel that
housed The Big Man.

Bond's nostrils flared slightly. He longed to get in there after him. He
felt strong and compact and confident. The evening awaited him, to be
opened and read, page by page, word by word.

In front of his eyes, the rain came down in swift, slanting
strokes--italic script across the unopened black cover that hid the
secret hours that lay ahead.




                            5. Nigger Heaven


At the bus stop at the corner of Fifth and Cathedral Parkway three
negroes stood quietly under the light of a street lamp. They looked wet
and bored. They were. They had been watching the traffic on Fifth since
the call went out at four-thirty.

'Yo next, Fatso,' said one of them as the bus came up out of the rain
and stopped with a sigh from the great vacuum brakes.

'Ahm tahd,' said the thick-set man in the mackintosh. But he pulled his
hat down over his eyes and climbed aboard, slotted his coins and moved
down the bus, scanning the occupants. He blinked as he saw the two white
men, walked on and took the seat directly behind them.

He examined the backs of their necks, their coats and hats and profiles.
Bond sat next to the window. The negro saw the reflection of his scar in
the dark glass.

He got up and moved to the front of the bus without looking back. At the
next stop he got off the bus and made straight for the nearest
drugstore. He shut himself into the paybox.

Whisper questioned him urgently, then broke the connection.

He plugged in on the right of the board.

'Yes?' said the deep voice.

'Boss, one of them's just come in on Fifth. The Limey with the scar. Got
a friend with him, but he don't seem to fit the dope on the other two.'
Whisper passed on an accurate description of Leiter. 'Coming north, both
of them,' he gave the number and probable timing of the bus.

There was a pause.

'Right,' said the quiet voice. 'Call off all Eyes on the other avenues.
Warn the night spots that one of them's inside and get this to Tee-Hee
Johnson, McThing, Blabbermouth Foley, Sam Miami and The Flannel...'

The voice spoke for five minutes.

'Got that? Repeat.'

'Yes, Sir, Boss,' said The Whisper. He glanced at his shorthand pad and
whispered fluently and without a pause into the mouthpiece.

'Right.' The line went dead.

His eyes bright, The Whisper took up a fistful of plugs and started
talking to the town.

                 *        *        *        *        *

From the moment that Bond and Leiter walked under the canopy of Sugar
Ray's on Seventh Avenue at 123rd Street there was a team of men and
women watching them or waiting to watch them, speaking softly to The
Whisper at the big switchboard on the Riverside Exchange, handing them
on towards the rendezvous. In a world where they were naturally the
focus of attention, neither Bond nor Leiter felt the hidden machine nor
sensed the tension around them.

In the famous night spot the stools against the long bar were crowded,
but one of the small booths against the wall was empty and Bond and
Leiter slipped into the two seats with the narrow table between them.

They ordered scotch-and-soda--Haig and Haig Pinchbottle. Bond looked the
crowd over. It was nearly all men. There were two or three whites,
boxing fans or reporters for the New York sports columns, Bond decided.
The atmosphere was warmer, louder than downtown. The walls were covered
with boxing photographs, mostly of Sugar Ray Robinson and of scenes from
his great fights. It was a cheerful place, doing great business.

'He was a wise guy, Sugar Ray,' said Leiter. 'Let's hope we both know
when to stop when the time comes. He stashed plenty away and now he's
adding to his pile on the music halls. His percentage of this place must
be worth a packet and he owns a lot of real estate around here. He works
hard still, but it's not the sort of work that sends you blind or gives
you a haemorrhage of the brain. He quit while he was still alive.'

'He'll probably back a Broadway show and lose it all,' said Bond. 'If I
quit now and went in for fruit-farming in Kent, I'd most likely hit the
worst weather since the Thames froze over, and be cleaned out. One can't
plan for everything.'

'One can try,' said Leiter. 'But I know what you mean--better the
frying-pan you know than the fire you don't. It isn't a bad life when it
consists of sitting in a comfortable bar drinking good whisky. How do
you like this corner of the jungle?' He leant forward. 'Just listen in
to the couple behind you. From what I've heard they're straight out of
"Nigger Heaven".'

Bond glanced carefully over his shoulder.

The booth behind him contained a handsome young negro in an expensive
fawn suit with exaggerated shoulders. He was lolling back against the
wall with one foot up on the bench beside him. He was paring the nails
of his left hand with a small silver pocket-knife, occasionally glancing
in bored fashion towards the animation at the bar. His head rested on
the back of the booth just behind Bond and a whiff of expensive
hair-straightener came from him. Bond took in the artificial parting
traced with a razor across the left side of the scalp, through the
almost straight hair which was a tribute to his mother's constant
application of the hot comb since childhood. The plain black silk tie
and the white shirt were in good taste.

Opposite him, leaning forward with concern on her pretty face, was a
sexy little negress with a touch of white blood in her. Her jet-black
hair, as sleek as the best permanent wave, framed a sweet almond-shaped
face with rather slanting eyes under finely drawn eyebrows. The deep
purple of her parted, sensual lips was thrilling against the bronze
skin. All that Bond could see of her clothes was the bodice of a black
satin evening dress, tight and revealing across the firm, small breasts.
She wore a plain gold chain round her neck and a plain gold band round
each thin wrist.

She was pleading anxiously and paid no heed to Bond's quick embracing
glance.

'Listen and see if you can get the hang of it,' said Leiter. 'It's
straight Harlem--Deep South with a lot of New York thrown in.'

Bond picked up the menu and leant back in the booth, studying the
Special Fried Chicken Dinner at $3.75.

'Cmon, honey,' wheedled the girl. 'How come yuh-all's actin' so tahd
tonight?'

'Guess ah jist nacherlly gits tahd listenin' at yuh,' said the man
languidly. 'Why'nt yuh hush yo' mouff'n let me 'joy mahself 'n peace 'n
qui-yet.'

'Is yuh wan' me tuh go 'way, honey?'

'Yuh kin suit yo sweet self.'

'Aw, honey,' pleaded the girl. 'Don' ack mad at me, honey. Ah was fixin'
tuh treat yuh tonight. Take yuh tuh Smalls Par'dise, mebbe. See dem
high-yallers shakin' 'n truckin'. Dat Birdie Johnson, da matre d', he
permis me a ringside whenebber Ah come nex'.'

The man's voice suddenly sharpened. 'Wha' dat Birdie he mean tuh yuh,
hey?' he asked suspiciously. 'Perzackly,' he paused to let the big word
sink in, 'perzackly wha' goes 'tween yuh 'n dat lowdown ornery wuthless
Nigguh? Yuh sleepin' wid him mebbe? Guess Ah gotta study 'bout dat
little situayshun 'tween yuh an' Birdie Johnson. Mebbe git mahself a
betterer gal. Ah jist don' lak gals which runs off ever' which way when
Ah jist happen be busticated temporaneously. Yesmam. Ah gotta study
'bout dat little situayshun.' He paused threateningly. 'Sure have,' he
added.

'Aw, honey,' the girl was anxious, 'dey ain't no use tryin' tuh git mad
at me. Ah done nuthen tuh give yuh recasion tuh ack dat way. Ah jist
thunk you mebbe preshiate a ringside at da Par'dise 'nstead of settin'
hyah countin' yo troubles. Why, honey, yuh all knows Ah wudden fall fo'
dat richcrat ack' of Birdie Johnson. No sir. He don' mean nuthen tuh me.
Him duh wusstes' man 'n Harlem, dawg bite me effn he ain't. All da same,
he permis me da bestess seats 'nda house 'n Ah sez let's us go set 'n
dem, 'n have us a beer 'n a good time. Cmon, honey. Let's git out of
hyah. Yuh done look so swell 'n Ah jist wan' mah frens tuh see usn
together.'

'Yuh done look okay yoself, honeychile,' said the man, mollified by the
tribute to his elegance, 'an' dat's da troof. But Ah mus' spressify dat
yuh stays close up tuh me an keeps yo eyes off'n dat lowdown trash 'n
his hot pants. 'N Ah may say,' he added threateningly, 'dat ef Ah
ketches yuh makin' up tuh dat dope Ah'll jist nachrally whup da hide
off'n yo sweet ass.'

'Shoh ting, honey,' whispered the girl excitedly.

Bond heard the man's foot scrape off the seat to the ground.

'Cmon, baby, lessgo. Waiduh!'

Bond put down the menu. 'Got the gist of it,' he said. 'Seems they're
interested in much the same things as everyone else--sex, having fun,
and keeping up with the Joneses. Thank God they're not genteel about
it.'

'Some of them are,' said Leiter. 'Tea-cups, aspidistras and tut-tutting
all over the place. The Methodists are almost their strongest sect.
Harlem's riddled with social distinctions, the same as any other big
city, but with all the colour variations added. Come on,' he suggested,
'let's go and get ourselves something to eat.'

They finished their drinks and Bond called for the check.

'All this evening's on me,' he said. 'I've got a lot of money to get rid
of and I've brought three hundred dollars of it along with me.'

'Suits me,' said Leiter, who knew about Bond's thousand dollars.

As the waiter was picking up the change, Leiter suddenly said, 'Know
where The Big Man's operating tonight?'

The waiter showed the whites of his eyes.

He leant forward and flicked the table down with his napkin.

'I've got a wife'n kids, Boss,' he muttered out of the corner of his
mouth. He stacked the glasses on his tray and went back to the bar.

'Mr Big's got the best protection of all,' said Leiter. 'Fear.'

They went out on to Seventh Avenue. The rain had stopped, but 'Hawkins',
the bone-chilling wind from the north which the negroes greet with a
reverent 'Hawkins is here', had come instead to keep the streets free of
their usual crowds. Leiter and Bond moved with the trickle of couples on
the sidewalk. The looks they got were mostly contemptuous or frankly
hostile. One or two men spat in the gutter when they had passed.

Bond suddenly felt the force of what Leiter had told him. They were
trespassing. They just weren't wanted. Bond felt the uneasiness that he
had known so well during the war, when he had been working for a time
behind the enemy lines. He shrugged the feeling away.

'We'll go to Ma Frazier's, further up the Avenue,' said Leiter. 'Best
food in Harlem, or at any rate it used to be.'

As they went along Bond gazed into the shop windows.

He was struck by the number of barbers' saloons and 'beauticians'. They
all advertised various forms of hair-straightener--'Apex Glossatina, for
use with the hot comb', 'Silky Strate. Leaves no redness, no burn'--or
nostrums for bleaching the skin. Next in frequency were the haberdashers
and clothes shops, with fantastic men's snakeskin shoes, shirts with
small aeroplanes as a pattern, peg-top trousers with inch-wide stripes,
zoot suits. All the book shops were full of educational literature--how
to learn this, how to do that--and comics. There were several shops
devoted to lucky charms and various occultisms--_Seven Keys to Power_,
'The Strangest book ever written', with sub-titles such as: 'If you are
CROSSED, shows you how to remove and cast it back.' 'Chant your desires
in the Silent Tongue.' 'Cast a spell on anyone, no matter where.' 'Make
any person love you.' Among the charms were 'High John the Conqueror
Root', 'Money Drawing Brand Oil', 'Sachet Powders, Uncrossing Brand',
'Incense, Jinx Removing Brand', and the 'Lucky Whamie Hand Charm, Giving
Protection from Evil. Confuses and Baffles Enemies'.

Bond reflected it was no wonder that the Big Man found Voodooism such a
powerful weapon on minds that still recoiled at a white chicken's
feather or crossed sticks in the road--right in the middle of the
shining capital city of the Western world.

'I'm glad we came up here,' said Bond. 'I'm beginning to get the hang of
Mr Big. One just doesn't catch the smell of all this in a country like
England. We're a superstitious lot there of course--particularly the
Celts--but here one can almost hear the drums.'

Leiter grunted. 'I'll be glad to get back to my bed,' he said. 'But we
need to size up this guy before we decide how to get at him.'

Ma Frazier's was a cheerful contrast to the bitter streets. They had an
excellent meal of Little Neck Clams and Fried Chicken Maryland with
bacon and sweet corn. 'We've got to have it,' said Leiter. 'It's the
national dish.'

It was very civilized in the warm restaurant. Their waiter seemed glad
to see them and pointed out various celebrities, but when Leiter slipped
in a question about Mr Big the waiter seemed not to hear. He kept away
from them until they called for their bill.

Leiter repeated the question.

'Sorry, Sah,' said the waiter briefly. 'Ah cain't recall a gemmun of dat
name.'

By the time they left the restaurant it was ten-thirty and the Avenue
was almost deserted. They took a cab to the Savoy Ballroom, had a
scotch-and-soda, and watched the dancers.

'Most modern dances were invented here,' said Leiter. 'That's how good
it is. The Lindy Hop, Truckin', the Susie Q, the Shag. All started on
that floor. Every big American band you've ever heard of is proud that
it once played here--Duke Ellington, Louis Armstrong, Cab Calloway,
Noble Sissle, Fletcher Henderson. It's the Mecca of jazz and jive.'

They had a table near the rail round the huge floor. Bond was
spellbound. He found many of the girls very beautiful. The music
hammered its way into his pulse until he almost forgot what he was there
for.

'Gets you, doesn't it?' said Leiter at last. 'I could stay here all
night. Better move along. We'll miss out Small's Paradise. Much the same
as this, but not quite in the same class. Think I'll take you to "Yeah
Man", back on Seventh. After that we must get moving to one of Mr Big's
own joints. Trouble is, they don't open till midnight. I'll pay a visit
to the washroom while you get the check. See if I can get a line on
where we're likely to find him tonight. We don't want to have to go to
all his places.'

Bond paid the check and met Leiter downstairs in the narrow entrance
hall.

Leiter drew him outside and they walked up the street looking for a cab.

'Cost me twenty bucks,' said Leiter, 'but the word is he'll be at The
Boneyard. Small place on Lenox Avenue. Quite close to his headquarters.
Hottest strip in town. Girl called G-G Sumatra. We'll have another drink
at "Yeah Man" and hear the piano. Move on at about twelve-thirty.'

The big switchboard, now only a few blocks away, was almost quiet. The
two men had been checked in and out of Sugar Ray's, Ma Frazier's and the
Savoy Ballroom. Midnight had them entering Yeah Man. At twelve-thirty
the final call came and then the board was silent.

Mr Big spoke on the house-phone. First to the head waiter.

'Two white men coming in in five minutes. Give them the Z table.'

'Yes, Sir, Boss,' said the head waiter. He hurried across the
dance-floor to a table away on the right, obscured from most of the room
by a wide pillar. It was next to the Service entrance but with a good
view of the floor and the band opposite.

It was occupied by a party of four, two men and two girls.

'Sorry folks,' said the head waiter. 'Been a mistake. Table's reserved.
Newspaper men from downtown.'

One of the men began to argue.

'Move, Bud,' said the head waiter crisply. 'Lofty, show these folks to
table F. Drinks is on the house. Sam,' he beckoned to another waiter,
'clear the table. Two covers.' The party of four moved docilely away,
mollified by the prospect of free liquor. The head waiter put a RESERVED
sign on table Z, surveyed it and returned to his post at his table-plan
on the high desk beside the curtained entrance.

Meanwhile Mr Big had made two more calls on the house-phone. One to the
Master of Ceremonies.

'Lights out at the end of G-G's act.'

'Yes, Sir, Boss,' said the MC with alacrity.

The other call was to four men who were playing craps in the basement.
It was a long call, and very detailed.




                               6. Table Z


At twelve forty-five Bond and Leiter paid off their cab and walked in
under the sign which announced 'The Boneyard' in violet and green neon.

The thudding rhythm and the sour-sweet smell rocked them as they pushed
through the heavy curtains inside the swing door. The eyes of the
hat-check girls glowed and beckoned.

'Have you reserved, Sir?' asked the head waiter.

'No,' said Leiter. 'We don't mind sitting at the bar.'

The head waiter consulted his table-plan. He seemed to decide. He put
his pencil firmly through a space at the end of the card.

'Party hasn't shown. Guess Ah cain't hold their res'vation all night.
This way, please.' He held his card high over his head and led them
round the small crowded dance-floor. He pulled out one of the two chairs
and removed the RESERVED sign.

'Sam,' he called a waiter over. 'Look after these gemmums order.' He
moved away.

They ordered scotch-and-soda and chicken sandwiches.

Bond sniffed. 'Marihuana,' he commented.

'Most of the real hep-cats smoke reefers,' explained Leiter. 'Wouldn't
be allowed most places.'

Bond looked round. The music had stopped. The small four-piece band,
clarinet, double-bass, electric guitar and drums, was moving out of the
corner opposite. The dozen or so couples were walking and jiving to
their tables and the crimson light was turned off under the glass
dance-floor. Instead, pencil-thin lights in the roof came on and hit
coloured glass witchballs, larger than footballs, that hung at intervals
round the wall. They were of different hues, golden, blue, green,
violet, red. As the beams of light hit them, they glowed like coloured
suns. The walls, varnished black, mirrored their reflections as did the
sweat on the ebony faces of the men. Sometimes a man sitting between two
lights showed cheeks of different colour, green on one side, perhaps,
and red on the other. The lighting made it impossible to distinguish
features unless they were only a few feet away. Some of the lights
turned the girls' lipstick black, others lit their whole faces in a warm
glow on one side and gave the other profile the luminosity of a drowned
corpse.

The whole scene was macabre and livid, as if El Greco had done a
painting by moonlight of an exhumed graveyard in a burning town.

It was not a large room, perhaps sixty foot square. There were about
fifty tables and the customers were packed in like black olives in a
jar. It was hot and the air was thick with smoke and the sweet, feral
smell of two hundred negro bodies. The noise was terrific--an undertone
of the jabber of negroes enjoying themselves without restraint,
punctuated by sharp bursts of noise, shouts and high giggles, as loud
voices called to each other across the room.

'Sweet Jeessus, look who's hyar...'

'Where you been keepin' yoself, baby...'

'Gawd's troof. It's Pinkus... Hi Pinkus...'

'Cmon over...'

'Lemme be... Lemme be, I'se telling ya...' (The noise of a slap.)

'Where's G-G? Cmon G-G. Strut yo stuff...'

From time to time a man or girl would erupt on to the dance-floor and
start a wild solo jive. Friends would clap the rhythm. There would be a
burst of catcalls and whistles. If it was a girl, there would be cries
of 'Strip, strip, strip,' 'Get hot, baby!' 'Shake it, shake it,' and the
MC would come out and clear the floor amidst groans and shouts of
derision.

The sweat began to bead on Bond's forehead. Leiter leant over and cupped
his hands. 'Three exits. Front. Service behind us. Behind the band.'
Bond nodded. At that moment he felt it didn't matter. This was nothing
new to Leiter, but for Bond it was a close-up of the raw material on
which The Big Man worked, the clay in his hands. The evening was
gradually putting flesh on the dossiers he had read in London and New
York. If the evening ended now, without any closer sight of Mr Big
himself, Bond still felt his education in the case would be almost
complete. He took a deep draught of his whisky. There was a burst of
applause. The MC had come out on to the dance-floor, a tall negro in
immaculate tails with a red carnation in his button hole. He stood,
holding up his hands. A single white spotlight caught him. The rest of
the room went dark.

There was silence.

'Folks,' announced the MC with a broad flash of gold and white teeth.
'This is it.'

There was excited clapping.

He turned to the left of the floor, directly across from Leiter and
Bond.

He flung out his right hand. Another spot came on.

'Mistah Jungles Japhet 'n his drums.'

A crash of applause, catcalls, whistles.

Four grinning negroes in flame-coloured shirts and peg-top white
trousers were revealed, squatting astride four tapering barrels with
rawhide membranes. The drums were of different sizes. The negroes were
all gaunt and stringy. The one sitting astride the bass drum rose
briefly and shook clasped hands at the spectators.

'Voodoo drummers from Haiti,' whispered Leiter.

There was silence. With the tips of their fingers the drummers began a
slow, broken beat, a soft rumba shuffle.

'And now, friends,' announced the MC, still turned towards the drums,
'G-G...' he paused, 'SUMATRA.'

The last word was a yell. He began to clap. There was pandemonium in the
room, a frenzy of applause. The door behind the drums burst open and two
huge negroes, naked except for gold loincloths, ran out on to the floor
carrying between them, her arms round their necks, a tiny figure,
swathed completely in black ostrich feathers, a black domino across her
eyes.

They put her down in the middle of the floor. They bowed down on either
side of her until their foreheads met the ground. She took two paces
forward. With the spotlight off them, the two negroes melted away into
the shadows and through the door.

The MC had disappeared. There was absolute silence save for the soft
thud of the drums.

The girl put her hand up to her throat and the cloak of black feathers
came away from the front of her body and spread out into a five-foot
black fan. She swirled it slowly behind her until it stood up like a
peacock's tail. She was naked except for a brief vee of black lace and a
black sequined star in the centre of each breast and the thin black
domino across her eyes. Her body was small, hard, bronze, beautiful. It
was slightly oiled and glinted in the white light.

The audience was silent. The drums began to step up the tempo. The bass
drum kept its beat dead on the timing of the human pulse.

The girl's naked stomach started slowly to revolve in time with the
rhythm. She swept the black feathers across and behind her again, and
her hips started to grind in time with the bass drum. The upper part of
her body was motionless. The black feathers swirled again, and now her
feet were shifting, and her shoulders. The drums beat louder. Each part
of her body seemed to be keeping a different time. Her lips were bared
slightly from her teeth. Her nostrils began to flare. Her eyes glinted
hotly through the diamond slits. It was a sexy, pug-like face--_chienne_
was the only word Bond could think of.

The drums thudded faster, a complexity of interlaced rhythms. The girl
tossed the big fan off the floor, held her arms up above her head. Her
whole body began to shiver. Her belly moved faster. Round and round, in
and out. Her legs straddled. Her hips began to revolve in a wide circle.
Suddenly she plucked the sequined star off her right breast and threw it
into the audience. The first noise came from the spectators, a quiet
growl. Then they were silent again. She plucked off the other star.
Again the growl and then silence. The drums began to crash and roll.
Sweat poured off the drummers. Their hands fluttered like grey flannel
on the pale membranes. Their eyes were bulging, distant. Their heads
were slightly bent to one side as if they were listening. They hardly
glanced at the girl. The audience panted softly, liquid eyes bulging and
rolling.

The sweat was shining all over her now. Her breasts and stomach
glistened with it. She broke into great shuddering jerks. Her mouth
opened and she screamed softly. Her hands snaked down to her sides and
suddenly she had torn away the strip of lace. She threw it into the
audience. There was nothing now but a single black G-string. The drums
went into a hurricane of sexual rhythm. She screamed softly again and
then, her arms stretched before her as a balance, she started to lower
her body down to the floor and up again. Faster and faster. Bond could
hear the audience panting and grunting like pigs at the trough. He felt
his own hands gripping the tablecloth. His mouth was dry.

The audience began to shout at her. 'Cmon, G-G. Take it away, Baby.
Cmon. Grind, Baby, grind.'

She sank to her knees and as the rhythm slowly died so she too went into
a last series of juddering spasms, mewing softly.

The drums came down to a slow tom-tom beat and shuffle. The audience
howled for her body. Harsh obscenities came from different corners of
the room.

The MC came on to the floor. A spot went on him.

'Okay, folks, okay.' The sweat was pouring off his chin. He spread his
arms in surrender.

'Da G-G AGREES!'

There was a delighted howl from the audience. Now she would be quite
naked. 'Take it off, G-G. Show yoself, Baby. Cmon, cmon.'

The drums growled and stuttered softly.

'But, mah friends,' yelled the MC, 'she stipperlates--with da lights
OUT!'

There was a frustrated groan from the audience. The whole room was
plunged in darkness.

Must be an old gag, thought Bond to himself.

Suddenly all his senses were alert.

The howling of the mob was disappearing, rapidly. At the same time he
felt cold air on his face. He felt as if he was sinking.

'Hey!' shouted Leiter. His voice was close but it sounded hollow.

Christ! thought Bond.

Something snapped shut above his head. He put his hand out behind him.
It touched a moving wall a foot from his back.

'Lights,' said a voice, quietly.

At the same time both his arms were gripped. He was pressed down in his
chair.

Opposite him, still at the table, sat Leiter, a huge negro grasping his
elbows. They were in a tiny square cell. To right and left were two more
negroes in plain clothes with guns trained on them.

There was the sharp hiss of a hydraulic garage lift and the table
settled quietly to the floor. Bond glanced up. There was the faint join
of a broad trap-door a few feet above their heads. No sound came through
it.

One of the negroes grinned.

'Take it easy, folks. Enjoy da ride?'

Leiter let out one single harsh obscenity. Bond relaxed his muscles,
waiting.

'Which is da Limey?' asked the negro who had spoken. He seemed to be in
charge. The pistol he held trained lazily on Bond's heart was very
fancy. There was a glint of mother-of-pearl between his black fingers on
the stock and the long octagonal barrel was finely chased.

'Dis one, Ah guess,' said the negro who was holding Bond's arm. 'He got
da scar.'

The negro's grip on Bond's arm was terrific. It was as if he had two
fierce tourniquets applied above the elbows. His hands were beginning to
go numb.

The man with the fancy gun came round the corner of the table. He shoved
the muzzle of his gun into Bond's stomach. The hammer was back.

'You oughtn't to miss at that range,' said Bond.

'Shaddap,' said the negro. He frisked Bond expertly with his left
hand--legs, thighs, back, sides. He dug out Bond's gun and handed it to
the other armed man.

'Give dat to da Boss, Tee-Hee,' he said. 'Take da Limey up. Yuh go 'long
wid em. Da other guy stays wid me.'

'Yassuh,' said the man called Tee-Hee, a paunchy negro in a chocolate
shirt and lavender-coloured peg-top trousers.

Bond was hauled to his feet. He had one foot hooked under a leg of the
table. He yanked hard. There was a crash of glass and silverware. At the
same moment, Leiter kicked out backwards round the leg of his chair.
There was a satisfactory 'klonk' as his heel caught his guard's shin.
Bond did the same but missed. There was a moment of chaos, but neither
of the guards slackened his grip. Leiter's guard picked him bodily out
of the chair as if he had been a child, faced him to the wall and
slammed him into it. It nearly smashed Leiter's nose. The guard swung
him round. Blood was streaming down over his mouth.

The two guns were still trained unwaveringly on them. It had been a
futile effort, but for a split second they had regained the initiative
and effaced the sudden shock of capture.

'Don' waste yo breff,' said the negro who had been giving the orders.
'Take da Limey away.' He addressed Bond's guard. 'Mr Big's waiten'.' He
turned to Leiter. 'Yo kin tell yo fren' goodbye,' he said. 'Yo is
unlikely be seein' yoselves agin.'

Bond smiled at Leiter. 'Lucky we made a date for the police to meet us
here at two,' he said. 'See you at the line-up.'

Leiter grinned back. His teeth were red with blood. 'Commissioner
Monahan's going to be pleased with this bunch. Be seeing you.'

'Crap,' said the negro with conviction. 'Get goin'.'

Bond's guard whipped him round and shoved him against a section of the
wall. It opened on a pivot into a long bare passage. The man called
Tee-Hee pushed past them and led the way.

The door swung to behind them.




                             7. Mister Big


Their footsteps echoed down the stone passage. At the end there was a
door. They went through into another long passage lit by an occasional
bare bulb in the roof. Another door and they found themselves in a large
warehouse. Cases and bales were stacked in neat piles. There were
runways for overhead cranes. From the markings on the crates it seemed
to be a liquor store. They followed an aisle across to an iron door. The
man called Tee-Hee rang a bell. There was absolute silence. Bond guessed
they must have walked at least a block away from the nightclub.

There was a clang of bolts and the door opened. A negro in evening dress
with a gun in his hand stepped aside and they went through into a
carpeted hallway.

'Yo kin go on in, Tee-Hee,' said the man in evening dress.

Tee-Hee knocked on a door facing them, opened it and led the way
through.

In a high-backed chair, behind an expensive desk, Mr Big sat looking
quietly at them.

'Good morning, Mister James Bond.' The voice was deep and soft. 'Sit
down.'

Bond's guard led him across the thick carpet to a low armchair in
leather and tubular steel. He released Bond's arms and Bond sat down and
faced The Big Man across the wide desk.

It was a blessed relief to be rid of the two vice-like hands. All
sensation had left Bond's forearms. He let them hang beside him and
welcomed the dull pain as the blood started to flow again.

Mr Big sat looking at him, his huge head resting against the back of the
tall chair. He said nothing.

Bond at once realized that the photographs had conveyed nothing of this
man, nothing of the power and the intellect which seemed to radiate from
him, nothing of the over-size features.

It was a great football of a head, twice the normal size and very nearly
round. The skin was grey-black, taut and shining like the face of a
week-old corpse in the river. It was hairless, except for some
grey-brown fluff above the ears. There were no eyebrows and no eyelashes
and the eyes were extraordinarily far apart so that one could not focus
on them both, but only on one at a time. Their gaze was very steady and
penetrating. When they rested on something, they seemed to devour it, to
encompass the whole of it. They bulged slightly and the irises were
golden round black pupils which were now wide. They were animal eyes,
not human, and they seemed to blaze.

The nose was wide without being particularly negroid. The nostrils did
not gape at you. The lips were only slightly everted, but thick and
dark. They opened only when the man spoke and then they opened wide and
drew back from the teeth and the pale pink gums.

There were few wrinkles or creases on the face, but there were two deep
clefts above the nose, the clefts of concentration. Above them the
forehead bulged slightly before merging with the polished, hairless
crown.

Curiously, there was nothing disproportionate about the monstrous head.
It was carried on a wide, short neck supported by the shoulders of a
giant. Bond knew from the records that he was six and a half foot tall
and weighed twenty stone, and that little of it was fat. But the total
impression was awe-inspiring, even terrifying, and Bond could imagine
that so ghastly a misfit must have been bent since childhood on revenge
against fate and against the world that hated him because it feared him.

The Big Man was draped in a dinner-jacket. There was a hint of vanity in
the diamonds that blazed on his shirt-front and at his cuffs. His huge
flat hands rested half-curled on the table in front of him. There were
no signs of cigarettes or an ash-tray and the smell of the room was
neutral. There was nothing on the desk save a large intercom with about
twenty switches and, incongruously, a very small ivory riding-crop with
a long thin white lash.

Mr Big gazed with silent and deep concentration across the table at
Bond.

After inspecting him carefully in return, Bond glanced round the room.

It was full of books, spacious and restful and very quiet, like the
library of a millionaire.

There was one high window above Mr Big's head but otherwise the walls
were solid with bookshelves. Bond turned round in his chair. More
bookshelves, packed with books. There was no sign of a door, but there
might have been any number of doors faced with dummy books. The two
negroes who had brought him to the room stood rather uneasily against
the wall behind his chair. The whites of their eyes showed. They were
not looking at Mr Big, but at a curious effigy which stood on a table in
an open space of floor to the right, and slightly behind Mr Big.

Even with his slight knowledge of Voodoo, Bond recognized it at once
from Leigh Fermor's description.

A five-foot white wooden cross stood on a raised white pedestal. The
arms of the cross were thrust into the sleeves of a dusty black
frock-coat whose tails hung down behind the table towards the floor.
Above the neck of the coat a battered bowler hat gaped at him, its crown
pierced by the vertical bar of the cross. A few inches below the rim,
round the neck of the cross, resting on the cross-bar, was a deep
starched clergyman's collar.

At the base of the white pedestal, on the table, lay an old pair of
lemon-coloured gloves. A short malacca stick with a gold knob, its
ferrule resting beside the gloves, rose against the left shoulder of the
effigy. Also on the table was a battered black top hat.

This evil scarecrow gazed out across the room--God of the Cemeteries and
Chief of the Legion of the Dead--Baron Samedi. Even to Bond it seemed to
carry a dreadful gaping message.

Bond looked away, back to the great grey-black face across the desk.

Mr Big spoke.

'I want you, Tee-Hee.' His eyes shifted. 'You can go, Miami.'

'Yes, Sir, Boss,' they both said together.

Bond heard a door open and close.

Silence fell again. At first, Mr Big's eyes had been focused sharply on
Bond. They had examined him minutely. Now, Bond noticed that though the
eyes rested on him they had become slightly opaque. They gazed upon Bond
without perception. Bond had the impression that the brain behind them
was occupied elsewhere.

Bond was determined not to be disconcerted. Feeling had returned to his
hands and he moved them towards his body to reach for his cigarettes and
lighter.

Mr Big spoke.

'You may smoke, Mister Bond. In case you have any other intentions you
may care to lean forward and inspect the keyhole of the drawer in this
desk facing your chair. I shall be ready for you in a moment.'

Bond leant forward. It was a large keyhole. In fact, Bond estimated, .45
of an inch in diameter. Fired, Bond supposed, by a foot-switch under the
desk. What a bunch of tricks this man was. Puerile. Puerile? Perhaps,
after all, not to be dismissed so easily. The tricks--the bomb, the
disappearing table--had worked neatly, efficiently. They had not been
just empty conceits, designed to impress. Again, there was nothing
absurd about this gun. Rather painstaking, perhaps, but, he had to
admit, technically sound.

He lit a cigarette and gratefully drew the smoke deep into his lungs. He
did not feel particularly worried by his position. He refused to believe
he would come to any harm. It would be a clumsy affair to have him
disappear a couple of days after he arrived from England unless a very
expert accident could be contrived. And Leiter would have to be disposed
of at the same time. That would be altogether too much for their two
Services and Mr Big must know it. But he was worried about Leiter in the
hands of those clumsy black apes.

The Big Man's lips rolled slowly back from his teeth.

'I have not seen a member of the Secret Service for many years, Mister
Bond. Not since the war. Your Service did well in the war. You have some
able men. I learn from my friends that you are high up in your Service.
You have a double-0 number, I believe--007, if I remember right. The
significance of that double-0 number, they tell me, is that you have had
to kill a man in the course of some assignment. There cannot be many
double-0 numbers in a Service which does not use assassination as a
weapon. Whom have you been sent over to kill here, Mister Bond? Not me
by any chance?'

The voice was soft and even, without expression. There was a slight
mixture of accents, American and French, but the English was almost
pedantically accurate, without a trace of slang.

Bond remained silent. He assumed that Moscow had signalled his
description.

'It is necessary for you to reply, Mister Bond. The fate of both of you
depends upon your doing so. I have confidence in the sources of my
information. I know much more than I have said. I shall easily detect a
lie.'

Bond believed him. He chose a story he could support and which would
cover the facts.

'There are English gold coins circulating in America. Edward IV Rose
Nobles,' he said. 'Some have been sold in Harlem. The American Treasury
asked for assistance in tracing them since they must come from a British
source. I came up to Harlem to see for myself, with a representative of
the American Treasury, who I hope is now safely on his way back to his
hotel.'

'Mr Leiter is a representative of the Central Intelligence Agency, not
of the Treasury,' said Mr Big without emotion. 'His position at this
moment is extremely precarious.'

He paused and seemed to reflect. He looked past Bond.

'Tee-Hee.'

'Yassuh, Boss.'

'Tie Mr Bond to his chair.'

Bond half rose to his feet.

'Don't move, Mister Bond,' said the voice softly. 'You have a bare
chance of survival if you stay where you are.'

Bond looked at The Big Man, at the golden, impassive eyes.

He lowered himself back into his chair. Immediately a broad strap was
passed round his body and buckled tight. Two short straps went round his
wrists and tied them to the leather and metal arms. Two more went round
his ankles. He could hurl himself and the chair to the floor, but
otherwise he was powerless.

Mr Big pressed down a switch on the intercom.

'Send in Miss Solitaire,' he said and centred the switch again.

There was a moment's pause and then a section of the bookcase to the
right of the desk swung open.

One of the most beautiful women Bond had ever seen came slowly in and
closed the door behind her. She stood just inside the room and stood
looking at Bond, taking him in slowly inch by inch, from his head to his
feet. When she had completed her detailed inspection, she turned to Mr
Big.

'Yes?' she inquired flatly.

Mr Big had not moved his head. He addressed Bond.

'This is an extraordinary woman, Mister Bond,' he said in the same
quiet, soft voice, 'and I am going to marry her because she is unique. I
found her in a cabaret in Haiti, where she was born. She was doing a
telepathic act which I could not understand. I looked into it and I
still could not understand. There was nothing to understand. It was
telepathy.'

Mr Big paused.

'I tell you this to warn you. She is my inquisitor. Torture is messy and
inconclusive. People tell you what will ease the pain. With this girl it
is not necessary to use clumsy methods. She can divine the truth in
people. That is why she is to be my wife. She is too valuable to remain
at liberty. And,' he continued blandly, 'it will be interesting to see
our children.'

Mr Big turned towards her and gazed at her impassively.

'For the time being she is difficult. She will have nothing to do with
men. That is why, in Haiti, she was called "Solitaire".'

'Draw up a chair,' he said quietly to her. 'Tell me if this man lies.
Keep clear of the gun,' he added.

The girl said nothing but took a chair similar to Bond's from beside the
wall and pushed it towards him. She sat down, almost touching his right
knee. She looked into his eyes.

Her face was pale, with the pallor of white families that have lived
long in the tropics. But it contained no trace of the usual exhaustion
which the tropics impart to the skin and hair. The eyes were blue,
alight and disdainful, but, as they gazed into his with a touch of
humour, he realized they contained some message for him personally. It
quickly vanished as his own eyes answered. Her hair was blue-black and
fell heavily to her shoulders. She had high cheekbones and a wide,
sensual mouth which held a hint of cruelty. Her jawline was delicate and
finely cut. It showed decision and an iron will which were repeated in
the straight, pointed nose. Part of the beauty of the face lay in its
lack of compromise. It was a face born to command. The face of the
daughter of a French Colonial slave-owner.

She wore a long evening dress of heavy white matt silk whose classical
line was broken by the deep folds which fell from her shoulders and
revealed the upper half of her breasts. She wore diamond earrings,
square-cut in broken bands, and a thin diamond bracelet on her left
wrist. She wore no rings. Her nails were short and without enamel.

She watched his eyes on her and nonchalantly drew her forearms together
in her lap so that the valley between her breasts deepened.

The message was unmistakable and an answering warmth must have showed on
Bond's cold, drawn face, for suddenly The Big Man picked up the small
ivory whip from the desk beside him and lashed across at her, the thong
whistling through the air and landing with a cruel bite across her
shoulders.

Bond winced even more than she did. Her eyes blazed for an instant and
then went opaque.

'Sit up,' said The Big Man softly, 'you forget yourself.'

She sat slowly more upright. She had a pack of cards in her hands and
she started to shuffle them. Then, out of bravado perhaps, she sent him
yet another message--of complicity and of more than complicity.

Between her hands, she faced the knave of hearts. Then the queen of
spades. She held the two halves of the pack in her lap so that the two
court cards looked at each other. She brought the two halves of the pack
together until they kissed. Then she riffled the cards and shuffled them
again.

At no moment of this dumb show did she look at Bond, and it was all over
in an instant. But Bond felt a glow of excitement and a quickening of
the pulse. He had a friend in the enemy's camp.

'Are you ready, Solitaire?' asked The Big Man.

'Yes, the cards are ready,' said the girl, in a low, cool voice.

'Mister Bond, look into the eyes of this girl and repeat the reason for
your presence here which you gave me just now.'

Bond looked into her eyes. There was no message. They were not focused
on his. They looked through him.

He repeated what he had said.

For a moment he felt an uncanny thrill. Could this girl tell? If she
could tell, would she speak for him or against him?

For a moment there was dead silence in the room. Bond tried to look
indifferent. He gazed up at the ceiling--then back at her.

Her eyes came back into focus. She turned away from him and looked at Mr
Big.

'He speaks the truth,' she said coldly.




                            8. No Sensayuma


Mr Big reflected for a moment. He seemed to decide. He pressed a switch
on the intercom.

'Blabbermouth?'

'Yassuh, Boss.'

'You're holding that American, Leiter.'

'Yassuh.'

'Hurt him considerably. Ride him down to Bellevue Hospital and dump him
nearby. Got that?'

'Yassuh.'

'Don't be seen.'

'Nossuh.'

Mr Big centred the switch.

'God damn your bloody eyes,' said Bond viciously. 'The CIA won't let you
get away with this!'

'You forget, Mister Bond. They have no jurisdiction in America. The
American Secret Service has no power in America--only abroad. And the
FBI are no friends of theirs. Tee-Hee, come here.'

'Yassuh, Boss.' Tee-Hee came and stood beside the desk.

Mr Big looked across at Bond.

'Which finger do you use least, Mister Bond?'

Bond was startled by the question. His mind raced.

'On reflection, I expect you will say the little finger of the left
hand,' continued the soft voice. 'Tee-Hee, break the little finger of Mr
Bond's left hand.'

The negro showed the reason for his nickname.

'Hee-hee,' he gave a falsetto giggle. 'Hee-hee.'

He walked jauntily over to Bond. Bond clutched madly at the arms of his
chair. Sweat started to break out on his forehead. He tried to imagine
the pain so that he could control it.

The negro slowly unhinged the little finger of Bond's left hand,
immovably bound to the arm of his chair.

He held the tip between finger and thumb and very deliberately started
to bend it back, giggling inanely to himself.

Bond rolled and heaved, trying to upset the chair, but Tee-Hee put his
other hand on the chair-back and held it there. The sweat poured off
Bond's face. His teeth started to bare in an involuntary rictus. Through
the increasing pain he could just see the girl's eyes wide upon him, her
red lips slightly parted.

The finger stood upright, away from the hand. Started to bend slowly
backwards towards his wrist. Suddenly it gave. There was a sharp crack.

'That will do,' said Mr Big.

Tee-Hee released the mangled finger with reluctance.

Bond uttered a soft animal groan and fainted.

'Da guy ain't got no sensayuma,' commented Tee-Hee.

Solitaire sat limply back in her chair and closed her eyes.

'Did he have a gun?' asked Mr Big.

'Yassuh.' Tee-Hee took Bond's Beretta out of his pocket and slipped it
across the desk. The Big Man picked it up and looked at it expertly. He
weighed it in his hand, testing the feel of the skeleton grip. Then he
pumped the shells out on to the desk, verified that he had also emptied
the chamber and slid it over towards Bond.

'Wake him up,' he said, looking at his watch. It said three o'clock.

Tee-Hee went behind Bond's chair and dug his nails into the lobes of
Bond's ears.

Bond groaned and lifted his head.

His eyes focused on Mr Big and he uttered a string of obscenities.

'Be thankful you're not dead,' said Mr Big without emotion. 'Any pain is
preferable to death. Here is your gun. I have the shells. Tee-Hee, give
it back to him.'

Tee-Hee took it off the desk and slipped it back into Bond's holster.

'I will explain to you briefly,' continued The Big Man, 'why it is that
you are not dead; why you have been permitted to enjoy the sensation of
pain instead of adding to the pollution of the Harlem River from the
folds of what is jocularly known as a cement overcoat.'

He paused for a moment and then spoke.

'Mister Bond, I suffer from boredom. I am a prey to what the early
Christians called "accidie", the deadly lethargy that envelops those who
are sated, those who have no more desires. I am absolutely pre-eminent
in my chosen profession, trusted by those who occasionally employ my
talents, feared and instantly obeyed by those whom I myself employ. I
have, literally, no more worlds to conquer within my chosen orbit. Alas,
it is too late in my life to change that orbit for another one, and
since power is the goal of all ambition, it is unlikely that I could
possibly acquire more power in another sphere than I already possess in
this one.'

Bond listened with part of his mind. With the other half he was already
planning. He sensed the presence of Solitaire, but he kept his eyes off
her. He gazed steadily across the table at the great grey face with its
unwinking golden eyes.

The soft voice continued.

'Mister Bond, I take pleasure now only in artistry, in the polish and
finesse which I can bring to my operations. It has become almost a mania
with me to impart an absolute rightness, a high elegance, to the
execution of my affairs. Each day, Mister Bond, I try and set myself
still higher standards of subtlety and technical polish so that each of
my proceedings may be a work of art, bearing my signature as clearly as
the creations of, let us say, Benvenuto Cellini. I am content, for the
time being, to be my only judge, but I sincerely believe, Mister Bond,
that the approach to perfection which I am steadily achieving in my
operations will ultimately win recognition in the history of our times.'

Mr Big paused. Bond saw that his great yellow eyes were wide, as if he
saw visions. He's a raving megalomaniac, thought Bond. And all the more
dangerous because of it. The fault in most criminal minds was that greed
was their only impulse. A dedicated mind was quite another matter. This
man was no gangster. He was a menace. Bond was fascinated and slightly
awestruck.

'I accept anonymity for two reasons,' continued the low voice. 'Because
the nature of my operations demands it and because I admire the
self-negation of the anonymous artist. If you will allow the conceit, I
see myself sometimes as one of those great Egyptian fresco painters who
devoted their lives to producing masterpieces in the tombs of kings,
knowing that no living eye would ever see them.'

The great eyes closed for a moment.

'However, let us return to the particular. The reason, Mister Bond, why
I have not killed you this morning is because it would give me no
aesthetic pleasure to blow a hole in your stomach. With this engine,' he
gestured towards the gun trained on Bond through the desk drawer, 'I
have already blown many holes in many stomachs, so I am quite satisfied
that my little mechanical toy is a sound technical achievement.
Moreover, as no doubt you rightly surmise, it would be a nuisance for me
to have a lot of busybodies around here asking questions about the
disappearance of yourself and your friend Mr Leiter. Not more than a
nuisance; but for various reasons I wish to concentrate on other matters
at the present time.

'So,' Mr Big looked at his watch, 'I decided to leave my card upon each
of you and to give you one more solemn warning. You must leave the
country today, and Mr Leiter must transfer to another assignment. I have
quite enough to bother me without having a lot of agents from Europe
added to the considerable strength of local busybodies with which I have
to contend.

'That is all,' he concluded. 'If I see you again, you will die in a
manner as ingenious and appropriate as I can devise on that day.

'Tee-Hee, take Mr Bond to the garage. Tell two of the men to take him to
Central Park and throw him in the ornamental water. He may be damaged
but not killed if he resists. Understood?'

'Yassuh, Boss,' said Tee-Hee, giggling in a high falsetto.

He undid Bond's ankles, then his wrists. He took Bond's injured hand and
twisted it right up his back. Then with his other hand he undid the
strap round his waist. He yanked Bond to his feet.

'Giddap,' said Tee-Hee.

Bond gazed once more into the great grey face.

'Those who deserve to die,' he paused, 'die the death they deserve.
Write that down,' he added. 'It's an original thought.'

Then he glanced at Solitaire. Her eyes were bent on the hands in her
lap. She didn't look up.

'Git goin',' said Tee-Hee. He turned Bond round towards the wall and
pushed him forward, twisting Bond's wrist up his back until his forearm
was almost dislocated. Bond uttered a realistic groan and his footsteps
faltered. He wanted Tee-Hee to believe that he was cowed and docile. He
wanted the torturing grip to ease just a little on his left arm. As it
was, any sudden movement would only result in his arm being broken.

Tee-Hee reached over Bond's shoulder and pressed on one of the books in
the serried shelves. A large section opened on a central pivot. Bond was
pushed through and the negro kicked the heavy section back into place.
It closed with a double click. From the thickness of the door, Bond
guessed it would be sound-proof. They were faced by a short carpeted
passage ending in some stairs that led downwards. Bond groaned.

'You're breaking my arm,' he said. 'Look out. I'm going to faint.'

He stumbled again, trying to measure exactly the negro's position behind
him. He remembered Leiter's injunction: 'Shins, groin, stomach, throat.
Hit 'em anywhere else and you'll just break your hand.'

'Shut yo mouf,' said the negro, but he pulled Bond's hand an inch or two
down his back.

This was all Bond needed.

They were half way down the passage with only a few feet more to the top
of the stairs. Bond faltered again, so that the negro's body bumped into
his. This gave him all the range and direction he needed.

He bent a little and his right hand, straight and flat as a board,
whipped round and inwards. He felt it thud hard into the target. The
negro screamed shrilly like a wounded rabbit. Bond felt his left arm
come free. He whirled round, pulling out his empty gun with his right
hand. The negro was bent double, his hands between his legs, uttering
little panting screams. Bond whipped the gun down hard on the back of
the woolly skull. It gave back a dull klonk as if he had hammered on a
door, but the negro groaned and fell forward on his knees, throwing out
his hands for support. Bond got behind him and, with all the force he
could put behind the steel-capped shoe, he gave one mighty kick below
the lavender-coloured seat of the negro's pants.

A final short scream was driven out of the man as he sailed the few feet
to the stairs. His head hit the side of the iron banisters and then, a
twisting wheel of arms and legs, he disappeared over the edge, down into
the well. There was a short crash as he caromed off some obstacle, then
a pause, then a mingled thud and crack as he hit the ground. Then
silence.

Bond wiped the sweat out of his eyes and stood listening. He thrust his
wounded left hand into his coat. It was throbbing with pain and swollen
to almost twice its normal size. Holding his gun in his right hand, he
walked to the head of the stairs and slowly down, moving softly on the
balls of his feet.

There was only one floor between him and the spread-eagled body below.
When he reached the landing, he stopped again and listened. Quite close,
he could hear the high-pitched whine of some form of fast wireless
transmitter. He verified that it came from behind one of the two doors
on the landing. This must be Mr Big's communications centre. He longed
to carry out a quick raid. But his gun was empty and he had no idea how
many men he would find in the room. It could only have been the
earphones on their ears that had prevented the operators from hearing
the sounds of Tee-Hee's fall. He crept on down.

Tee-Hee was either dead or dying. He lay spread-eagled on his back. His
striped tie lay across his face like a squashed adder. Bond felt no
remorse. He frisked the body for a gun and found one stuck in the
waistband of the lavender trousers, now stained with blood. It was a
Colt .38 Detective Special with a sawn barrel. All chambers were loaded.
Bond slipped the useless Beretta back in its holster. He nestled the big
gun into his palm and smiled grimly.

A small door faced him, bolted on the inside. Bond put his ear to it.
The muffled sound of an engine reached him. This must be the garage. But
the running engine? At that time of the morning? Bond ground his teeth.
Of course. Mr Big would have spoken on the intercom and warned them that
Tee-Hee was bringing him down. They must be wondering what was holding
him up. They were probably watching the door for the negro to emerge.

Bond thought for a moment. He had the advantage of surprise. If only the
bolts were well-oiled.

His left hand was almost useless. With the Colt in his right, he tested
the first bolt with the edge of his damaged hand. It slipped easily
back. So did the second. There remained only a press-down handle. He
eased it down and pulled the door softly towards him.

It was a thick door and the noise of the engine got louder as the crack
widened. The car must be just outside. Any further movement of the door
would betray him. He whipped it open and stood facing sideways like a
fencer so as to offer as small a target as possible. The hammer lay back
on his gun.

A few feet away stood a black sedan, its engine running. It faced the
open double doors of the garage. Bright arclights lit up the shining
bodywork of several other cars. There was a big negro at the wheel of
the sedan and another stood near him, leaning against the rear door. No
one else was in view.

At sight of Bond the negroes' mouths fell open in astonishment. A
cigarette dropped from the mouth of the man at the wheel. Then they both
dived for their guns.

Instinctively, Bond shot first at the man standing, knowing he would be
quickest on the draw.

The heavy gun roared hollowly in the garage.

The negro clutched his stomach with both hands, staggered two steps
towards Bond, and collapsed on his face, his gun clattering on to the
concrete.

The man at the wheel screamed as Bond's gun swung on to him. Hampered by
the wheel, the negro's shooting hand was still inside his coat.

Bond shot straight into the screaming mouth and the man's head crashed
against the side window.

Bond ran round the car and opened the door. The negro sprawled horribly
out. Bond threw his revolver on to the driving-seat and yanked the body
out on to the ground. He tried to avoid the blood. He got into the seat
and blessed the running engine and the steering-wheel gear-lever. He
slammed the door, rested his injured hand on the left of the wheel and
crashed the lever forward.

The hand-brake was still on. He had to lean under the wheel to release
it with his right hand.

It was a dangerous pause. As the heavy car surged forward out of the
wide doors there was the boom of a gun and a bullet hammered into the
bodywork. He tore the wheel round right-handed and there was another
shot that missed high. Across the street a window splintered.

The flash came from low down near the floor and Bond guessed that the
first negro had somehow managed to reach his gun.

There were no other shots and no sound came from the blank faces of the
buildings behind him. As he went through the gears he could see nothing
in the driving-mirror except the broad bar of light from the garage
shining out across the dark empty street.

Bond had no idea where he was or where he was heading. It was a wide
featureless street and he kept going. He found himself driving on the
left-hand side and quickly swerved over to the right. His hand hurt
terribly but the thumb and forefinger helped to steady the wheel. He
tried to remember to keep his left side away from the blood on the door
and window. The endless street was populated only by the little ghosts
of steam that wavered up out of the gratings in the asphalt that gave
access to the piped heat system of the city. The ugly bonnet of the car
mowed them down one by one, but in the driving-mirror Bond could see
them rising again behind him in a diminishing vista of mildly
gesticulating white wraiths.

He kept the big car at fifty. He came to some red traffic lights and
jumped them. Several more dark blocks and then there was a lighted
avenue. There was traffic and he paused until the lights went green. He
turned left and was rewarded by a succession of green lights, each one
sweeping him on and further away from the enemy. He checked at an
intersection and read the signs. He was on Park Avenue and 116th Street.
He slowed again at the next street. It was 115th. He was heading
downtown, away from Harlem, back into the City. He kept going. He turned
off at 60th Street. It was deserted. He switched off the engine and left
the car opposite a fire hydrant. He took the gun off the seat, shoved it
down the waistband of his trousers and walked back to Park Avenue.

A few minutes later he flagged a prowling cab and then suddenly he was
walking up the steps of the St Regis.

'Message for you, Mr Bond,' said the night porter. Bond kept his left
side away from him. He opened the message with his right hand. It was
from Felix Leiter, timed at four a.m. 'Call me at once,' it said.

Bond walked to the elevator and was carried up to his floor. He let
himself into 2100 and went through into the sitting-room.

So both of them were alive. Bond fell into a chair beside the telephone.

'God Almighty,' said Bond with deep gratitude. 'What a break.'




                           9. True or False?


Bond looked at the telephone, then he got up and walked over to the
sideboard. He put a handful of wilted ice-cubes into a tall glass,
poured in three inches of Haig and Haig and swilled the mixture round in
the glass to cool and dilute it. Then he drank down half the glass in
one long swallow. He put the glass down and eased himself out of his
coat. His left hand was so swollen that he could only just get it
through the sleeve. His little finger was still crooked back and the
pain was vicious as it scraped against the cloth. The finger was nearly
black. He pulled down his tie and undid the top of his shirt. Then he
picked up his glass, took another deep swallow, and walked back to the
telephone.

Leiter answered at once.

'Thank God,' said Leiter with real feeling. 'What's the damage?'

'Broken finger,' said Bond. 'How about you?'

'Blackjack. Knocked out. Nothing serious. They started off by
considering all sorts of ingenious things. Wanted to couple me to the
compressed-air pump in the garage. Start on the ears and then proceed
elsewhere. When no instructions came from The Big Man they got bored and
I got to arguing the finer points of Jazz with Blabbermouth, the man
with the fancy six-shooter. We got on to Duke Ellington and agreed that
we liked our band-leaders to be percussion men, not wind. We agreed the
piano or the drums held the band together better than any other solo
instrument--Jelly Roll Morton, for instance. Apropos the Duke, I told
him the crack about the clarinet--"an ill woodwind that nobody blows
good". That made him laugh fit to bust. Suddenly we were friends. The
other man--The Flannel, he was called--got sour and Blabbermouth told
him he could go off duty, he'd look after me. Then The Big Man rang
down.'

'I was there,' said Bond. 'It didn't sound so hot.'

'Blabbermouth was worried as hell. He wandered round the room talking to
himself. Suddenly he used the blackjack, hard, and I went out. Next
thing I knew we were outside Bellevue Hospital. About half after three.
Blabbermouth was very apologetic, said it was the least he could have
done. I believe him. He begged me not to give him away. Said he was
going to report that he'd left me half dead. Of course I promised to
leak back some very lurid details. We parted on the best of terms. I got
some treatment at the Emergency ward and came home. I was worried to
hell an' gone about you, but after a while the telephone started
ringing. Police and FBI. Seems The Big Man has complained that some fool
Limey went berserk at The Boneyard early this morning, shot three of his
men--two chauffeurs and a waiter, if you please--stole one of his cars
and got away, leaving his overcoat and hat in the cloakroom. The Big
Man's yelling for action. Of course I warned off the dicks and the FBI,
but they're madder'n hell and we've got to get out of town at once.
It'll miss the mornings but it'll be splashed all over the afternoon
blatts and radio and TV'll have it. Apart from all that, Mr Big will be
after you like a nest of hornets. Anyway, I've got some plans fixed. Now
you tell, and God, am I glad to hear your voice!'

Bond gave a detailed account of all that had happened. He forgot
nothing. When he had finished, Leiter gave a low whistle.

'Boy,' he said with admiration. 'You certainly made a dent in The Big
Man's machine. But were you lucky. That Solitaire dame certainly seems
to have saved your bacon. D'you think we can use her?'

'Could if we could get near her,' said Bond. 'I should think he keeps
her pretty close.'

'We'll have to think about that another day,' said Leiter. 'Now we'd
better get moving. I'll hang up and call you back in a few minutes.
First I'll get the police surgeon round to you right away. Be along in a
quarter of an hour or so. Then I'll talk to the Commissioner myself and
sort out some of the police angles. They can stall a bit by discovering
the car. The FBI'll have to tip off the radio and newspaper boys so that
at least we can keep your name out of it and all this Limey talk.
Otherwise we shall have the British Ambassador being hauled out of bed
and parades by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored
People and God knows what all.' Leiter chuckled down the telephone.
'Better have a word with your chief in London. It's about half after ten
their time. You'll need a bit of protection. I can look after the CIA,
but the FBI have got a bad attack of "see-here-young-man" this morning.
You'll need some more clothes. I'll see to that. Keep awake. We'll get
plenty of sleep in the grave. Be calling you.'

He hung up. Bond smiled to himself. Hearing Leiter's cheerful voice and
knowing everything was being taken care of had wiped away his exhaustion
and his black memories.

He picked up the telephone and talked to the Overseas operator. Ten
minutes' delay, she said.

Bond walked into his bedroom and somehow got out of his clothes. He gave
himself a very hot shower and then an ice-cold one. He shaved and
managed to pull on a clean shirt and trousers. He put a fresh clip in
his Beretta and wrapped the Colt in his discarded shirt and put it in
his suitcase. He was half way through his packing when the telephone
rang.

He listened to the zing and echo on the line, the chatter of distant
operators, the patches of Morse from aircraft and ships at sea, quickly
suppressed. He could see the big, grey building near Regent's Park and
imagine the busy switchboard and the cups of tea and a girl saying,
'Yes, this is Universal Export,' the address Bond had asked for, one of
the covers used by agents for emergency calls on open lines from abroad.
She would tell the Supervisor, who would take the call over.

'You're connected, caller,' said the Overseas operator. 'Go ahead,
please. New York calling London.'

Bond heard the calm English voice. 'Universal Export. Who's speaking,
please?'

'Can I speak to the Managing Director?' said Bond. 'This is his nephew
James speaking from New York.'

'Just a moment, please.' Bond could follow the call to Miss Moneypenny
and see her press the switch on the intercom. 'It's New York, Sir,' she
would say. 'I think it's 007.' 'Put him through,' M would say.

'Yes?' said the cold voice that Bond loved and obeyed.

'It's James, Sir,' said Bond. 'I may need a bit of help over a difficult
consignment.'

'Go ahead,' said the voice.

'I went uptown to see our chief customer last night,' said Bond. 'Three
of his best men went sick while I was there.'

'How sick?' asked the voice.

'As sick as can be, Sir,' said Bond. 'There's a lot of 'flu about.'

'Hope you didn't catch any.'

'I've got a slight chill, Sir,' said Bond, 'but absolutely nothing to
worry about. I'll write to you about it. The trouble is that with all
this 'flu about Federated think I will do better out of town.' (Bond
chuckled to himself at the thought of M's grin.) 'So I'm off right away
with Felicia.'

'Who?' asked M.

'Felicia,' Bond spelled it out. 'My new secretary from Washington.'

'Oh, yes.'

'Thought I'd try that factory you advised at San Pedro.'

'Good idea.'

'But Federated may have other ideas and I hoped you'd give me your
support.'

'I quite understand,' said M. 'How's business?'

'Rather promising, Sir. But tough going. Felicia will be typing my full
report today.'

'Good,' said M. 'Anything else?'

'No, that's all, Sir. Thanks for your support.'

'That's all right. Keep fit. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye, Sir.'

Bond put down the telephone. He grinned. He could imagine M calling in
the Chief of Staff. '007's already tangled up with the FBI. Dam' fool
went up to Harlem last night and bumped off three of Mr Big's men. Got
hurt himself, apparently, but not much. Got to get out of town with
Leiter, the CIA man. Going down to St Petersburg. Better warn A and C.
Expect we'll have Washington round our ears before the day's over. Tell
A to say I fully sympathize, but that 007 has my full confidence and I'm
sure he acted in self-defence. Won't happen again, and so forth. Got
that?' Bond grinned again as he thought of Damon's exasperation at
having to dish out a lot of soft soap to Washington when he probably had
plenty of other Anglo-American snarls to disentangle.

The telephone rang. It was Leiter again.

'Now listen,' he said. 'Everybody's calming down somewhat. Seems the men
you got were a pretty nasty trio--Tee-Hee Johnson, Sam Miami and a man
called McThing. All wanted on various counts. The FBI's covering up for
you. Reluctantly, of course, and the Police are stalling like mad. The
FBI big brass had already asked my Chief for you to be sent home--got
him out of bed, if you please--mostly jealousy, I guess--but we've
killed all that. Same time, we've both got to quit town at once. That's
all fixed too. We can't go together, so you're taking the train and I'll
fly. Jot this down.'

Bond cradled the telephone against his shoulder and reached for a pencil
and paper. 'Go ahead,' he said.

'Pennsylvania Station. Track 14. Ten-thirty this morning. "The Silver
Phantom". Through train to St Petersburg via Washington, Jacksonville
and Tampa. I've got you a compartment. Very luxurious. Car 245,
Compartment H. Ticket'll be on the train. Conductor will have it. In the
name of Bryce. Just go to Gate 14 and down to the train. Then straight
to your compartment and lock yourself in till the train starts. I'm
flying down in an hour by Eastern, so you'll be alone from now on. If
you get stuck call Dexter, but don't be surprised if he bites your head
off. Train gets in around midday tomorrow. Take a cab and go to The
Everglades Cabanas, Gulf Boulevard West, on Sunset Beach. That's on a
place called Treasure Island where all the beach hotels are. Connected
with St Petersburg by a causeway. Cabby'll know it.

'I'll be waiting for you. Got all that? And for God's sake watch out.
And I mean it. The Big Man'll get you if he possibly can and a police
escort to the train would only put the finger on you. Take a cab and
keep out of sight. I'm sending you up another hat and a fawn raincoat.
The check's taken care of at the St Regis. That's the lot. Any
questions?'

'Sounds fine,' said Bond. 'I've talked to M and he'll square Washington
if there's any trouble. Look after yourself too,' he added. 'You'll be
next on the list after me. See you tomorrow. So long.'

'I'll watch out,' said Leiter. ''Bye.'

It was half-past six and Bond pulled back the curtains in the
sitting-room and watched the dawn come up over the city. It was still
dark down in the caverns below but the tips of the great concrete
stalagmites were pink and the sun lit up the windows floor by floor as
if an army of descending janitors was at work in the buildings.

The police surgeon came, stayed for a painful quarter of an hour and
left.

'Clean fracture,' he had said. 'Take a few days to heal. How did you
come by it?'

'Caught it in a door,' said Bond.

'You ought to keep away from doors,' commented the surgeon. 'They're
dangerous things. Ought to be forbidden by law. Lucky you didn't catch
your neck in this one.'

When he had gone, Bond finished packing. He was wondering how soon he
could order breakfast when the telephone rang.

Bond was expecting a harsh voice from the Police or the FBI. Instead, a
girl's voice, low and urgent, asked for Mr Bond.

'Who's calling?' asked Bond, gaining time. He knew the answer.

'I know it's you,' said the voice, and Bond could feel that it was right
up against the mouthpiece. 'This is Solitaire.' The name was scarcely
breathed into the telephone.

Bond waited, all his senses pricked to what might be the scene at the
other end of the line. Was she alone? Was she speaking foolishly on a
house-phone with extensions to which other listeners were now coldly,
intently glued? Or was she in a room with only Mr Big's eyes bent
carefully on her, a pencil and pad beside him so that he could prompt
the next question?

'Listen,' said the voice. 'I've got to be quick. You must trust me. I'm
in a drugstore, but I must get back at once to my room. Please believe
me.'

Bond had his handkerchief out. He spoke into it. 'If I can reach Mr Bond
what shall I tell him?'

'Oh, damn you,' said the girl with what sounded like a genuine touch of
hysteria. 'I swear by my mother, by my unborn children. I've got to get
away. And so have you. You've got to take me. I'll help you. I know a
lot of his secrets. But be quick. I'm risking my life here talking to
you.' She gave a sob of exasperation and panic. 'For God's sake trust
me. You must. You must!'

Bond still paused, his mind working furiously.

'Listen,' she spoke again, but this time dully, almost hopelessly. 'If
you don't take me, I shall kill myself. Now will you? Do you want to
murder me?'

If it was acting, it was too good acting. It was still an unpardonable
gamble, but Bond decided. He spoke directly into the telephone, his
voice low.

'If this is a double-cross, Solitaire, I'll get at you and kill you if
it's the last thing I do. Have you got a pencil and paper?'

'Wait,' said the girl, excitedly. 'Yes, yes.'

If it had been a plant, reflected Bond, all that would have been ready.

'Be at Pennsylvania Station at ten-twenty exactly. The Silver Phantom
to...' he hesitated, '...to Washington. Car 245, Compartment H. Say
you're Mrs Bryce. Conductor has the ticket in case I'm not there
already. Go straight to the compartment and wait for me. Got that?'

'Yes,' said the girl, 'and thank you, thank you.'

'Don't be seen,' said Bond. 'Wear a veil or something.'

'Of course,' said the girl. 'I promise. I really promise. I must go.'
She rang off.

Bond looked at the dead receiver, then put it down on the cradle.
'Well,' he said aloud. 'That's torn it.'

He got up and stretched. He walked to the window and looked out, seeing
nothing. His thoughts raced. Then he shrugged and turned back to the
telephone. He looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.

'Room Service, good morning,' said the golden voice.

'Breakfast, please,' said Bond. 'Pineapple juice, double. Cornflakes and
cream. Shirred eggs with bacon. Double portion of Caf Espresso. Toast
and marmalade.'

'Yes, Sir,' said the girl. She repeated the order. 'Right away.'

'Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

Bond grinned to himself.

'The condemned man made a hearty breakfast,' he reflected. He sat down
by the window and gazed up at the clear sky, into the future.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Up in Harlem, at the big switchboard, The Whisper was talking to the
town again, passing Bond's description again to all Eyes: 'All de
railroads, all de airports. Fifth Avenue an' 55th Street doors of da San
Regis. Mr Big sez we gotta chance da highways. Pass it down da line. All
de railroads, all de airports...'




                         10. The Silver Phantom


Bond, the collar of his new raincoat up round his ears, was missed as he
came out of the entrance of the St Regis Drugstore on 55th Street, which
has a connecting door into the hotel.

He waited in the entrance and leaped at a cruising cab, hooking the door
open with the thumb of his injured hand and throwing his light suitcase
in ahead of him. The cab hardly checked. The negro with the
collecting-box for the Colored Veterans of Korea and his colleague
fumbling under the bonnet of his stalled car stayed on the job until,
much later, they were called off by a man who drove past and sounded two
shorts and a long on his horn.

But Bond was immediately spotted as he left his cab at the drive-in to
the Pennsylvania Station. A lounging negro with a wicker basket walked
quickly into a call-box. It was ten-fifteen.

Only fifteen minutes to go and yet, just before the train started, one
of the waiters in the diner reported sick and was hurriedly replaced by
a man who had received a full and careful briefing on the telephone. The
chef swore there was something fishy, but the new man said a word or two
to him and the chef showed the whites of his eyes and went silent,
surreptitiously touching the lucky bean that hung round his neck on a
string.

Bond had walked quickly through the great glass-covered concourse and
through Gate 14 down to his train.

It lay, a quarter of a mile of silver carriages, quietly in the dusk of
the underground station. Up front, the auxiliary generators of the 4000
horsepower twin Diesel electric units ticked busily. Under the bare
electric bulbs the horizontal purple and gold bands, the colours of the
Seaboard Railroad, glowed regally on the streamlined locomotives. The
engineman and fireman who would take the great train on the first two
hundred mile lap into the south lolled in the spotless aluminium cabin,
twelve feet above the track, watching the ammeter and the air-pressure
dial, ready to go.

It was quiet in the great concrete cavern below the city and every noise
threw an echo.

There were not many passengers. More would be taken on at Newark,
Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington. Bond walked a hundred yards, his
feet ringing on the empty platform, before he found Car 245, towards the
rear of the train. A Pullman porter stood at the door. He wore
spectacles. His black face was bored but friendly. Below the windows of
the carriage, in broad letters of brown and gold, was written 'Richmond,
Fredericksburg and Potomac', and below that 'Bellesylvania', the name of
the Pullman car. A thin wisp of steam rose from the couplings of the
central heating near the door.

'Compartment H,' said Bond.

'Mr Bryce, Suh? Yassuh. Mrs Bryce just come aboard. Straight down da
cyar.'

Bond stepped on to the train and turned down the drab olive-green
corridor. The carpet was thick. There was the usual American train-smell
of old cigar-smoke. A notice said NEED A SECOND PILLOW? FOR ANY EXTRA
COMFORT RING FOR YOUR PULLMAN ATTENDANT. HIS NAME IS, then a printed
card, slipped in: SAMUEL D. BALDWIN.

H was more than half way down the car. There was a respectable-looking
American couple in E, otherwise the rooms were empty. The door of H was
closed. He tried it and it was locked.

'Who's that?' asked a girl's voice, anxiously.

'It's me,' said Bond.

The door opened. Bond walked through, put down his bag and locked the
door behind him.

She was in a black tailor-made. A wide-mesh veil came down from the rim
of a small black straw hat. One gloved hand was up to her throat and
through the veil Bond could see that her face was pale and her eyes were
wide with fear. She looked rather French and very beautiful.

'Thank God,' she said.

Bond gave a quick glance round the room. He opened the lavatory door and
looked in. It was empty.

A voice on the platform outside called 'Board!' There was a clang as the
attendant pulled up the folding iron step and shut the door and then the
train was rolling quietly down the track. A bell clanged monotonously as
they passed the automatic signals. There was a slight clatter from the
wheels as they crossed some points and then the train began to
accelerate. For better or for worse, they were on their way.

'Which seat would you like?' asked Bond.

'I don't mind,' she said anxiously. 'You choose.'

Bond shrugged and sat down with his back to the engine. He preferred to
face forwards.

She sat down nervously, facing him. They were still in the long tunnel
that takes the Philadelphia lines out of the city.

She took off her hat and unpinned the broad-mesh veil and put them on
the seat beside her. She took some hairpins out of the back of her hair
and shook her head so that the heavy black hair fell forward. There were
blue shadows under her eyes and Bond reflected that she too must have
gone without sleep that night.

There was a table between them. Suddenly she reached forward and pulled
his right hand towards her on the table. She held it in both her hands
and bent forward and kissed it. Bond frowned and tried to pull his hand
away, but for a moment she held it tight in both of hers.

She looked up and her wide blue eyes looked candidly into his.

'Thank you,' she said. 'Thank you for trusting me. It was difficult for
you.' She released his hand and sat back.

'I'm glad I did,' said Bond inadequately, his mind trying to grapple
with the mystery of this woman. He dug in his pocket for his cigarettes
and lighter. It was a new pack of Chesterfields and with his right hand
he scrabbled at the Cellophane wrapper.

She reached over and took the pack from him. She slit it with her
thumb-nail, took out a cigarette, lit it and handed it to him. Bond took
it from her and smiled into her eyes, tasting the hint of lipstick from
her mouth.

'I smoke about three packs a day,' he said. 'You're going to be busy.'

'I'll just help with the new packs,' she said. 'Don't be afraid I'm
going to fuss over you the whole way to St Petersburg.'

Bond's eyes narrowed and the smile went out of them.

'You don't believe I thought we were only going as far as Washington,'
she said. 'You weren't very quick on the telephone this morning. And
anyway, Mr Big was certain you would make for Florida. I heard him
warning his people down there about you. He spoke to a man called "The
Robber", long distance. Said to watch the airport at Tampa and the
trains. Perhaps we ought to get off the train earlier, at Tarpon Springs
or one of the small stations up the coast. Did they see you getting on
the train?'

'Not that I know of,' said Bond. His eyes had relaxed again. 'How about
you? Have any trouble getting away?'

'It was my day for a singing lesson. He's trying to make a torch singer
out of me. Wants me to go on at The Boneyard. One of his men took me to
my teacher as usual and was due to pick me up again at midday. He wasn't
surprised I was having a lesson so early. I often have breakfast with my
teacher so as to get away from Mr Big. He expects me to have all my
meals with him.' She looked at her watch. He noted cynically that it was
an expensive one--diamonds and platinum, Bond guessed. 'They'll be
missing me in about an hour. I waited until the car had gone, then I
walked straight out again and called you. Then I took a cab downtown. I
bought a toothbrush and a few other things at a drugstore. Otherwise
I've got nothing except my jewellery and the mad money I've always kept
hidden from him. About five thousand dollars. So I won't be a financial
burden.' She smiled. 'I thought I'd get my chance one day.' She gestured
towards the window. 'You've given me a new life. I've been shut up with
him and his nigger gangsters for nearly a year. This is heaven.'

The train was running through the unkempt barren plains and swamps
between New York and Trenton. It wasn't an attractive prospect. It
reminded Bond of some of the stretches on the pre-war Trans-Siberian
Railway except for the huge lonely hoardings advertising the current
Broadway shows and the occasional dumps of scrap-iron and old motor
cars.

'I hope I can find you something better than that,' he said, smiling.
'But don't thank me. We're quits now. You saved my life last night. That
is,' he added, looking at her curiously, 'if you really have got second
sight.'

'Yes,' she said, 'I have. Or something very like it. I can often see
what's going to happen, particularly to other people. Of course I
embroider on it and when I was earning my living doing it in Haiti it
was easy to turn it into a good cabaret act. They're riddled with Voodoo
and superstitions there and they were quite certain I was a witch. But I
promise that when I first saw you in that room I knew you had been sent
to save me. I,' she blushed, 'I saw all sorts of things.'

'What sort of things?'

'Oh I don't know,' she said, her eyes dancing. 'Just things. Anyway,
we'll see. But it's going to be difficult,' she added seriously, 'and
dangerous. For both of us.' She paused. 'So will you please take good
care of us?'

'I'll do my best,' said Bond. 'The first thing is for us both to get
some sleep. Let's have a drink and some chicken sandwiches and then
we'll get the porter to put our beds down. You mustn't be embarrassed,'
he added, seeing her eyes recoil. 'We're in this together. We have to
spend twenty-four hours in a double bedroom together, and it's no good
being squeamish. Anyway, you're Mrs Bryce,' he grinned, 'and you must
just act like her. Up to a point anyway,' he added.

She laughed. Her eyes speculated. She said nothing but rang the bell
below the window.

The conductor arrived at the same time as the Pullman attendant. Bond
ordered Old Fashioneds, and stipulated Old Grandad Bourbon, chicken
sandwiches, and decaffeined Sanka coffee so that their sleep would not
be spoilt.

'I have to collect another fare from you, Mr Bryce,' said the conductor.

'Of course,' said Bond. Solitaire made a movement towards her handbag.
'It's all right, darling,' said Bond, pulling out his notecase. 'You've
forgotten you gave me your money to look after before we left the
house.'

'Guess the lady'll need plenty for her summer frocks,' said the
conductor. 'Shops is plenty expensive in St Pete. Plenty hot down there
too. You folks been to Florida before?'

'We always go at this time of year,' said Bond.

'Hope you have a pleasant trip,' said the conductor.

When the door shut behind him, Solitaire laughed delightedly.

'You can't embarrass me,' she said. 'I'll think up something really
fierce if you're not careful. To begin with, I'm going in there,' she
gestured towards the door behind Bond's head. 'I must look terrible.'

'Go ahead, darling,' laughed Bond as she disappeared.

Bond turned to the window and watched the pretty clapboard houses slip
by as they approached Trenton. He loved trains and he looked forward
with excitement to the rest of the journey.

The train was slowing down. They slid past sidings full of empty freight
cars bearing names from all over the States--'Lackawanna', 'Chesapeake
and Ohio', 'Lehigh Valley', 'Seaboard Fruit Express', and the lilting
'Acheson, Topeka and Santa Fe'--names that held all the romance of the
American railroads.

'British Railways?' thought Bond. He sighed and turned his thoughts back
to the present adventure.

For better or worse he had decided to accept Solitaire, or rather, in
his cold way, to make the most of her. There were many questions to be
answered but now was not the time to ask them. All that immediately
concerned him was that another blow had been struck at Mr Big--where it
would hurt most, in his vanity.

As for the girl, as a girl, he reflected that it was going to be fun
teasing her and being teased back and he was glad that they had already
crossed the frontiers into comradeship and even intimacy.

Was it true what The Big Man had said, that she would have nothing to do
with men? He doubted it. She seemed open to love and to desire. At any
rate he knew she was not closed to him. He wanted her to come back and
sit down opposite him again so that he could look at her and play with
her and slowly discover her. Solitaire. It was an attractive name. No
wonder they had christened her that in the sleazy nightclubs of Port au
Prince. Even in her present promise of warmth towards him there was much
that was withdrawn and mysterious. He sensed a lonely childhood on some
great decaying plantation, an echoing 'Great House' slowly falling into
disrepair and being encroached on by the luxuriance of the tropics. The
parents dying, and the property being sold. The companionship of a
servant or two and an equivocal life in lodgings in the capital. The
beauty which was her only asset and the struggle against the shady
propositions to be a 'governess', a 'companion', a 'secretary', all of
which meant respectable prostitution. Then the dubious, unknown steps
into the world of entertainment. The evening stint at the nightclub with
the mysterious act which, among people dominated by magic, must have
kept many away from her and made her a person to be feared. And then,
one evening, the huge man with the grey face sitting at a table by
himself. The promise that he would put her on Broadway. The chance of a
new life, of an escape from the heat and the dirt and the solitude.

Bond turned brusquely away from the window. A romantic picture, perhaps.
But it must have been something like that.

He heard the door unlock. The girl came back and slid into the seat
opposite him. She looked fresh and gay. She examined him carefully.

'You have been wondering about me,' she said. 'I felt it. Don't worry.
There is nothing very bad to know. I will tell you all about it some
day. When we have time. Now I want to forget about the past. I will just
tell you my real name. It is Simone Latrelle, but you can call me what
you like. I am twenty-five. And now I am happy. I like this little room.
But I am hungry and sleepy. Which bed will you have?'

Bond smiled at the question. He reflected.

'It's not very gallant,' he said, 'but I think I'd better have the
bottom one. I'd rather be close to the floor--just in case. Not that
there's anything to worry about,' he added, seeing her frown, 'but Mr
Big seems to have a pretty long arm, particularly in the negro world.
And that includes the railroads. Do you mind?'

'Of course not,' she said. 'I was going to suggest it. And you couldn't
climb into the top one with your poor hand.'

Their lunch arrived, brought from the diner by a preoccupied negro
waiter. He seemed anxious to be paid and get back to his work.

When they had finished and Bond rang for the Pullman porter, he also
seemed distrait and avoided looking at Bond. He took his time getting
the beds made up. He made much show of not having enough room to move
around in.

Finally, he seemed to pluck up courage.

'Praps Mistress Bryce like set down nex' door while Ah git the room
fixed,' he said, looking over Bond's head. 'Nex' room goin' to be empty
all way to St Pete.' He took out a key and unlocked the communicating
door without waiting for Bond's reply.

At a gesture from Bond, Solitaire took the hint. He heard her lock the
door into the corridor. The negro bumped the communicating door shut.

Bond waited for a moment. He remembered the negro's name.

'Got something on your mind, Baldwin?' he asked.

Relieved, the attendant turned and looked straight at him.

'Sho' have, Mister Bryce. Yassuh.' Once started, the words came in a
torment. 'Shouldn be tellin' yuh this, Mister Bryce, but dere's plenty
trouble 'n this train this trip. Yuh gotten yourself a henemy 'n dis
train, Mister Bryce. Yassuh. Ah hears tings which Ah don' like at all.
Cain't say much. Get mahself 'n plenty trouble. But yuh all want to
watch yo step plenty good. Yassuh. Certain party got da finger 'n yuh,
Mister Bryce, 'n dat man is bad news. Better take dese hyah,' he reached
in his pocket and brought out two wooden window wedges. 'Push dem under
the doors,' he said. 'Ah cain't do nuthen else. Git mah throat cut. But
Ah don' like any foolin' aroun' wid da customers 'n my cyar. Nossuh.'

Bond took the wedges from him. 'But...'

'Cain't help yuh no more, Sah,' said the negro with finality, his hand
on the door. 'Ef yuh ring fo me dis evenin', Ah'll fetch yo dinner. Doan
yuh go lettin' any person else in the room.'

His hand came out to take the twenty-dollar bill. He crumpled it into
his pocket.

'Ah'll do all Ah can, Sah,' he said. 'But dey'll git me ef Ah don't
watch it. Sho will.' He went out and quickly shut the door behind him.

Bond thought for a moment, then he opened the communicating door.
Solitaire was reading.

'He's fixed everything,' he said. 'Took a long time about it. Wanted to
tell me all his life-story as well. I'll keep out of your way until
you've climbed up to your nest. Call me when you're ready.'

He sat down next door in the seat she had left and watched the grim
suburbs of Philadelphia showing their sores, like beggars, to the rich
train.

No object in frightening her until it had to be. But the new threat had
come sooner than he expected, and her danger if the watcher on the train
discovered her identity would be as great as his.

She called and he went in.

The room was in darkness save for his bed-light, which she had turned
on.

'Sleep well,' she said.

Bond got out of his coat. He quietly slipped the wedges firmly under
both doors. Then he lay down carefully on his right side on the
comfortable bed and without a thought for the future fell into a deep
sleep, lulled by the pounding gallop of the train.

                 *        *        *        *        *

A few cars away, in the deserted diner, a negro waiter read again what
he had written on a telegraph blank and waited for the ten-minute stop
at Philadelphia.




                             11. Allumeuse


The crack train thundered on through the bright afternoon towards the
south. They left Pennsylvania behind, and Maryland. There came a long
halt at Washington, where Bond heard through his dreams the measured
clang of the warning bells on the shunting engines and the soft
think-speak of the public-address system on the station. Then on into
Virginia. Here the air was already softer and the dusk, only five hours
away from the bright frosty breath of New York, smelled almost of
spring.

An occasional group of negroes, walking home from the fields, would hear
the distant rumble on the silent sighing silver rails and one would pull
out his watch and consult it and announce, 'Hyah comes da Phantom. Six
o'clock. Guess ma watch is right on time.' 'Sho nuff,' one of the others
would say as the great beat of the Diesels came nearer and the lighted
coaches streaked past and on towards North Carolina.

They awoke around seven to the hasty ting of a grade-crossing alarm bell
as the big train nosed its way out of the fields into the suburbs of
Raleigh. Bond pulled the wedges from under the doors before he turned on
the lights and rang for the attendant.

He ordered dry Martinis and when the two little 'personalized' bottles
appeared with the glasses and the ice they seemed so inadequate that he
at once ordered four more.

They argued over the menu. The fish was described as being 'Made From
Flaky Tender Boneless Filets' and the chicken as 'Delicious French Fried
to a Golden Brown, Served Disjointed'.

'Eyewash,' said Bond, and they finally ordered scrambled eggs and bacon
and sausages, a salad, and some of the domestic Camembert that is one of
the most welcome surprises on American menus.

It was nine o'clock when Baldwin came to clear the dishes away. He asked
if there was anything else they wanted.

Bond had been thinking. 'What time do we get into Jacksonville?' he
asked.

'Aroun' five 'n the morning, Suh.'

'Is there a subway on the platform?'

'Yassuh. Dis cyar stops right alongside.'

'Could you have the door open and the steps down pretty quick?'

The negro smiled. 'Yassuh. Ah kin take good care of that.'

Bond slipped him a ten-dollar bill. 'Just in case I miss you when we
arrive in St Petersburg,' he said.

The negro grinned. 'Ah greatly preeshiate yo kindness, Suh. Good night,
Suh. Good night, Mam.'

He went out and closed the door.

Bond got up and pushed the wedges firmly under the two doors.

'I see,' said Solitaire. 'So it's like that.'

'Yes,' said Bond. 'I'm afraid so.' He told her of the warning he had had
from Baldwin.

'I'm not surprised,' said the girl when he had finished. 'They must have
seen you coming into the station. He's got a whole team of spies called
"The Eyes" and when they're put out on a job it's almost impossible to
get by them. I wonder who he's got on the train. You can be certain it's
a negro, either a Pullman attendant or someone in the diner. He can make
these people do absolutely anything he likes.'

'So it seems,' said Bond. 'But how does it work? What's he got on them?'

She looked out of the window into the tunnel of darkness through which
the lighted train was burning its thundering path. Then she looked back
across the table into the cool wide grey-blue eyes of the English agent.
She thought: how can one explain to someone with that certainty of
spirit, with that background of common sense, brought up with clothes
and shoes among the warm houses and the lighted streets? How can one
explain to someone who hasn't lived close to the secret heart of the
tropics, at the mercy of their anger and stealth and poison; who hasn't
experienced the mystery of the drums, seen the quick workings of magic
and the mortal dread it inspires? What can he know of catalepsy, and
thought-transference and the sixth sense of fish, of birds, of negroes;
the deadly meaning of a white chicken's feather, a crossed stick in the
road, a little leather bag of bones and herbs? What of Mialism, of
shadow-taking, of the death by swelling and the death by wasting?

She shivered and a whole host of dark memories clustered round her.
Above all, she remembered that first time in the Houmfor where her black
nurse had once taken her as a child. 'It do yuh no harm, Missy. Dis
powerful good juju. Care fe yuh res 'f yo life.' And the disgusting old
man and the filthy drink he had given her. How her nurse had held her
jaws open until she had drunk the last drop and how she had lain awake
screaming every night for a week. And how her nurse had been worried and
then suddenly she had slept all right until, weeks later, shifting on
her pillow, she had felt something hard and had dug it out from the
pillowcase, a dirty little packet of muck. She had thrown it out of the
window, but in the morning she could not find it. She had continued to
sleep well and she knew it must have been found by the nurse and
secreted somewhere under the floorboards.

Years later, she had found out about the Voodoo drink--a concoction of
rum, gunpowder, grave-dirt and human blood. She almost retched as the
taste came back to her mouth.

What could this man know of these things or of her half-belief in them?

She looked up and found Bond's eyes fixed quizzically on her.

'You're thinking I shan't understand,' he said. 'And you're right up to
a point. But I know what fear can do to people and I know that fear can
be caused by many things. I've read most of the books on Voodoo and I
believe that it works. I don't think it would work on me because I
stopped being afraid of the dark when I was a child and I'm not a good
subject for suggestion or hypnotism. But I know the jargon and you
needn't think I shall laugh at it. The scientists and doctors who wrote
the books don't laugh at it.'

Solitaire smiled. 'All right,' she said. 'Then all I need tell you is
that they believe The Big Man is the Zombie of Baron Samedi. Zombies are
bad enough by themselves. They're animated corpses that have been made
to rise from the dead and obey the commands of the person who controls
them. Baron Samedi is the most dreadful spirit in the whole of
Voodooism. He is the spirit of darkness and death. So for Baron Samedi
to be in control of his own Zombie is a very dreadful conception. You
know what Mr Big looks like. He is huge and grey and he has great
psychic power. It is not difficult for a negro to believe that he is a
Zombie, and a very bad one at that. The step to Baron Samedi is simple.
Mr Big encourages the idea by having the Baron's fetish at his elbow.
You saw it in his room.'

She paused. She went on quickly, almost breathlessly: 'And I can tell
you that it works and that there's hardly a negro who has seen him and
heard the story who doesn't believe it and who doesn't regard him with
complete and absolute dread. And they are right,' she added. 'And you
would say so too if you knew the way he deals with those who haven't
obeyed him completely, the way they are tortured and killed.'

'Where does Moscow come in?' asked Bond. 'Is it true he's an agent of
SMERSH?'

'I don't know what SMERSH is,' said the girl, 'but I know he works for
Russia, at least I've heard him talking Russian to people who come from
time to time. Occasionally he's had me in to that room and asked me
afterwards what I thought of his visitors. Generally it seemed to me
they were telling the truth although I couldn't understand what they
said. But don't forget I've only known him for a year and he's
fantastically secretive. If Moscow does use him they've got hold of one
of the most powerful men in America. He can find out almost anything he
wants to and if he doesn't get what he wants somebody gets killed.'

'Why doesn't someone kill him?' asked Bond.

'You can't kill him,' she said. 'He's already dead. He's a Zombie.'

'Yes, I see,' said Bond slowly. 'It's quite an impressive arrangement.
Would you try?'

She looked out of the window, then back at him.

'As a last resort,' she admitted unwillingly. 'But don't forget I come
from Haiti. My brain tells me I could kill him, but...' She made a
helpless gesture with her hands. '...my instinct tells me I
couldn't.'

She smiled at him docilely. 'You must think me a hopeless fool,' she
said.

Bond reflected. 'Not after reading all those books,' he admitted. He put
his hand across the table and covered hers with it. 'When the time
comes,' he said, smiling, 'I'll cut a cross in my bullet. That used to
work in the old days.'

She looked thoughtful. 'I believe that if anybody can do it, you can,'
she said. 'You hit him hard last night in exchange for what he did to
you.' She took his hand in hers and pressed it. 'Now tell me what I must
do.'

'Bed,' said Bond. He looked at his watch. It was ten o'clock. 'Might as
well get as much sleep as we can. We'll slip off the train at
Jacksonville and chance being spotted. Find another way down to the
Coast.'

They got up. They stood facing each other in the swaying train.

Suddenly Bond reached out and took her in his right arm. Her arms went
round his neck and they kissed passionately. He pressed her up against
the swaying wall and held her there. She took his face between her two
hands and held it away, panting. Her eyes were bright and hot. Then she
brought his lips against hers again and kissed him long and
lasciviously, as if she was the man and he the woman.

Bond cursed the broken hand that prevented him exploring her body,
taking her. He freed his right hand and put it between their bodies,
feeling her hard breasts, each with its pointed stigma of desire. He
slipped it down her back until it came to the cleft at the base of her
spine and he let it rest there, holding the centre of her body hard
against him until they had kissed enough.

She took her arms away from round his neck and pushed him away.

'I hoped I would one day kiss a man like that,' she said. 'And when I
first saw you, I knew it would be you.'

Her arms were down by her sides and her body stood there, open to him,
ready for him.

'You're very beautiful,' said Bond. 'You kiss more wonderfully than any
girl I have ever known.' He looked down at the bandages on his left
hand. 'Curse this arm,' he said. 'I can't hold you properly or make love
to you. It hurts too much. That's something else Mr Big's got to pay
for.'

She laughed.

She took a handkerchief out of her bag and wiped the lipstick off his
mouth. Then she brushed the hair away from his forehead, and kissed him
again, lightly and tenderly.

'It's just as well,' she said. 'There are too many other things on our
minds.'

The train rocked him back against her.

He put his hand on her left breast and kissed her white throat. Then he
kissed her mouth.

He felt the pounding of his blood softening. He took her by the hand and
drew her out into the middle of the little swaying room.

He smiled. 'Perhaps you're right,' he said. 'When the time comes I want
to be alone with you, with all the time in the world. Here there is at
least one man who will probably disturb our night. And we'll have to be
up at four in the morning anyway. So there simply isn't time to begin
making love to you now. You get ready for bed and I'll climb up after
you and kiss you good night.'

They kissed once more, slowly, then he stepped away.

'We'll just see if we have company next door,' he said.

He softly pulled the wedge away from under the communicating door and
gently turned the lock. He took the Beretta out of its holster, thumbed
back the safety-catch and gestured to her to pull open the door so that
she was behind it. He gave the signal and she wrenched it quickly open.
The empty compartment yawned sarcastically at them.

Bond smiled at her and shrugged his shoulders.

'Call me when you're ready,' he said and went in and closed the door.

The door to the corridor was locked. The room was identical to theirs.
Bond went over it very carefully for vulnerable points. There was only
the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling and Bond, who was prepared to
consider any possibility, dismissed the employment of gas in the system.
It would slay all the other occupants of the car. There only remained
the waste pipes in the small lavatory, and while these certainly could
be used to insert some death-dealing medium from the underbelly of the
train, the operator would have to be a daring and skilled acrobat. There
was no ventilating grille into the corridor.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. If anyone came, it would be through the
doors. He would just have to stay awake.

Solitaire called for him. The room smelled of Balmain's Vent Vert. She
was leaning on her elbow and looking down at him from the upper berth.

The bedclothes were pulled up round her shoulder. Bond guessed that she
was naked. Her black hair fell away from her head in a dark cascade.
With only the reading-lamp on behind her, her face was in shadow. Bond
climbed up the little aluminium ladder and leant towards her. She
reached towards him and suddenly the bedclothes fell away from her
shoulders.

'Damn you,' said Bond. 'You...'

She put her hand over his mouth.

'"Allumeuse" is the nice word for it,' she said. 'It is fun for me to be
able to tease such a strong silent man. You burn with such an angry
flame. It is the only game I have to play with you and I shan't be able
to play it for long. How many days until your hand is well again?'

Bond bit hard into the soft hand over his mouth. She gave a little
scream.

'Not many,' said Bond. 'And then one day when you're playing your little
game you'll suddenly find yourself pinned down like a butterfly.'

She put her arms round him and they kissed, long and passionately.

Finally she sank back among the pillows.

'Hurry up and get well,' she said. 'I'm tired of my game already.'

Bond climbed down to the floor and pulled her curtains across the berth.

'Try and get some sleep now,' he said. 'We've got a long day tomorrow.'

She murmured something and he heard her turn over. She switched off the
light.

Bond verified that the wedges were in place under the doors. Then he
took off his coat and tie and lay down on the bottom berth. He turned
off his own light and lay thinking of Solitaire and listening to the
steady gallop of the wheels beneath his head and the comfortable small
noises in the room, the gentle rattles and squeaks and murmurs in the
coachwork that bring sleep so quickly on a train at night-time.

It was eleven o'clock and the train was on the long stretch between
Columbia and Savannah, Georgia. There were another six hours or so to
Jacksonville, another six hours of darkness during which The Big Man
would almost certainly have instructed his agent to make some move,
while the whole train was asleep and while a man could use the corridors
without interference.

The great train snaked on through the dark, pounding out the miles
through the empty plains and mingy hamlets of Georgia, the 'Peach
State', the angry moan of its four-toned wind-horn soughing over the
wide savannah and the long shaft of its single searchlight ripping the
black calico of the night.

Bond turned on his light again and read for a while, but his thoughts
were too insistent and he soon gave up and switched the light off.
Instead, he thought of Solitaire and of the future and of the more
immediate prospects of Jacksonville and St Petersburg and of seeing
Leiter again.

Much later, around one o'clock in the morning, he was dozing and on the
edge of sleep, when a soft metallic noise quite close to his head
brought him wide awake with his hand on his gun.

There was someone at the passage door and the lock was being softly
tried.

Bond was immediately on the floor and moving silently on his bare feet.
He gently pulled the wedge away from under the door to the next
compartment and as gently pulled the bolt and opened the door. He
crossed the next compartment and softly began to open the door to the
corridor.

There was a deafening click as the bolt came back. He tore the door open
and threw himself into the corridor, only to see a flying figure already
nearing the forward end of the car.

If his two hands had been free he could have shot the man, but to open
the doors he had to tuck his gun into the waistband of his trousers.
Bond knew that pursuit would be hopeless. There were too many empty
compartments into which the man could dodge and quietly close the door.
Bond had worked all this out beforehand. He knew his only chance would
be surprise and either a quick shot or the man's surrender.

He walked a few steps to Compartment H. A tiny diamond of paper
protruded into the corridor.

He went back and into their room, locking the doors behind him. He
softly turned on his reading light. Solitaire was still asleep. The rest
of the paper, a single sheet, lay on the carpet against the passage
door. He picked it up and sat on the edge of his bed.

It was a sheet of cheap ruled notepaper. It was covered with irregular
lines of writing in rough capitals, in red ink. Bond handled it
gingerly, without much hope that it would yield any prints. These people
weren't like that.

    _Oh Witch_ [he read] _do not slay me_,
    _Spare me. His is the body._

    _The divine drummer declares that_
    _When he rises with the dawn_
    _He will sound his drums for_ YOU _in the morning_
    _Very early, very early, very early, very early_.
    _Oh Witch that slays the children of men before they are fully
      matured_
    _Oh Witch that slays the children of men before they are fully
      matured_
    _The divine drummer declares that_
    _When he rises with the dawn_
    _He will sound his drums for_ YOU _in the morning_
    _Very early, very early, very early, very early_.
    _We are addressing_ YOU
    _And_ YOU _will understand_.

Bond lay down on his bed and thought.

Then he folded the paper and put it in his pocket-book.

He lay on his back and looked at nothing, waiting for daybreak.




                           12. The Everglades


It was around five o'clock in the morning when they slipped off the
train at Jacksonville.

It was still dark and the naked platforms of the great Florida junction
were sparsely lit. The entrance to the subway was only a few yards from
Car 245 and there was no sign of life on the sleeping train as they
dived down the steps. Bond had told the attendant to keep the door of
their compartment locked after they had gone and the blinds drawn and he
thought there was quite a chance they would not be missed until the
train reached St Petersburg.

They came out of the subway into the booking-hall. Bond verified that
the next express for St Petersburg would be the Silver Meteor, the
sister train of the Phantom, due at about nine o'clock, and he booked
two Pullman seats on it. Then he took Solitaire's arm and they walked
out of the station into the warm dark street.

There were two or three all-night diners to choose from and they pushed
through the door that announced GOOD EATS in the brightest neon. It was
the usual sleazy food-machine--two tired waitresses behind a zinc
counter loaded with cigarettes and candy and paperbacks and comics.
There was a big coffee percolator and a row of butane gas-rings. A door
marked RESTROOM concealed its dreadful secrets next to a door marked
PRIVATE which was probably the back entrance. A group of overalled men
at one of the dozen stained crueted tables looked up briefly as they
came in and then resumed their low conversation. Relief crews for the
Diesels, Bond guessed.

There were four narrow booths on the right of the entrance and Bond and
Solitaire slipped into one of them. They looked dully at the stained
menu card.

After a time, one of the waitresses sauntered over and stood leaning
against the partition, running her eyes over Solitaire's clothes.

'Orange juice, coffee, scrambled eggs, twice,' said Bond briefly.

''Kay,' said the girl. Her shoes lethargically scuffed the floor as she
sauntered away.

'The scrambled eggs'll be cooked with milk,' said Bond. 'But one can't
eat boiled eggs in America. They look so disgusting without their
shells, mixed up in a tea-cup the way they do them here. God knows where
they learned the trick. From Germany, I suppose. And bad American
coffee's the worst in the world, worse even than in England. I suppose
they can't do much harm to the orange juice. After all, we _are_ in
Florida now.' He suddenly felt depressed by the thought of their
four-hour wait in this unwashed, dog-eared atmosphere.

'Everybody's making easy money in America these days,' said Solitaire.
'That's always bad for the customer. All they want is to strip a quick
dollar off you and toss you out. Wait till you get down to the coast. At
this time of the year, Florida's the biggest sucker-trap on earth. On
the East Coast they fleece the millionaires. Where we're going they just
take it off the little man. Serves him right, of course. He goes there
to die. He can't take it with him.'

'For heaven's sake,' said Bond, 'what sort of a place are we going to?'

'Everybody's nearly dead in St Petersburg,' explained Solitaire. 'It's
the Great American Graveyard. When the bank clerk or the post-office
worker or the railroad conductor reaches sixty he collects his pension
or his annuity and goes to St Petersburg to get a few years' sunshine
before he dies. It's called "The Sunshine City". The weather's so good
that the evening paper there, the _Independent_, is given away free any
day the sun hasn't shone by edition time. It only happens three or four
times a year and it's a fine advertisement. Everybody goes to bed around
nine o'clock in the evening and during the day the old folks play
shuffleboard and bridge, herds of them. There's a couple of baseball
teams down there, the "Kids" and the "Kubs", all over seventy-five! Then
they play bowls, but most of the time they sit squashed together in
droves on things called "Sidewalk Davenports", rows of benches up and
down the sidewalks of the main streets. They just sit in the sun and
gossip and doze. It's a terrifying sight, all these old people with
their spectacles and hearing-aids and clicking false-teeth.'

'Sounds pretty grim,' said Bond. 'Why the hell did Mr Big choose this
place to operate from?'

'It's perfect for him,' said Solitaire seriously. 'There's practically
no crime, except cheating at bridge and Canasta. So there's a very small
police force. There's quite a big Coastguard Station but it's mainly
concerned with smuggling between Tampa and Cuba, and sponge-fishing out
of season at Tarpon Springs. I don't really know what he does there
except that he's got a big agent called "The Robber". Something to do
with Cuba, I expect,' she added thoughtfully. 'Probably mixed up with
Communism. I believe Cuba comes under Harlem and runs red agents all
through the Caribbean.

'Anyway,' she went on, 'St Petersburg is probably the most innocent town
in America. Everything's very "folksy" and "gracious". It's true there's
a place called "The Restorium", a hospital for alcoholics. But very old
ones, I suppose,' she laughed, 'and I expect they're past doing anyone
any harm. You'll love it,' she smiled maliciously at Bond. 'You'll
probably want to settle down there for life and be an "Oldster" too.
That's the great word down there... "oldster".'

'God forbid,' said Bond fervently. 'It sounds rather like Bournemouth or
Torquay. But a million times worse. I hope we don't get into a shooting
match with "The Robber" and his friends. We'd probably hurry a few
hundred oldsters off to the cemetery with heart-failure. But isn't there
anyone young in this place?'

'Oh yes,' laughed Solitaire. 'Plenty of them. All the local inhabitants
who take the money off the oldsters, for instance. The people who own
the motels and the trailer-camps. You could make plenty of money running
the bingo tournaments. I'll be your "barker"--the girl outside who gets
the suckers in. Dear Mister Bond,' she reached over and pressed his
hand, 'will you settle down with me and grow old gracefully in St
Petersburg?'

Bond sat back and looked at her critically. 'I want a long time of
disgraceful living with you first,' he said with a grin. 'I'm probably
better at that. But it suits me that they go to bed at nine down there.'

Her eyes smiled back at him. She took her hand away from his as their
breakfast arrived. 'Yes,' she said. 'You go to bed at nine. Then I shall
slip out by the back door and go on the tiles with the Kids and the
Kubs.'

The breakfast was as bad as Bond had prophesied.

When they had paid they wandered over to the station waiting-room.

The sun had risen and the light swarmed in dusty bars into the vaulted,
empty hall. They sat together in a corner and until the Silver Meteor
came in Bond plied her with questions about The Big Man and all she
could tell him about his operations.

Occasionally he made a note of a date or a name but there was little she
could add to what he knew. She had an apartment to herself in the same
Harlem block as Mr Big and she had been kept virtually a prisoner there
for the past year. She had two tough negresses as 'companions' and was
never allowed out without a guard.

From time to time Mr Big would have her brought over to the room where
Bond had seen him. There she would be told to divine whether some man or
woman, generally bound to the chair, was lying or not. She varied her
replies according to whether she sensed these people were good or evil.
She knew that her verdict might often be a death sentence but she felt
indifferent to the fate of those she judged to be evil. Very few of them
were white.

Bond jotted down the dates and details of all these occasions.

Everything she told him added to the picture of a very powerful and
active man, ruthless and cruel, commanding a huge network of operations.

All she knew of the gold coins was that she had several times had to
question men on how many they had passed and the price they had been
paid for them. Very often, she said, they were lying on both counts.

Bond was careful to divulge very little of what he himself knew or
guessed. His growing warmth towards Solitaire and his desire for her
body were in a compartment which had no communicating door with his
professional life.

The Silver Meteor came in on time and they were both relieved to be on
their way again and to get away from the dreary world of the big
junction.

The train sped on down through Florida, through the forests and swamps,
stark and bewitched with Spanish moss, and through the mile upon mile of
citrus groves.

All through the centre of the state the moss lent a dead, spectral
feeling to the landscape. Even the little townships through which they
passed had a grey skeletal aspect with their dried-up, sun-sucked
clapboard houses. Only the citrus groves laden with fruit looked green
and alive. Everything else seemed baked and desiccated with the heat.

Looking out at the gloomy silent withered forests, Bond thought that
nothing could be living in them except bats and scorpions, horned toads
and black widow spiders.

They had lunch and then suddenly the train was running along the Gulf of
Mexico, through the mangrove swamps and palm groves, endless motels and
caravan sites, and Bond caught the smell of the other Florida, the
Florida of the advertisements, the land of 'Miss Orange Blossom 1954'.

They left the train at Clearwater, the last station before St
Petersburg. Bond took a cab and gave the address on Treasure Island,
half an hour's drive away. It was two o'clock and the sun blazed down
out of a cloudless sky. Solitaire insisted on taking off her hat and
veil. 'It's sticking to my face,' she said. 'Hardly a soul has ever seen
me down here.'

                 *        *        *        *        *

A big negro with a face pitted with ancient smallpox was held up in his
cab at the same time as they were checked at the intersection of Park
Street and Central Avenue, where the Avenue runs on to the long Treasure
Island causeway across the shallow waters of Boca Ciega Bay.

When the negro saw Solitaire's profile his mouth fell open. He pulled
his cab into the kerb and dived into a drugstore. He called a St
Petersburg number.

'Dis is Poxy,' he said urgently into the mouthpiece. 'Gimme da Robber 'n
step on it. Dat you, Robber? Lissen, Da Big Man muss be n'town. Whaddya
mean yuh jes talked wit him 'n New York? Ah jes seen his gal 'n a
Clearwater cab, one of da Stassen Company's. Headin' over da Causeway.
Sho Ahm sartin. Cross ma heart. Couldn mistake dat eyeful. Wid a man 'n
a blue suit, grey Stetson. Seemed like a scar down his face. Whaddya
mean, follow 'em? Ah jes couldn believe yuh wouldn tell me da Big Man
wuz 'n town ef he wuz. Thought mebbe Ahd better check 'n make sho. Okay,
okay. Ah'll ketch da cab when he comes back over da Causeway, else at
Clearwater. Okay, okay. Keep yo shirt on. Ah ain't done nuthen wrong.'

The man called 'The Robber' was through to New York in five minutes. He
had been warned about Bond but he couldn't understand where Solitaire
tied in to the picture. When he had finished talking to The Big Man he
still didn't know, but his instructions were quite definite.

He rang off and sat for a while, drumming his fingers on his desk. Ten
Grand for the job. He'd need two men. That would leave eight Grand for
him. He licked his lips and called a poolroom in a downtown bar in
Tampa.

                 *        *        *        *        *

Bond paid off the cab at The Everglades, a group of neat
white-and-yellow clapboard cottages set on three sides of a square of
Bahama grass which ran fifty yards down to a bone-white beach and then
to the sea. From there, the whole Gulf of Mexico stretched away, as calm
as a mirror, until the heat-haze on the horizon married it into the
cloudless sky.

After London, after New York, after Jacksonville, it was a sparkling
transition.

Bond went through a door marked OFFICE with Solitaire demurely at his
heels. He rang a bell that said, MANAGERESS: MRS STUYVESANT, and a
withered shrimp of a woman with blue-rinsed hair appeared and smiled
with her pinched lips. 'Yes?'

'Mr Leiter?'

'Oh yes, you're Mr Bryce. Cabana Number One, right down on the beach. Mr
Leiter's been expecting you since lunchtime. And...?' She
heliographed with her pince-nez towards Solitaire.

'Mrs Bryce,' said Bond.

'Ah yes,' said Mrs Stuyvesant, wishing to disbelieve. 'Well, if you'd
care to sign the register, I'm sure you and Mrs Bryce would like to
freshen up after the journey. The full address, please. Thank you.'

She led them out and down the cement path to the end cottage on the
left. She knocked and Leiter appeared. Bond had looked forward to a warm
welcome, but Leiter seemed staggered to see him. His mouth hung open.
His straw-coloured hair, still faintly black at the roots, looked like a
haystack.

'You haven't met my wife, I think,' said Bond.

'No, no, I mean, yes. How do you do?'

The whole situation was beyond him. Forgetting Solitaire, he almost
dragged Bond through the door. At the last moment he remembered the girl
and seized her with his other hand and pulled her in too, banging the
door shut with his heel so that Mrs Stuyvesant's 'I hope you have a
happy...' was guillotined before the 'stay'.

Once inside, Leiter could still not take them in. He stood and gaped
from one to the other.

Bond dropped his suitcase on the floor of the little lobby. There were
two doors. He pushed open the one on his right and held it for
Solitaire. It was a small living-room that ran the width of the cottage
and faced across the beach to the sea. It was pleasantly furnished with
bamboo beach chairs upholstered in foam rubber covered with a
red-and-green hibiscus chintz. Palm-leaf matting covered the floor. The
walls were duck's-egg blue and in the centre of each was a colour print
of tropical flowers in a bamboo frame. There was a large drum-shaped
table in bamboo with a glass top. It held a bowl of flowers and a white
telephone. There were broad windows facing the sea and to the right of
them a door leading on to the beach. White plastic jalousies were drawn
half up the windows to cut the glare from the sand.

Bond and Solitaire sat down. Bond lit a cigarette and threw the pack and
his lighter on to the table.

Suddenly the telephone rang. Leiter came out of his trance and walked
over from the door and picked up the receiver.

'Speaking,' he said. 'Put the Lieutenant on. That you, Lieutenant? He's
here. Just walked in. No, all in one piece.' He listened for a moment,
then turned to Bond. 'Where did you leave the Phantom?' he asked. Bond
told him. 'Jacksonville,' said Leiter into the telephone. 'Yeah, I'll
say. Sure. I'll get the details from him and call you back. Will you
call off Homicide? I'd sure appreciate it. And New York. Much obliged,
Lieutenant. Orlando 9000. Okay. And thanks again. 'Bye.' He put down the
receiver. He wiped the sweat off his forehead and sat down opposite
Bond.

Suddenly he looked at Solitaire and grinned apologetically. 'I guess
you're Solitaire,' he said. 'Sorry for the rough welcome. It's been
quite a day. For the second time in around twenty-four hours I didn't
expect to see this guy again.' He turned back to Bond. 'Okay to go
ahead?' he asked.

'Yes,' said Bond. 'Solitaire's on our side now.'

'That's a break,' said Leiter. 'Well, you won't have seen the papers or
heard the radio, so I'll give you the headlines first. The Phantom was
stopped soon after Jacksonville. Between Waldo and Ocala. Your
compartment was tommy-gunned and bombed. Blown to bits. Killed the
Pullman porter who was in the corridor at the time. No other casualties.
Bloody uproar going on. Who did it? Who's Mr Bryce and who's Mrs Bryce?
Where are they? Of course we were sure you'd been snatched. The police
at Orlando are in charge. Traced the bookings back to New York. Found
the FBI had made them. Everyone comes down on me like a load of bricks.
Then you walk in with a pretty girl on your arm looking as happy as a
clam.'

Leiter burst out laughing. 'Boy! You should have heard Washington a
while back. Anybody would have thought it was me that bombed the goddam
train.'

He reached for one of Bond's cigarettes and lit it.

'Well,' he said. 'That's the synopsis. I'll hand over the shooting
script when I've heard your end. Give.'

Bond described in detail what had happened since he had spoken to Leiter
from the St Regis. When he came to the night on the train he took the
piece of paper out of his pocket-book and pushed it across the table.

Leiter whistled. 'Voodoo,' he said. 'This was meant to be found on the
corpse, I guess. Ritual murder by friends of the men you bumped in
Harlem. That's how it was supposed to look. Take the heat right away
from The Big Man. They certainly think out all the angles. We'll get
after that thug they had on the train. Probably one of the help in the
diner. He must have been the man who put the finger on your compartment.
You finish. Then I'll tell you how he did it.'

'Let me see,' said Solitaire. She reached across for the paper.

'Yes,' she said quietly. 'It's an _ouanga_, a Voodoo fetish. It's the
invocation to the Drum Witch. It's used by the Ashanti tribe in Africa
when they want to kill someone. They use something like it in Haiti.'
She handed it back to Bond. 'It was lucky you didn't tell me about it,'
she said seriously. 'I would still be having hysterics.'

'I didn't care for it myself,' said Bond. 'I felt it was bad news. Lucky
we got off at Jacksonville. Poor Baldwin. We owe him a lot.'

He finished the story of the rest of their trip.

'Anyone spot you when you left the train?' asked Leiter.

'Shouldn't think so,' said Bond. 'But we'd better keep Solitaire under
cover until we can get her out. Thought we ought to fly her over to
Jamaica tomorrow. I can get her looked after there till we come on.'

'Sure,' agreed Leiter. 'We'll put her in a charter plane at Tampa. Get
her down to Miami by tomorrow lunchtime and she can take one of the
afternoon services--KLM or Panam. Get her in by dinner-time tomorrow.
Too late to do anything this afternoon.'

'Is that all right, Solitaire?' Bond asked her.

The girl was staring out of the window. Her eyes had the faraway look
that Bond had seen before.

Suddenly she shivered.

Her eyes came back to Bond. She put out a hand and touched his sleeve.

'Yes,' she said. She hesitated. 'Yes, I guess so.'




                         13. Death of a Pelican


Solitaire stood up.

'I must go and tidy myself,' she said. 'I expect you've both got plenty
to talk about.'

'Of course,' said Leiter, jumping up. 'Crazy of me! You must be dead
beat. Guess you'd better take James's room and he can bed down with me.'

Solitaire followed him out into the little hall and Bond heard Leiter
explaining the arrangement of the rooms.

In a moment Leiter came back with a bottle of Haig and Haig and some
ice.

'I'm forgetting my manners,' he said. 'We could both do with a drink.
There's a small pantry next to the bathroom and I've stocked it with all
we're likely to need!'

He fetched some soda-water and they both took a long drink.

'Let's have the details,' said Bond, sitting back. 'Must have been the
hell of a fine job.'

'Sure was,' agreed Leiter, 'except for the shortage of corpses.'

He put his feet on the table and lit a cigarette.

'Phantom left Jacksonville around five,' he began. 'Got to Waldo around
six. Just after leaving Waldo--and here I'm guessing--Mr Big's man comes
along to your car, gets into the next compartment to yours and hangs a
towel between the drawn blind and the window, meaning--and he must have
done a good deal of telephoning at stations on the way down--meaning
'the window to the right of this towel is it'.

'There's a long stretch of straight track between Waldo and Ocala,'
continued Leiter, 'running through forest and swamp land. State highway
right alongside the track. About twenty minutes outside Waldo, Wham!
goes a dynamite emergency signal under the leading Diesel. Driver comes
down to forty. Wham! And another Wham! Three in line! Emergency! Halt at
once! He halts the train wondering what the hell. Straight track. Last
signal green over green. Nothing in sight. It's around quarter after six
and just getting light. There's a sedan, clouted heap I expect [Bond
raised an eyebrow. 'Stolen car,' explained Leiter], grey, thought to
have been a Buick, no lights, engine running, waiting on the highway
opposite the centre of the train. Three men get out. Coloured. Probably
negro. They walk slowly in line abreast along the grass verge between
the road and the track. Two on the outside carry rippers--tommy-guns.
Man in the centre has something in his hand. Twenty yards and they stop
outside Car 245. Men with the rippers give a double squirt at your
window. Open it up for the pineapple. Centre man tosses in the pineapple
and all three run back to the car. Two seconds fuse. As they reach the
car, BOOM! Fricassee of Compartment H. Fricassee, presumably, of Mr and
Mrs Bryce. In fact fricassee of your Baldwin, who runs out and crouches
in the corridor directly he sees men approaching his car. No other
casualties except multiple shock and hysterics throughout train. Car
drives away very fast towards limbo where it still is and will probably
remain. Silence, mingled with screams, falls. People run to and fro.
Train limps gingerly into Ocala. Drops Car 245. Is allowed to proceed
three hours later. Scene II. Leiter sits alone in cottage, hoping he has
never said an unkind word to his friend James, and wondering how Mr
Hoover will have Mr Leiter served for his dinner tonight. That's all,
folks.'

Bond laughed. 'What an organization!' he said. 'I'm sure it's all
beautifully covered up and alibied. What a man! He certainly seems to
have the run of this country. Just shows how one can push a democracy
around, what with _habeas corpus_ and human rights and all the rest.
Glad we haven't got him on our hands in England. Wooden truncheons
wouldn't make much of a dent in him. Well,' he concluded, 'that's three
times I've managed to get away with it. The pace is beginning to get a
bit hot.'

'Yes,' said Leiter thoughtfully. 'Before you arrived over here you could
have counted the mistakes Mr Big has ever made on one thumb. Now he's
made three all in a row. He won't like that. We've got to put the heat
on him while he's still groggy and then get out, quick. Tell you what
I've got in mind. There's no doubt that gold gets into the States
through this place. We've tracked the _Secatur_ again and again and she
just comes straight over from Jamaica to St Petersburg and docks at that
worm-and-bait factory--Rubberus or whatever it's called.'

'Ourobouros,' said Bond. 'The Great Worm of mythology. Good name for a
worm-and-bait factory.' Suddenly a thought struck him. He hit the glass
table-top with the flat of his hand. 'Felix! Of course. Ourobouros--"The
Robber"--don't you see? Mr Big's man down here. It must be the same.'

Leiter's face lit up. 'Christ Almighty,' he exclaimed. 'Of course it's
the same. That Greek who's supposed to own it, the man in Tarpon Springs
that figures in the reports that blockhead showed us in New York,
Binswanger. He's probably just a figurehead. Probably doesn't even know
there's anything phoney about it. It's his manager here we've got to get
after. "The Robber." Of course that's who it is.'

Leiter jumped up.

'Cmon. Let's get going. We'll go right along and look the place over. I
was going to suggest it anyway, seeing the _Secatur_ always docks at
their wharf. She's in Cuba now, by the way,' he added, 'Havana. Cleared
from here a week ago. They searched her good and proper when she came in
and when she left. Didn't find a thing, of course. Thought she might
have a false keel. Almost tore it off. She had to go into dock before
she could sail again. Nix. Not a shadow of anything wrong. Let alone a
stack of gold coins. Anyway, we'll go and smell around. See if we can
get a look at our Robber friend. I'll just have to talk to Orlando and
Washington. Tell 'em all we know. They must catch up quick with The Big
Man's fellow on the train. Probably too late by now. You go and see how
Solitaire's getting on. Tell her she's not to move till we get back.
Lock her in. We'll take her out to dinner in Tampa. They've got the best
restaurant on the whole coast, Cuban, "Los Novedades". We'll stop at the
airport on the way and fix her flight for tomorrow.'

Leiter reached for the telephone and asked for Long Distance. Bond left
him to it.

Ten minutes later they were on their way.

Solitaire had not wanted to be left. She had clung to Bond. 'I want to
get away from here,' she said, her eyes frightened. 'I have a
feeling...' She didn't end the sentence. Bond kissed her.

'It's all right,' he said. 'We'll be back in an hour or so. Nothing can
happen to you here. Then I shan't leave you until you're on the plane.
We can even stay the night in Tampa and get you off at first light.'

'Yes, please,' said Solitaire anxiously. 'I'd rather do that. I'm
frightened here. I feel in danger.' She put her arms round his neck.
'Don't think I'm being hysterical.' She kissed him. 'Now you can go. I
just wanted to see you. Come back quickly.'

Leiter had called and Bond had closed the door on her and locked it.

He followed Leiter to his car on the Parkway feeling vaguely troubled.
He couldn't imagine that the girl could come to any harm in this
peaceful, law-abiding place, or that The Big Man could conceivably have
traced her to The Everglades, which was only one of a hundred similar
beach establishments on Treasure Island. But he respected the
extraordinary power of her intuitions and her attack of nerves made him
uneasy.

The sight of Leiter's car put these thoughts out of his mind.

Bond liked fast cars and he liked driving them. Most American cars bored
him. They lacked personality and the patina of individual craftsmanship
that European cars have. They were just 'vehicles', similar in shape and
in colour, and even in the tone of their horns. Designed to serve for a
year and then be turned in in part exchange for the next year's model.
All the fun of driving had been taken out of them with the abolition of
a gear-change, with hydraulic-assisted steering and spongy suspension.
All effort had been smoothed away and all of that close contact with the
machine and the road that extracts skill and nerve from the European
driver. To Bond, American cars were just beetle-shaped Dodgems in which
you motored along with one hand on the wheel, the radio full on, and the
power-operated windows closed to keep out the draughts.

But Leiter had got hold of an old Cord, one of the few American cars
with a personality, and it cheered Bond to climb into the low-hung
saloon, to hear the solid bite of the gears and the masculine tone of
the wide exhaust. Fifteen years old, he reflected, yet still one of the
most modern-looking cars in the world.

They swung on to the causeway and across the wide expanse of unrippled
water that separates the twenty miles of narrow island from the broad
peninsula sprawling with St Petersburg and its suburbs.

Already as they idled up Central Avenue on their way across the town to
the Yacht Basin and the main harbour and the big hotels, Bond caught a
whiff of the atmosphere that makes the town the 'Old Folks Home' of
America. Everyone on the sidewalks had white hair, white or blue, and
the famous Sidewalk Davenports that Solitaire had described were thick
with oldsters sitting in rows like the starlings in Trafalgar Square.

Bond noted the small grudging mouths of the women, the sun gleaming on
their pince-nez; the stringy, collapsed chests and arms of the men
displayed to the sunshine in Truman shirts. The fluffy, sparse balls of
hair on the women showing the pink scalp. The bony bald heads of the
men. And, everywhere, a prattling camaraderie, a swapping of news and
gossip, a making of folksy dates for the shuffle-board and the
bridge-table, a handing round of letters from children and
grandchildren, a tut-tutting about prices in the shops and the motels.

You didn't have to be amongst them to hear it all. It was all in the
nodding and twittering of the balls of blue fluff, the back-slapping and
hawk-an-spitting of the little old baldheads.

'It makes you want to climb right into the tomb and pull the lid down,'
said Leiter at Bond's exclamations of horror. 'You wait till we get out
and walk. If they see your shadow coming up the sidewalk behind them
they jump out of the way as if you were the Chief Cashier coming to look
over their shoulders in the bank. It's ghastly. Makes me think of the
bank clerk who went home unexpectedly at midday and found the President
of the bank sleeping with his wife. He went back and told his pals in
the ledger department and said, "Gosh, fellers, he nearly caught me!"'

Bond laughed.

'You can hear all the presentation gold watches ticking in their
pockets,' said Leiter. 'Place is full of undertakers, and pawnshops
stuffed with gold watches and masonic rings and bits of jet and lockets
full of hair. Makes you shiver to think of it all. Wait till you go to
Aunt Milly's Place and see them all in droves mumbling over their
corn-beef hash and cheeseburgers, trying to keep alive till ninety.
It'll frighten the life out of you. But they're not all old down here.
Take a look at that ad over there.' He pointed towards a big hoarding on
a deserted lot.

It was an advertisement for maternity clothes.

STUTZHEIMER & BLOCK, it said, IT'S NEW! OUR ANTICIPATION DEPARTMENT,
AND AFTER! CLOTHES FOR CHIPS (1-4) AND TWIGS (4-8).

Bond groaned. 'Let's get away from here,' he said. 'This is really
beyond the call of duty.'

They came down to the waterfront and turned right until they came to the
seaplane base and the coastguard station. The streets were free of
oldsters and here there was the normal life of a harbour--wharves,
warehouses, a ship's chandler, some up-turned boats, nets drying, the
cry of seagulls, the rather fetid smell coming in off the bay. After the
teeming boneyard of the town the sign over the garage: 'Drive-ur-Self.
Pat Grady. The Smiling Irishman. Used cars,' was a cheerful reminder of
a livelier, bustling world.

'Better get out and walk,' said Leiter. 'The Robber's place is in the
next block.'

They left the car beside the harbour and sauntered along past a timber
warehouse and some oil-storage tanks. Then they turned left again
towards the sea.

The side-road ended at a small weather-beaten wooden jetty that reached
out twenty feet on barnacled piles into the bay. Right up against its
open gate was a long low corrugated-iron warehouse. Over its wide double
doors was painted, black on white, OUROBOUROS INC. LIVE WORM AND BAIT
MERCHANTS. CORAL, SHELLS, TROPICAL FISH. WHOLESALE ONLY. In one of the
double doors there was a smaller door with a gleaming Yale lock. On the
door was a sign: PRIVATE, KEEP OUT.

Against this a man sat on a kitchen chair, its back tilted so that the
door supported his weight. He was cleaning a rifle, a Remington 30 it
looked like to Bond. He had a wooden toothpick sticking out of his mouth
and a battered baseball cap on the back of his head.

He was wearing a stained white singlet that revealed tufts of black hair
under his arms, and slept-in white canvas trousers and rubber-soled
sneakers. He was around forty and his face was as knotted and seamed as
the mooring posts on the jetty. It was a thin, hatchet face, and the
lips were thin too, and bloodless. His complexion was the colour of
tobacco dust, a sort of yellowy-beige. He looked cruel and cold, like
the bad man in a film about poker-players and gold mines.

Bond and Leiter walked past him and on to the pier. He didn't look up
from his rifle as they went past but Bond sensed that his eyes were
following them.

'If that isn't The Robber,' said Leiter, 'it's a blood relation.'

A pelican, grey with a pale yellow head, was hunched on one of the
mooring posts at the end of the jetty. He let them get very close, then
reluctantly gave a few heavy beats of his wings and planed down towards
the water. The two men stood and watched him flying slowly along just
above the surface of the harbour. Suddenly he crashed clumsily down, his
long bill snaking out and down in front of him. It came up clutching a
small fish which he moodily swallowed. Then the heavy bird got up again
and went on fishing, flying mostly into the sun so that its big shadow
would give no warning. When Bond and Leiter turned to walk back down the
jetty it gave up fishing and glided back to its post. It settled with a
clatter of wings and resumed its thoughtful consideration of the late
afternoon.

The man was still bent over his gun, wiping the mechanism with an oily
rag.

'Good afternoon,' said Leiter. 'You the manager of this wharf?'

'Yep,' said the man without looking up.

'Wondered if there was any chance of mooring my boat here. Basin's
pretty crowded.'

'Nope.'

Leiter took out his notecase. 'Would twenty talk?'

'Nope.' The man gave a rattling hawk in his throat and spat directly
between Bond and Leiter.

'Hey,' said Leiter. 'You want to watch your manners.'

The man deliberated. He looked up at Leiter. He had small, close-set
eyes as cruel as a painless dentist's.

'What's a name of your boat?'

'The _Sybil_,' said Leiter.

'Ain't no sich boat in the Basin,' said the man. He clicked the breech
shut on his rifle. It lay casually on his lap pointing down the approach
to the warehouse, away from the sea.

'You're blind,' said Leiter. 'Been there a week. Sixty-foot twin-screw
Diesel. White with a green awning. Rigged for fishing.'

The rifle started to move lazily in a low arc. The man's left hand was
at the trigger, his right just in front of the trigger-guard, pivoting
the gun.

They stood still.

The man sat lazily looking down at the breech, his chair still tilted
against the small door with the yellow Yale lock.

The gun slowly traversed Leiter's stomach, then Bond's. The two men
stood like statues, not risking a move of the hand. The gun stopped
pivoting. It was pointing down the wharf. The Robber looked briefly up,
narrowed his eyes and pulled the trigger. The pelican gave a faint
squawk and they heard its heavy body crash into the water. The echo of
the shot boomed across the harbour.

'What the hell d'you do that for?' asked Bond furiously.

'Practice,' said the man, pumping another bullet into the breech.

'Guess there's a branch of the ASPCA in this town,' said Leiter. 'Let's
get along there and report this guy.'

'Want to be prosecuted for trespass?' asked The Robber, getting slowly
up and shifting the gun under his arm. 'This is private property. Now,'
he spat the words out, 'git the hell out of here.' He turned and yanked
the chair away from the door, opened the door with a key and turned with
one foot on the threshold. 'You both got guns,' he said. 'I kin smell
'em. You come aroun' here again and you follow the boid 'n I plead
self-defence. I've had a bellyful of you lousy dicks aroun' here lately
breathin' down my neck. _Sybil_ my ass!' He turned contemptuously
through the door and slammed it so that the frame rattled.

They looked at each other. Leiter grinned ruefully and shrugged his
shoulders.

'Round One to The Robber,' he said.

They moved off down the dusty side-road. The sun was setting and the sea
behind them was a pool of blood. When they got to the main road, Bond
looked back. A big arc light had come on over the door and the approach
to the warehouse was stripped of shadows.

'No good trying anything from the front,' said Bond. 'But there's never
been a warehouse with only one entrance.'

'Just what I was thinking,' said Leiter. 'We'll save that for the next
visit.'

They got into the car and drove slowly home across Central Avenue.

On their way home Leiter asked a string of questions about Solitaire.
Finally he said casually, 'By the way, hope I fixed the rooms like you
want them.'

'Couldn't be better,' said Bond cheerfully.

'Fine,' said Leiter. 'Just occurred to me you two might be hyphenating.'

'You read too much Winchell,' said Bond.

'It's just a delicate way of putting it,' said Leiter. 'Don't forget the
walls of those cottages are pretty thin. I use my ears for hearing
with--not for collecting lipstick.'

Bond grabbed for a handkerchief. 'You lousy, goddam sleuth,' he said
furiously.

Leiter watched him scrubbing at himself out of the corner of his eye.
'What are you doing?' he asked innocently. 'I wasn't for a moment
suggesting the colour of your ears was anything but a natural red.
However...' He put a wealth of meaning into the word.

'If you find yourself dead in your bed tonight,' laughed Bond, 'you'll
know who did it.'

They were still chaffing each other when they arrived at The Everglades
and they were laughing when the grim Mrs Stuyvesant greeted them on the
lawn.

'Pardon me, Mr Leiter,' she said. 'But I'm afraid we can't allow music
here. I can't have the other guests disturbed at all hours.'

They looked at her in astonishment. 'I'm sorry, Mrs Stuyvesant,' said
Leiter. 'I don't quite get you.'

'That big radiogram you had sent round,' said Mrs Stuyvesant. 'The men
could hardly get the packing-case through the door.'




             14. 'He Disagreed with Something that Ate Him'


The girl had not put up much of a struggle.

When Leiter and Bond, leaving the manageress gaping on the lawn, raced
down to the end cottage, they found her room untouched and the
bedclothes barely rumpled.

The lock of her room had been forced with one swift wrench of a jemmy
and then the two men must have just stood there with guns in their
hands.

'Get going, Lady. Get your clothes on. Try any tricks and we'll let the
fresh air into you.'

Then they must have gagged her or knocked her out and doubled her into
the packing-case and nailed it up. There were tyre-marks at the back of
the cottage where the truck had stood. Almost blocking the entrance hall
was a huge old-fashioned radiogram. Second-hand it must have cost them
under fifty bucks.

Bond could see the expression of blind terror on Solitaire's face as if
she were standing before him. He cursed himself bitterly for leaving her
alone. He couldn't guess how she had been traced so quickly. It was just
another example of The Big Man's machine.

Leiter was talking to the FBI headquarters at Tampa. 'Airports, railroad
terminals and the highways,' he was saying. 'You'll get blanket orders
from Washington just as soon as I've spoken to them. I guarantee they'll
give this top priority. Thanks a lot. Much appreciated. I'll be around.
Okay.'

He hung up. 'Thank God they're co-operating,' he said to Bond, who was
standing gazing with hard blank eyes out to sea. 'Sending a couple of
their men round right away and throwing as wide a net as they can. While
I sew this up with Washington and New York, get what you can from that
old battle-axe. Exact time, descriptions, etc. Better make out it was a
burglary and that Solitaire has skipped with the men. She'll understand
that. It'll keep the whole thing on the level of the usual hotel crimes.
Say the police are on the way and that we don't blame The Everglades.
She'll want to avoid a scandal. Say we feel the same way.'

Bond nodded. 'Skipped with the men?' That was possible too. But somehow
he didn't think so. He went back to Solitaire's room and searched it
minutely. It still smelled of her, of the Vent Vert that reminded him of
their journey together. Her hat and veil were in the cupboard and her
few toilet articles on the shelf in the bathroom. He soon found her bag
and knew that he was right to have trusted her. It was under the bed,
and he visualized her kicking it there as she got up with the guns
trained on her. He emptied it out on the bed and felt the lining. Then
he took out a small knife and carefully cut a few threads. He took out
the five thousand dollars and slipped them into his pocket-book. They
would be safe with him. If she was killed by Mr Big, he would spend them
on avenging her. He covered up the torn lining as best he could,
replaced the other contents of the bag and kicked it back under the bed.

Then he went up to the office.

It was eight o'clock by the time the routine work was finished. They had
a stiff drink together and then went to the central dining-room, where
the handful of other guests were just finishing their dinners. Everyone
looked curiously and rather fearfully at them. What were these two
rather dangerous-looking young men doing in this place? Where was the
woman who had come with them? Whose wife was she? What had all those
goings on meant that evening? Poor Mrs Stuyvesant running about looking
quite distracted. And didn't they realize that dinner was at seven
o'clock? The kitchen staff would be just going home. Serve them right if
their food was quite cold. People must have consideration for others.
Mrs Stuyvesant had said she thought they were government men, from
Washington. Well, what did that mean?

The consensus of opinion was that they were bad news and no credit to
the carefully restricted clientele of The Everglades.

Bond and Leiter were shown to a bad table near the service door. The set
dinner was a string of inflated English and pidgin French. What it came
down to was tomato juice, boiled fish with a white sauce, a strip of
frozen turkey with a dab of cranberry, and a wedge of lemon curd
surmounted by a whorl of stiff cream substitute. They munched it down
gloomily while the dining-room emptied of its oldster couples and the
table lights went out one by one. Fingerbowls, in which floated one
hibiscus petal, were the final gracious touch to their meal.

Bond ate silently and when they had finished Leiter made a determined
effort to be cheerful.

'Come and get drunk,' he said. 'This is the bad end to a worse day. Or
do you want to play bingo with the oldsters? It says there's a bingo
tournament in the "romp room" this evening.'

Bond shrugged his shoulders and they went back to their sitting-room and
sat gloomily for a while, drinking and staring out across the sand,
bone-white in the light of the moon, towards the endless dark sea.

When Bond had drunk enough to drown his thoughts he said good night and
went off to Solitaire's room, which he had now taken over as his
bedroom. He climbed between the sheets where her warm body had lain and,
before he slept, he had made up his mind. He would go after The Robber
as soon as it was light and strangle the truth out of him. He had been
too preoccupied to discuss the case with Leiter but he was certain that
The Robber must have had a big hand in the kidnapping of Solitaire. He
thought of the man's little cruel eyes and the pale thin lips. Then he
thought of the scrawny neck rising like a turtle's out of the dirty
sweat-shirt. Under the bedclothes the muscles of his arms went taut.
Then, his mind made up, he relaxed his body into sleep.

He slept until eight. When he saw the time on his watch he cursed. He
quickly took a shower, holding his eyes open into the needles of water
until they smarted. Then he put a towel round his waist and went into
Leiter's room. The slats of the jalousies were still down but there was
light enough to see that neither bed had been slept in.

He smiled, thinking that Leiter had probably finished the bottle of
whisky and fallen asleep on the couch in the living-room. He walked
through. The room was empty. The bottle of whisky, still half full, was
on the table, and a pile of cigarette butts overflowed the ash-tray.

Bond went to the window, pulled up the jalousies and opened it. He
caught a glimpse of a beautiful clear morning before he turned back into
the room.

Then he saw the envelope. It was on a chair in front of the door through
which he had come. He picked it up. It contained a note scribbled in
pencil.

    Got to thinking and don't feel like sleep. It's about five a.m.
    Going to visit the worm-and-bait store. All same early bird. Odd
    that trick-shot artist was sitting there while S. was being
    snatched. As if he knew we were in town and was ready for
    trouble in case the snatch went wrong. If I'm not back by ten,
    call out the militia. Tampa 88.

                                                              FELIX

Bond didn't wait. While he shaved and dressed he ordered some coffee and
rolls and a cab. In just over ten minutes he had got them all and had
scalded himself with the coffee. He was leaving the cottage when he
heard the telephone ring in the living-room. He ran back.

'Mr Bryce? Mound Park Hospital speaking,' said a voice. 'Emergency ward.
Doctor Roberts. We have a Mr Leiter here who's asking for you. Can you
come right over?'

'God Almighty,' said Bond, gripped with fear. 'What's the matter with
him? Is he bad?'

'Nothing to worry about,' said the voice. 'Automobile accident. Looks
like a hit-and-run job. Slight concussion. Can you come over? He seems
to want you.'

'Of course,' said Bond, relieved. 'Be there right away.'

Now what the hell, he wondered as he hurried across the lawn. Must have
been beaten up and left in the road. On the whole, Bond was glad it was
no worse.

As they turned across Treasure Island Causeway an ambulance passed them,
its bell clanging.

More trouble, thought Bond. Don't seem to be able to move without
running into it.

They crossed St Petersburg by Central Avenue and turned right down the
road he and Leiter had taken the day before. Bond's suspicions seemed to
be confirmed when he found the hospital was only a couple of blocks from
Ourobouros Inc.

Bond paid off the cab and ran up the steps of the impressive building.
There was a reception desk in the spacious entrance hall. A pretty nurse
sat at the desk reading the ads in the _St Petersburg Times_.

'Dr Roberts?' inquired Bond.

'Dr which?' asked the girl, looking at him with approval.

'Dr Roberts, Emergency ward,' said Bond impatiently, 'Patient called
Leiter, Felix Leiter. Brought in this morning'

'No doctor called Roberts here,' said the girl. She ran a finger down a
list on the desk. 'And no patient called Leiter. Just a moment and I'll
call the ward. What did you say your name was?'

'Bryce,' said Bond. 'John Bryce.' He started to sweat profusely although
it was quite cool in the hall. He wiped his wet hands on his trousers,
fighting to keep from panic. The damn girl just didn't know her job. Too
pretty to be a nurse. Ought to have someone competent on the desk. He
ground his teeth as she talked cheerfully into the telephone.

She put down the receiver. 'I'm sorry, Mr Bryce. Must be some mistake.
No cases during the night and they've never heard of a Dr Roberts or a
Mr Leiter. Sure you've got the right hospital?'

Bond turned away without answering her. Wiping the sweat from his
forehead, he made for the exit.

The girl made a face at his back and picked up her paper.

Mercifully, a cab was just drawing up with some other visitors. Bond
took it and told the driver to get him back quick to The Everglades. All
he knew was that they had got Leiter and had wanted to draw Bond away
from the cottage. Bond couldn't make it out, but he knew that suddenly
everything was going bad on them and that the initiative was back in the
hands of Mr Big and his machine.

Mrs Stuyvesant hurried out when she saw him leave the cab.

'Your poor friend,' she said without sympathy. 'Really he should be more
careful.'

'Yes, Mrs Stuyvesant. What is it?' said Bond impatiently.

'The ambulance came just after you left.' The woman's eyes were gleaming
with the bad news. 'Seems Mr Leiter was in an accident with his car.
They had to carry him to the cottage on a stretcher. Such a nice
coloured man was in charge. He said Mr Leiter would be quite all right
but he mustn't be disturbed on any account. Poor boy! Face all covered
with bandages. They said they'd make him comfortable and a doctor would
be coming later. If there's anything I can...'

Bond didn't wait for more. He ran down the lawn to the cottage and
dashed through the lobby into Leiter's room.

There was the shape of a body on Leiter's bed. It was covered with a
sheet. Over the face, the sheet seemed to be motionless.

Bond gritted his teeth as he leant over the bed. Was there a tiny
flutter of movement?

Bond snatched the shroud down from the face. There was no face. Just
something wrapped round and round with dirty bandages, like a white
wasps' nest.

He softly pulled the sheet down further. More bandages, still more
roughly wound, with wet blood seeping through. Then the top of a sack
which covered the lower half of the body. Everything soaked in blood.

There was a piece of paper protruding from a gap in the bandages where
the mouth should have been.

Bond pulled it away and leant down. There was the faintest whisper of
breath against his cheek. He snatched up the bedside telephone. It took
minutes before he could make Tampa understand. Then the urgency in his
voice got through. They would get to him in twenty minutes.

He put down the receiver and looked vaguely at the paper in his hand. It
was a rough piece of white wrapping paper. Scrawled in pencil in ragged
block letters were the words:

    HE DISAGREED WITH SOMETHING THAT ATE HIM

And underneath in brackets:

                    (P.S. WE HAVE PLENTY MORE JOKES
                            AS GOOD AS THIS)

With the movements of a sleep-walker, Bond put the piece of paper down
on the bedside table. Then he turned back to the body on the bed. He
hardly dared touch it for fear that the tiny fluttering breath would
suddenly cease. But he had to find out something. His fingers worked
softly at the bandages on top of the head. Soon he uncovered some of the
strands of hair. The hair was wet and he put his fingers to his mouth.
There was a salt taste. He pulled out some strands of hair and looked
closely at them. There was no more doubt.

He saw again the pale straw-coloured mop that used to hang down in
disarray over the right eye, grey and humorous, and below it the wry,
hawk-like face of the Texan with whom he had shared so many adventures.
He thought of him for a moment, as he had been. Then he tucked the lock
of hair back into the bandages and sat on the edge of the other bed and
quietly watched over the body of his friend and wondered how much of it
could be saved.

When the two detectives and the police surgeon arrived he told them all
he knew in a quiet flat voice. Acting on what Bond had already told them
on the telephone they had sent a squad car down to The Robber's place
and they waited for a report while the surgeon worked next door.

He was finished first. He came back into the sitting-room looking
anxious. Bond jumped to his feet. The police surgeon slumped into a
chair and looked up at him.

'I think he'll live,' he said. 'But it's fifty-fifty. They certainly did
a job on the poor guy. One arm gone. Half the left leg. Face in a mess,
but only superficial. Darned if I know what did it. Only thing I can
think of is an animal or a big fish. Something's been tearing at him.
Know a bit more when I can get him to the hospital. There'll be traces
left from the teeth of whatever it was. Ambulance should be along any
time.'

They sat in gloomy silence. The telephone rang intermittently. New York,
Washington. The St Petersburg Police Department wanted to know what the
hell was going on down at the wharf and were told to keep out of the
case. It was a Federal job. Finally, from a call-box, there was the
lieutenant in charge of the squad car reporting.

They had been over The Robber's place with a fine tooth-comb. Nothing
but tanks of fish and bait and cases of coral and shells. The Robber and
two men who were down there in charge of the pumps and the water-heating
had been taken in custody and grilled for an hour. Their alibis had been
checked and found to be solid as the Empire State. The Robber had
angrily demanded his mouthpiece and when the lawyer had finally been
allowed to get to them they had been automatically sprung. No charge and
no evidence to base one on. Dead-ends everywhere except that Leiter's
car had been found the other side of the yacht basin, a mile away from
the wharf. A mass of fingerprints, but none that fitted the three men.
Any suggestions?

'Keep with it,' said the senior man in the cottage who had introduced
himself as Captain Franks. 'Be along presently. Washington says we've
got to get these men if it's the last thing we do. Two top operatives
flying down tonight. Time to get co-operation from the Police. I'll tell
'em to get their stoolies working in Tampa. This isn't only a St
Petersburg job. Bye now.'

It was three o'clock. The police ambulance came and left again with the
surgeon and the body that was so near to death. The two men left. They
promised to keep in touch. They were anxious to know Bond's plans. Bond
was evasive. Said he'd have to talk to Washington. Meanwhile, could he
have Leiter's car? Yes, it would be brought round directly Records had
finished with it.

When they had gone, Bond sat lost in thought. They had made sandwiches
from the well-stocked pantry and Bond now finished these and had a stiff
drink.

The telephone rang. Long Distance. Bond found himself speaking to the
head of Leiter's Section of the Central Intelligence Agency. The gist of
it was that they'd be very glad if Bond would move on to Jamaica at
once. All very polite. They had spoken to London, who had agreed. When
should they tell London that Bond would arrive in Jamaica?

Bond knew there was a Transcarib plane via Nassau due out next day. He
said he'd be taking it. Any other news? Oh yes, said the CIA. The
gentleman from Harlem and his girl friend had left by plane for Havana,
Cuba, during the night. Private charter from a little place up the East
Coast called Vero Beach. Papers were in order and charter company was
such a small one the FBI had not bothered to include them when they put
the watch on all airports. Arrival had been reported by the CIA man in
Cuba. Yes, too bad. Yes, the _Secatur_ was still there. No sailing date.
Well, too bad about Leiter. Fine man. Hope he makes out. So Bond would
be in Jamaica tomorrow? Okay. Sorry things been so hectic. 'Bye.

Bond thought for a while, then he picked up the telephone and spoke
briefly to a man at the Eastern Garden Aquarium at Miami and consulted
him about buying a live shark to keep in an ornamental lagoon.

'Only place I ever heard of is right near you now, Mr Bryce,' said the
helpful voice. 'Ourobouros Worm and Bait. They got sharks. Big ones. Do
business with foreign zoos and suchlike. White, Tiger, even Hammerheads.
They'll be glad to help you. Costs a lot to feed 'em. You're welcome.
Any time you're passing. 'Bye.'

Bond took out his gun and cleaned it, waiting for the night.




                      15. Midnight Among the Worms


Around six Bond packed his bag and paid the check. Mrs Stuyvesant was
glad to see the last of him. The Everglades hadn't experienced such
alarums since the last hurricane.

Leiter's car was back on the Boulevard and he drove it over to the town.
He visited a hardware store and made various purchases. Then he had the
biggest steak, rare, with French fries, he had ever seen. It was a small
grill called Pete's, dark and friendly. He drank a quarter of a pint of
Old Grandad with the steak and had two cups of very strong coffee. With
all this under his belt he began to feel more sanguine.

He spun out the meal and the drinks until nine o'clock. Then he studied
a map of the city and took the car and made a wide detour that brought
him within a block of The Robber's wharf from the south. He ran the car
down to the sea and got out.

It was a bright moonlit night and the buildings and warehouses threw
great blocks of indigo shadow. The whole section seemed deserted and
there was no sound except the quiet lapping of the small waves against
the sea-wall and water gurgling under the empty wharves.

The top of the low sea-wall was about three feet wide. It was in shadow
for the hundred yards or more that separated him from the long black
outline of the Ourobouros warehouse.

Bond climbed on to it and walked carefully and silently along between
the buildings and the sea. As he got nearer a steady, high-pitched whine
became louder, and by the time he dropped down on the wide cement
parking space at the back of the building it was a muted scream. Bond
had expected something of the sort. The noise came from the air-pumps
and heating systems which he knew would be necessary to keep the fish
healthy through the chill of the night hours. He had also relied on the
fact that most of the roof would certainly be of glass to admit sunlight
during the day. Also that there would be good ventilation.

He was not disappointed. The whole of the south wall of the warehouse,
from just above the level of his head, was of plate glass, and through
it he could see the moonlight shining down through half an acre of glass
roofing. High up above him, and well out of reach, broad windows were
open to the night air. There was, as he and Leiter had expected, a small
door low down, but it was locked and bolted and leaded wires near the
hinges suggested some form of burglar-alarm.

Bond was not interested in the door. Following his hunch, he had come
equipped for an entry through glass. He cast about for something that
would raise him an extra two feet. In a land where litter and junk are
so much a part of the landscape he soon found what he wanted. It was a
discarded heavy gauge tyre. He rolled it to the wall of the warehouse
away from the door and took off his shoes.

He put bricks against the bottom edges of the tyre to hold it steady and
hoisted himself up. The steady scream of the pumps gave him protection
and he at once set to work with a small glass-cutter which he had
bought, together with a hunk of putty, on his way to dinner. When he had
cut down the two vertical sides of one of the yard-square panes, he
pressed the putty against the centre of the glass and worked it to a
protruding knob. He then went to work on the lateral edges of the pane.

While he worked he gazed through into the moonlit vistas of the huge
repository. The endless rows of tanks stood on wooden trestles with
narrow passages between. Down the centre of the building there was a
wider passage. Under the trestles Bond could see long tanks and trays
let into the floor. Just below him, broad racks covered with regiments
of sea-shells jutted out from the walls. Most of the tanks were dark but
in some a tiny strip of electric light glimmered spectrally and glinted
on little fountains of bubbles rising from the weeds and sand. There was
a light metal runway suspended from the roof over each row of tanks and
Bond guessed that any individual tank could be lifted out and brought to
the exit for shipment or to extract sick fish for quarantine. It was a
window into a queer world and into a queer business. It was odd to think
of all the worms and eels and fish stirring quietly in the night, the
thousands of gills sighing and the multitude of antennae waving and
pointing and transmitting their tiny radar signals to the dozing
nerve-centres.

After a quarter of an hour's meticulous work there was a slight cracking
noise and the pane came away attached to the putty knob in his hand.

He climbed down and put the pane carefully on the ground away from the
tyre. Then he stuffed his shoes inside his shirt. With only one good
hand they might be vital weapons. He listened. There was no sound but
the unfaltering whine of the pumps. He looked up to see if by chance
there were any clouds about to cross the moon but the sky was empty save
for its canopy of brightly burning stars. He got back on top of the tyre
and with an easy heave half of his body was through the wide hole he had
made.

He turned and grasped the metal frame above his head and, putting all
his weight on his arms, he jackknifed his legs through and down so that
they were hanging a few inches above the racks full of shells. He
lowered himself until he could feel the backs of the shells with his
stockinged toes, then he softly separated them with his toes until he
had exposed a width of board. Then he let his whole weight subside
softly on to the tray. It held, and in a moment he was down on the floor
listening with all his senses for any noise behind the whine of the
machinery.

But there was none. He took his steel-tipped shoes out of his shirt and
left them on the cleared board, then he moved off on the concrete floor
with a pencil flashlight in his hand.

He was in the aquarium-fish section, and as he examined the labels he
caught flashes of coloured light from the deep tanks and occasionally a
piece of living jewellery would materialize and briefly goggle at him
before he moved on.

There were all kinds--Swordtails, Guppies, Platys, Terras, Neons,
Cichlids, Labyrinth and Paradise fish, and every variety of exotic
Goldfish. Underneath, sunk in the floor, and most of them covered with
chicken wire, there were tray upon tray swarming and heaving with worms
and baits: white worms, micro worms, Daphnia, shrimp and thick slimy
clam worms. From these ground tanks, forests of tiny eyes looked up at
his torch.

There was the foetid smell of a mangrove swamp in the air and the
temperature was in the high seventies. Soon Bond began to sweat slightly
and to long for the clean night air.

He had moved to the central passage-way before he found the poison fish
which were one of his objectives. When he had read about them in the
files of the Police Headquarters in New York, he had made a mental note
that he would like to know more about this sideline of the peculiar
business of Ourobouros Inc.

Here the tanks were smaller and there was generally only one specimen in
each. Here the eyes that looked sluggishly at Bond were cold and hooded
and an occasional fang was bared at the torch or a spined backbone
slowly swelled.

Each tank bore an ominous skull-and-crossbones in chalk and there were
large labels that said VERY DANGEROUS and KEEP OFF.

There must have been at least a hundred tanks of various sizes, from the
large ones to hold Torpedo Skates and the sinister Guitar Fish, to
smaller ones for the Horse-killer Eel, Mud Fish from the Pacific, and
the monstrous West Indian Scorpion Fish, each of whose spines has a
poison sac as powerful as a rattlesnake's venom.

Bond's eyes narrowed as he noticed that in all the dangerous tanks the
mud or sand on the bottom occupied nearly half the tank.

He chose a tank containing a six-inch Scorpion Fish. He knew something
of the habits of this deadly species and in particular that they do not
strike, but poison only on contact.

The top of the tank was on a level with his waist. He took out a strong
pocket-knife he had purchased and opened the longest blade. Then he
leant over the tank and with his sleeve rolled up he deliberately aimed
his knife at the centre of the craggy head between the overhung grottoes
of the eye-sockets. As his hand broke the surface of the water the white
dinosaur spines stood threateningly erect and the mottled stripes of the
fish turned to a uniform muddy brown. Its broad, wing-like pectorals
rose slightly, poised for flight.

Bond lunged swiftly, correcting his aim for the refraction from the
surface of the tank. He pinned the bulging head down as the tail
threshed wildly and slowly drew the fish towards him and up the glass
side of the tank. He stood aside and whipped it out on to the floor,
where it continued flapping and jumping despite its shattered skull.

He leant over the tank and plunged his hand deep into the centre of the
mud and sand.

Yes, they were there. His hunch about the poison fish had been right.
His fingers felt the close rows of coin deep under the mud, like
counters in a box. They were in a flat tray. He could feel the wooden
partitions. He pulled out a coin, rinsing it and his hand in the cleaner
surface water as he did so. He shone his torch on it. It was as big as a
modern five-shilling piece, and nearly as thick, and it was gold. It
bore the arms of Spain and the head of Philip II.

He looked at the tank, measuring it. There must be a thousand coins in
this one tank that no customs officer would think of disturbing. Ten to
twenty thousand dollars' worth, guarded by one poison-fanged Cerberus.
These must be the cargo brought in by the _Secatur_ on her last trip a
week ago. A hundred tanks. Say one hundred and fifty thousand dollars'
worth of gold per trip. Soon the trucks would be coming for the tanks
and somewhere down the road men with rubber-coated tongs would extract
the deadly fish and throw them back in the sea or burn them. The water
and the mud would be emptied out and the gold coin washed and poured
into bags. Then the bags would go to agents and the coins would trickle
out on the market, each one strictly accounted for by Mr Big's machine.

It was a scheme after Mr Big's philosophy, effective, technically
brilliant, almost foolproof.

Bond was full of admiration as he bent to the floor and speared the
Scorpion Fish in the side. He dropped it back in the tank. There was no
point in divulging his knowledge to the enemy.

It was as he turned away from the tank that all the lights in the
warehouse suddenly blazed on and a voice of sharp authority said, 'Don't
move an inch. Stick 'em up.'

As Bond took a rolling dive under the tank he caught a glimpse of the
lank figure of The Robber squinting down the sights of his rifle about
twenty yards away, up against the main entrance. As he dived he prayed
that The Robber would miss, but also he prayed that the floor tank which
was to take his dive would be one of the covered ones. It was. It was
covered with chicken wire. Something snapped up at him as he hit the
wire and sprawled clear in the next passage-way. As he dived, the rifle
cracked and the Scorpion Fish tank above his head splintered sharply and
water gushed down.

Bond sprinted fast between the tanks back towards his only means of
retreat. Just as he turned the corner there was a shot and a tank of
angel fish exploded like a bomb just beside his ear.

He was now at his end of the warehouse with The Robber at the other,
fifty yards away. There was no possible chance of jumping for his window
on the other side of the central passage-way. He stood for a moment
gaining his breath and thinking. He realized that the lines of tanks
would only protect him to the knees and that between the tanks he would
be in full view down the narrow passages. Either way, he could not stand
still. He was reminded of the fact as a shot whammed between his legs
into a pile of conchs, sending splinters of their hard china buzzing
round him like wasps. He ran to his right and another shot came at his
legs. It hit the floor and zoomed into a huge carboy of clams that split
in half and emptied a hundred shell-fish over the floor. Bond raced
back, taking long quick strides. He had his Beretta out and loosed off
two shots as he crossed the central passage-way. He saw The Robber jump
for shelter as a tank shattered above his head.

Bond grinned as he heard a shout drowned by the crash of glass and
water.

He immediately dropped to one knee and fired two shots at The Robber's
legs, but fifty yards for his small-calibre pistol was too much. There
was the crash of another tank but the second shot clanged emptily into
the iron entrance gates.

Then The Robber was shooting again and Bond could only dodge to and fro
behind the cases and wait to be caught in the kneecap. Occasionally he
fired a shot in return to make The Robber keep his distance, but he knew
the battle was lost. The other man seemed to have endless ammunition.
Bond had only two shots left in his gun and one fresh clip in his
pocket.

As he shuttled to and fro, slipping on the rare fish that flapped wildly
on the concrete, he even stooped to snatching up heavy queen conchs and
helmet shells and hurling them towards the enemy. Often they burst
impressively on top of some tank at The Robber's end and added to the
appalling racket inside the corrugated-iron shed. But they were quite
ineffective. He thought of shooting out the lights, but there were at
least twenty of them in two rows.

Finally Bond decided to give up. He had one ruse to fall back on, and
any change in the battle was better than exhausting himself at the wrong
end of this deadly coconut-shy.

As he passed a row of cases of which the one near him was shattered, he
pushed it on to the floor. It was still half full of rare Siamese
Fighting Fish, and Bond was pleased with the expensive crash as the
remains of the tank burst in fragments on the floor. A wide space was
cleared on the trestle table, and after making two quick darts to pick
up his shoes he dashed back to the table and jumped up.

With no target for The Robber to shoot at there was a moment's silence
save for the whine of the pumps, the sound of water dripping out of
broken tanks and the flapping of dying fish. Bond slipped his shoes on
and laced them tight.

'Hey, Limey,' called The Robber patiently. 'Come on out or I start using
pineapples. I been expectin' you an' I got plenty ammo.'

'Guess I got to give up,' answered Bond through cupped hands. 'But only
because you smashed one of my ankles.'

'I'll not shoot,' called The Robber. 'Drop your gun on the floor and
come down the central passage with your hands up. We'll have a quiet
little talk.'

'Guess I got no option,' said Bond, putting hopelessness into his voice.
He dropped his Beretta with a clatter on to the cement floor. He took
the gold coin out of his pocket and clenched it in his bandaged left
hand.

Bond groaned as he put his feet to the floor. He dragged his left leg
behind him as he limped heavily up the central passage, his hands held
level with his shoulders. He stopped half way up the passage.

The Robber came slowly towards him, half-crouching, his rifle pointed at
Bond's stomach. Bond was glad to see that his shirt was soaked and that
he had a cut over his left eye.

The Robber walked well to the left of the passage-way. When he was about
ten yards away from Bond he paused with one stockinged foot casually
resting on a small obstruction in the cement floor.

He gestured with his rifle. 'Higher,' he said harshly.

Bond groaned and lifted his hands a few inches so that they were almost
across his face, as if in defence.

Between the fingers he saw The Robber's toes kick something sharply
sideways and there was a faint clang as if a bolt had been drawn. Bond's
eyes glinted behind his hands and his jaw tightened. He knew now what
had happened to Leiter.

The Robber came on, his hard, thin frame obscuring the spot where he had
paused.

'Christ,' said Bond, 'I gotta sit down. My leg won't hold me.'

The Robber stopped a few feet away. 'Go ahead and stand while I ask you
a few questions, Limey.' He bared his tobacco-stained teeth. 'You'll
soon be lying down, and for keeps.' The Robber stood and looked him
over. Bond sagged. Behind the defeat in his face his brain was measuring
in inches.

'Nosey bastard,' said The Robber...

At that moment Bond dropped the gold coin out of his left hand. It
clanged on the cement floor and started to roll.

In the fraction of a second that The Robber's eyes flickered down,
Bond's right foot in its steel-capped shoe lashed out to its full
length. It kicked the rifle almost out of The Robber's hands. At the
same moment that The Robber pulled the trigger and the bullet crashed
harmlessly through the glass ceiling, Bond launched himself in a dive at
the man's stomach, his two arms flailing.

Both hands connected with something soft and brought a grunt of agony.
Pain shot through Bond's left hand and he winced as the rifle crashed
down across his back. He bore on into the man, blind to pain, hitting
with both hands, his head down between hunched shoulders, forcing the
man back and off his balance. As he felt the balance yield he
straightened himself slightly and lashed out again with his steel-capped
foot. It connected with The Robber's kneecap. There was a scream of
agony and the rifle clattered to the ground as The Robber tried to save
himself. He was half way to the floor when Bond's uppercut hit him and
projected the body another few feet.

The Robber fell in the centre of the passage just opposite what Bond
could now see was a drawn bolt in the floor.

As the body hit the ground a section of the floor turned swiftly on a
central pivot and the body almost disappeared down the black opening of
a wide trap-door in the concrete.

As he felt the floor give under his weight The Robber gave a shrill
scream of terror and his hands scrabbled for a hold. They caught the
edge of the floor and clutched it just as his whole body slid into space
and the six-foot panel of reinforced concrete revolved smoothly until it
rested upright on its pivot, a black rectangle yawning on either side.

Bond gasped for air. He put his hands on his hips and got back some of
his breath. Then he walked to the edge of the right-hand hole and looked
down.

The Robber's terrified face, the lips drawn back from the teeth and the
eyes madly distended, jabbered up at him.

Looking beyond him, Bond could see nothing, but he heard the lapping of
water against the foundations of the building and there was a faint
luminescence on the seaward side. Bond guessed that there was access to
the sea through wire or narrow bars.

As The Robber's voice died down to a whimper, Bond could hear something
stirring down there, awoken by the light. A Hammerhead or a Tiger Shark,
he guessed, with their sharper reactions.

'Pull me out, friend. Give me a break. Pull me out. I can't hold much
longer. I'll do anything you want. Tell you anything.' The Robber's
voice was a hoarse whisper of supplication.

'What happened to Solitaire?' Bond stared down into the frenzied eyes.

'The Big Man did it. Told me to fix a snatch. Two men in Tampa. Ask for
Butch and The Lifer. Poolroom behind the Oasis. She came to no harm.
Lemme out, pal.'

'And the American, Leiter?'

The agonized face pleaded. 'It was his fault. Called me out early this
mornin'. Said the place was on fire. Seen it passing in his car. Held me
up and brought me back in here. Wanted to search the place. Just fell
through the trap. Accident. I swear it was his fault. We pulled him out
before he was finished. He'll be okay.'

Bond looked down coldly at the white fingers desperately clinging to the
sharp edge of concrete. He knew that The Robber must have got the bolt
back and somehow engineered Leiter over the trap. He could hear the
man's laugh of triumph as the floor swung open, could see the cruel
smile as he pencilled the note and stuck it into the bandages when they
had fished the half-eaten body out.

For a moment blind rage seized him.

He kicked out sharply, twice.

One short scream came up out of the depths. There was a splash and then
a great commotion in the water.

Bond walked to the side of the trap-door and pushed the upright concrete
slab. It revolved easily on its central pivot.

Just before its edges shut out the blackness below, Bond heard one
terrible snuffling grunt as if a great pig was getting its mouth full.
He knew it for the grunt that a shark makes as its hideous flat nose
comes up out of the water and its sickle-shaped mouth closes on a
floating carcass. He shuddered and kicked the bolt home with his foot.

Bond collected the gold coin off the floor and picked up his Beretta. He
went to the main entrance and looked back for a moment at the shambles
of the battlefield.

He reflected that there was nothing to show that the secret of the
treasure had been discovered. The top had been shot off the Scorpion
Fish tank under which Bond had dived, and when the other men came in the
morning they would not be surprised to find the fish dead in the tank.
They would get the remains of The Robber out of the shark tank and
report to Mr Big that he'd been worsted in a gun battle and that there
were X thousand dollars' worth of damage which would have to be repaired
before the _Secatur_ could bring over its next cargo. They would find
some of Bond's bullets and soon guess that it was his work.

Bond grimly shut his mind to the horror beneath the floor of the
warehouse. He turned off the lights and let himself out by the main
entrance.

A small payment had been made on account of Solitaire and Leiter.




                        16. The Jamaica Version


It was two o'clock in the morning. Bond eased his car away from the
sea-wall and moved off through the town on to 4th Street, the highway to
Tampa.

He dawdled along down the four-lane concrete highway through the endless
gauntlet of motels, trailer camps and roadside emporia selling beach
furniture, sea-shells and concrete gnomes.

He stopped at the Gulf Winds Bar and Snacks and ordered a double Old
Grandad on the rocks. While the barman poured it he went into the
washroom and cleaned himself up. The bandages on his left hand were
covered with dirt and the hand throbbed painfully. The splint had broken
on The Robber's stomach. There was nothing Bond could do about it. His
eyes were red with strain and lack of sleep. He went back to the bar,
drank down the bourbon and ordered another one. The barman looked like a
college kid spending his holidays the hard way. He wanted to talk but
there was no talk left in Bond. Bond sat and looked into his glass and
thought about Leiter and The Robber and heard the sickening grunt of the
feeding shark.

He paid and went out and on again over the Gandy Bridge, and the air of
the Bay was cool on his face. At the end of the bridge he turned left
towards the airport and stopped at the first motel that looked awake.

The middle-aged couple that owned the place were listening to late
rhumba music from Cuba with a bottle of rye between them. Bond told a
story of a blow-out on his way from Sarasota to Silver Springs. They
weren't interested. They were just glad to take his ten dollars. He
drove his car up to the door of Room 5 and the man unlocked the door and
turned on the light. There was a double bed and a shower and a
chest-of-drawers and two chairs. The motif was white and blue. It looked
clean and Bond put his bag down thankfully and said good night. He
stripped and threw his clothes unfolded on to a chair. Then he took a
quick shower, cleaned his teeth and gargled with a sharp mouthwash and
climbed into bed.

He plunged at once into a calm untroubled sleep. It was the first night
since he had arrived in America that did not threaten a fresh battle
with his stars on the morrow.

He awoke at midday and walked down the road to a cafeteria where the
short-order cook fixed him a delicious three-decker western sandwich and
coffee. Then he came back to his room and wrote a detailed report to the
FBI at Tampa. He omitted all reference to the gold in the poison tanks
for fear that The Big Man would close down his operations in Jamaica.
The nature of these had still to be discovered. Bond knew that the
damage he had done to the machine in America had no bearing on the heart
of his assignment--the discovery of the source of the gold, its seizure,
and the destruction, if possible, of Mr Big himself.

He drove to the airport and caught the silver, four-engined plane with a
few minutes to spare. He left Leiter's car in the parking space as in
his report he had told the FBI he would. He guessed that he need not
have mentioned it to the FBI when he saw a man in an unnecessary
raincoat hanging round the souvenir shop, buying nothing. Raincoats
seemed almost the badge of office of the FBI. Bond was certain they
wanted to see he caught the plane. They would be glad to see the last of
him. Wherever he had gone in America he had left dead bodies. Before he
boarded the plane he called the hospital in St Petersburg. He wished he
hadn't; Leiter was still unconscious and there was no news. Yes, they
would cable him when they had something definite.

It was five in the evening when they circled over Tampa Bay and headed
east. The sun was low on the horizon. A big jet from Pensacola swept by,
well to port, leaving four trails of vapour that hung almost motionless
in the still air. Soon it would complete its training circuit and go in
to land, back to the Gulf Coast packed with oldsters in Truman shirts.
Bond was glad to be on his way to the soft green flanks of Jamaica and
to be leaving behind the great hard continent of Eldollarado.

The plane swept on across the waist of Florida, across the acres of
jungle and swamp without sign of human habitation, its wing-lights
blinking green and red in the gathering dark. Soon they were over Miami
and the monster chump-traps of the Eastern Seaboard, their arteries
ablaze with neon. Away to port, State Highway No. 1 disappeared up the
coast in a golden ribbon of motels, gas stations and fruit-juice stands,
up through Palm Beach and Daytona to Jacksonville, three hundred miles
away. Bond thought of the breakfast he had had at Jacksonville not three
days before and of all that had happened since. Soon, after a short stop
at Nassau, he would be flying over Cuba, perhaps over the hideout where
Mr Big had put her away. She would hear the noise of the plane and
perhaps her instincts would make her look up towards the sky and feel
that for a moment he was nearby.

Bond wondered if they would ever meet again and finish what they had
begun. But that would have to come later, when his work was over--the
prize at the end of the dangerous road that had started three weeks
before in the fog of London.

After a cocktail and an early dinner they came in to Nassau and spent
half an hour on the richest island in the world, the sandy patch where a
thousand million pounds of frightened sterling lies buried beneath the
Canasta tables and where bungalows surrounded by a thin scurf of
screw-pine and casuarina change hands at fifty thousand pounds a piece.

They left the platinum whistle-stop behind and were soon crossing the
twinkling mother-of-pearl lights of Havana, so different in their pastel
modesty from the harsh primary colours of American cities at night.

They were flying at fifteen thousand feet when, just after crossing
Cuba, they ran into one of those violent tropical storms that suddenly
turn aircraft from comfortable drawing-rooms into bucketing death-traps.
The great plane staggered and plunged, its screws now roaring in vacuum
and now biting harshly into walls of solid air. The thin tube shuddered
and swung. Crockery crashed in the pantry and huge rain hammered on the
Perspex windows.

Bond gripped the arms of his chair so that his left hand hurt and cursed
softly to himself.

He looked at the racks of magazines and thought: they won't help much
when the steel tires at fifteen thousand feet, nor will the
eau-de-cologne in the washroom, nor the personalized meals, the free
razor, the 'orchid for your lady' now trembling in the ice-box. Least of
all the safety-belts and the life-jackets with the whistle that the
steward demonstrates will really blow, nor the cute little rescue-lamp
that glows red.

No, when the stresses are too great for the tired metal, when the ground
mechanic who checks the de-icing equipment is crossed in love and skimps
his job, way back in London, Idlewild, Gander, Montreal; when those or
many things happen, then the little warm room with propellers in front
falls straight down out of the sky into the sea or on to the land,
heavier than air, fallible, vain. And the forty little heavier-than-air
people, fallible within the plane's fallibility, vain within its larger
vanity, fall down with it and make little holes in the land or little
splashes in the sea. Which is anyway their destiny, so why worry? You
are linked to the ground mechanic's careless fingers in Nassau just as
you are linked to the weak head of the little man in the family saloon
who mistakes the red light for the green and meets you head-on, for the
first and last time, as you are motoring quietly home from some private
sin. There's nothing to do about it. You start to die the moment you are
born. The whole of life is cutting through the pack with death. So take
it easy. Light a cigarette and be grateful you are still alive as you
suck the smoke deep into your lungs. Your stars have already let you
come quite a long way since you left your mother's womb and whimpered at
the cold air of the world. Perhaps they'll even let you get to Jamaica
tonight. Can't you hear those cheerful voices in the control tower that
have said quietly all day long, 'Come in BOAC. Come in Panam. Come in
KLM'? Can't you hear them calling you down too: 'Come in Transcarib.
Come in Transcarib'? Don't lose faith in your stars. Remember that hot
stitch of time when you faced death from The Robber's gun last night.
You're still alive, aren't you? There, we're out of it already. It was
just to remind you that being quick with a gun doesn't mean you're
really tough. Just don't forget it. This happy landing at Palisadoes
Airport comes to you by courtesy of your stars. Better thank them.

Bond unfastened his seat-belt and wiped the sweat off his face.

To hell with it, he thought, as he stepped down out of the huge strong
plane.

Strangways, the chief Secret Service agent for the Caribbean, was at the
airport to meet him and he was quickly through the Customs and
Immigration and Finance Control.

It was nearly eleven and the night was quiet and hot. There was the
shrill sound of crickets from the dildo cactus on both sides of the
airport road and Bond gratefully drank in the sounds and smells of the
tropics as the military pick-up cut across the corner of Kingston and
took them up towards the gleaming, moonlit foothills of the Blue
Mountains.

They talked in monosyllables until they were settled on the comfortable
veranda of Strangways's neat white house on the Junction Road below
Stony Hill.

Strangways poured a strong whisky-and-soda for both of them and then
gave a concise account of the whole of the Jamaica end of the case.

He was a lean, humorous man of about thirty-five, a former
Lieutenant-Commander in the Special Branch of the RNVR. He had a black
patch over one eye and the sort of aquiline good looks that are
associated with the bridges of destroyers. But his face was heavily
lined under its tan and Bond sensed from his quick gestures and clipped
sentences that he was nervous and highly strung. He was certainly
efficient and he had a sense of humour, and he showed no signs of
jealousy at someone from headquarters butting in on his territory. Bond
felt that they would get on well together and he looked forward to the
partnership.

This was the story that Strangways had to tell.

It had always been rumoured that there was treasure on the Isle of
Surprise and everything that was known about Bloody Morgan supported the
rumour.

The tiny island lay in the exact centre of Shark Bay, a small harbour
that lies at the end of the Junction Road that runs across the thin
waist of Jamaica from Kingston to the north coast.

The great buccaneer had made Shark Bay his headquarters. He liked to
have the whole width of the island between himself and the Governor at
Port Royal so that he could slip in and out of Jamaican waters in
complete secrecy. The Governor also liked the arrangement. The Crown
wished a blind eye to be turned on Morgan's piracy until the Spaniards
had been cleared out of the Caribbean. When this was accomplished,
Morgan was rewarded with a Knighthood and the Governorship of Jamaica.
Till then, his actions had to be disavowed to avoid a European war with
Spain.

So, for the long period before the poacher turned gamekeeper, Morgan
used Shark Bay as his sallyport. He built three houses on the
neighbouring estate, christened Llanrumney after his birthplace in
Wales. These houses were called 'Morgan's', 'The Doctor's' and 'The
Lady's'. Buckles and coins are still turned up in the ruins of them.

His ships always anchored in Shark Bay and he careened them in the lee
of the Isle of Surprise, a precipitous lump of coral and limestone that
surges straight up out of the centre of the bay and is surmounted by a
jungly plateau of about an acre.

When, in 1683, he left Jamaica for the last time, it was under open
arrest to be tried by his peers for flouting the Crown. His treasure was
left behind somewhere in Jamaica and he died in penury without revealing
its whereabouts. It must have been a vast hoard, the fruits of countless
raids on Hispaniola, of the capture of innumerable treasure-ships
sailing for The Plate, of the sacking of Panama and the looting of
Maracaibo. But it vanished without trace.

It was always thought that the secret lay somewhere on the Isle of
Surprise, but for two hundred years the diving and digging of
treasure-hunters yielded nothing. Then, said Strangways, just six months
before, two things had happened within a few weeks. A young fisherman
disappeared from the village of Shark Bay, and had not been heard of
since, and an anonymous New York syndicate purchased the island for a
thousand pounds from the present owner of the Llanrumney Estate, which
was now a rich banana and cattle property.

A few weeks after the sale, the yacht _Secatur_ put in to Shark Bay and
dropped anchor in Morgan's old anchorage in the lee of the island. It
was manned entirely by negroes. They went to work and cut a stairway in
the rock face of the island and erected on the summit a number of
low-lying shacks in the fashion known in Jamaica as 'wattle-and-daub'.

They appeared to be completely equipped with provisions, and all they
purchased from the fishermen of the bay was fresh fruit and water.

They were a taciturn and orderly lot who gave no trouble. They explained
to the Customs which they had cleared in the neighbouring Port Maria
that they were there to catch tropical fish, especially the poisonous
varieties, and collect rare shells for Ourobouros Inc. in St Petersburg.
When they had established themselves they purchased large quantities of
these from the Shark Bay, Port Maria and Oracabessa fishermen.

For a week they carried out blasting operations on the island and it was
given out that these were for the purpose of excavating a large
fish-tank.

The _Secatur_ began a fortnightly shuttle-service with the Gulf of
Mexico and watchers with binoculars confirmed that, before each sailing,
consignments of portable fish-tanks were taken aboard. Always half a
dozen men were left behind. Canoes approaching the island were warned
off by a watchman at the base of the steps in the cliff, who fished all
day from a narrow jetty alongside which the _Secatur_ on her visits
moored with two anchors out, well sheltered from the prevailing
north-easterly winds.

No one succeeded in landing on the island by daylight and, after two
tragic attempts, nobody tried to gain access by night.

The first attempt was made by a local fisherman spurred on by the
rumours of buried treasure that no talk of tropical fish could suppress.
He had swum out one dark night and his body had been washed back over
the reef next day. Sharks and barracuda had left nothing but the trunk
and the remains of a thigh.

At about the time he should have reached the island the whole village of
Shark Bay was awakened by the most horrible drumming noise. It seemed to
come from inside the island. It was recognized as the beating of Voodoo
drums. It started softly and rose slowly to a thunderous crescendo. Then
it died down again and stopped. It lasted about five minutes.

From that moment the island was ju-ju, or obeah, as it is called in
Jamaica, and even in daylight canoes kept at a safe distance.

By this time Strangways was interested and he made a full report to
London. Since 1950 Jamaica had become an important strategic target,
thanks to the development by Reynolds Metal and the Kaiser Corporation
of huge bauxite deposits found on the island. So far as Strangways was
concerned, the activities on Surprise might easily be the erection of a
base for one-man submarines in the event of war, particularly since
Shark Bay was within range of the route followed by the Reynolds ships
to the new bauxite harbour at Ocho Rios, a few miles down the coast.

London followed the report up with Washington and it came to light that
the New York syndicate that had purchased the island was wholly owned by
Mr Big.

This was three months ago. Strangways was ordered to penetrate the
island at all costs and find out what was going on. He mounted quite an
operation. He rented a property on the western arm of Shark Bay called
Beau Desert. It contained the ruins of one of the famous Jamaican Great
Houses of the early nineteenth century and also a modern beach-house
directly across from the _Secatur_'s anchorage up against Surprise.

He brought down two very fine swimmers from the naval base at Bermuda
and set up a permanent watch on the island through day- and
night-glasses. Nothing of a suspicious nature was seen and on a dark
calm night he sent out the two swimmers with instructions to make an
underwater survey of the foundations of the island.

Strangways described his horror when, an hour after they had left to
swim across the three hundred yards of water, the terrible drumming had
started up somewhere inside the cliffs of the island.

That night the two men did not return.

On the next day they were both washed up at different parts of the bay.
Or rather, the remains left by the shark and barracuda.

At this point in Strangways's narrative, Bond interrupted him.

'Just a minute,' he said. 'What's all this about shark and barracuda?
They're not generally savage in these waters. There aren't very many of
them round Jamaica and they don't often feed at night. Anyway, I don't
believe either of them attack humans unless there's blood in the water.
Occasionally they might snap at a white foot out of curiosity. Have they
ever behaved like this round Jamaica before?'

'Never been a case since a girl got a foot bitten off in Kingston
Harbour in 1942,' said Strangways. 'She was being towed by a speedboat,
flipping her feet up and down. The white feet must have looked
particularly appetizing. Travelling at just the right speed too.
Everyone agrees with your theory. And my men had harpoons and knives. I
thought I'd done everything to protect them. Dreadful business. You can
imagine how I felt about it. Since then we've done nothing except try to
get legitimate access to the island via the Colonial Office and
Washington. You see, it belongs to an American now. Damn slow business,
particularly as there's nothing against these people. They seem to have
pretty good protection in Washington and some smart international
lawyers. We're absolutely stuck. London told me to hang on until you
came.' Strangways took a pull at his whisky and looked expectantly at
Bond.

'What are the _Secatur_'s movements?' asked Bond.

'Still in Cuba. Sailing in about a week, according to the CIA.'

'How many trips has she done?'

'About twenty.'

Bond multiplied one hundred and fifty thousand dollars by twenty. If his
guess was right, Mr Big had already taken a million pounds in gold out
of the island.

'I've made some provisional arrangements for you,' said Strangways.
'There's the house at Beau Desert. I've got you a car, Sunbeam Talbot
coup. New tyres. Fast. Right car for these roads. I've got a good man
to act as your factotum. A Cayman Islander called Quarrel. Best swimmer
and fisherman in the Caribbean. Terribly keen. Nice chap. And I've
borrowed the West Indian Citrus Company's rest-house at Manatee Bay.
It's the other end of the island. You could rest up there for a week and
get in a bit of training until the _Secatur_ comes in. You'll need to be
fit if you're going to try to get over to Surprise, and I honestly
believe that's the only answer. Anything else I can do? I'll be about,
of course, but I'll have to stay around Kingston to keep up
communications with London and Washington. They'll want to know
everything we do. Anything else you'd like me to fix up?'

Bond had been making up his mind.

'Yes,' he said. 'You might ask London to get the Admiralty to lend us
one of their frogmen suits complete with compressed-air bottles. Plenty
of spares. And a couple of good underwater harpoon guns. The French ones
called Champion are the best. Good underwater torch. A commando dagger.
All the dope they can get from the Natural History Museum on barracuda
and shark. And some of that shark-repellent stuff the Americans used in
the Pacific. Ask BOAC to fly it all out on their direct service.'

Bond paused. 'Oh yes,' he said. 'And one of those things our saboteurs
used against ships in the war. Limpet mine, with assorted fuses.'




                       17. The Undertaker's Wind


Paw-paw with a slice of green lime, a dish piled with red bananas,
purple star-apples and tangerines, scrambled eggs and bacon, Blue
Mountain coffee--the most delicious in the world--Jamaican marmalade,
almost black, and guava jelly.

As Bond, wearing shorts and sandals, had his breakfast on the veranda
and gazed down on the sunlit panorama of Kingston and Port Royal, he
thought how lucky he was and what wonderful moments of consolation there
were for the darkness and danger of his profession.

Bond knew Jamaica well. He had been there on a long assignment just
after the war when the Communist headquarters in Cuba was trying to
infiltrate the Jamaican labour unions. It had been an untidy and
inconclusive job but he had grown to love the great green island and its
staunch, humorous people. Now he was glad to be back and to have a whole
week of respite before the grim work began again.

After breakfast, Strangways appeared on the veranda with a tall
brown-skinned man in a faded blue shirt and old brown twill trousers.

This was Quarrel, the Cayman Islander, and Bond liked him immediately.
There was the blood of Cromwellian soldiers and buccaneers in him and
his face was strong and angular and his mouth was almost severe. His
eyes were grey. It was only the spatulate nose and the pale palms of his
hands that were negroid.

Bond shook him by the hand.

'Good morning, Cap'n,' said Quarrel. Coming from the most famous race of
seamen in the world, this was the highest title he knew. But there was
no desire to please, or humility, in his voice. He was speaking as mate
of the ship and his manner was straightforward and candid.

That moment defined their relationship. It remained that of a Scots
laird with his head stalker; authority was unspoken and there was no
room for servility.

After discussing their plans, Bond took the wheel of the little car
Quarrel had brought up from Kingston and they started on up the Junction
Road, leaving Strangways to busy himself with Bond's requirements.

They had got off before nine and it was still cool as they crossed the
mountains that run along Jamaica's back like the central ridges of a
crocodile's armour. The road wound down towards the northern plains
through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world, the tropical
vegetation changing with the altitude. The green flanks of the uplands,
all feathered with bamboo interspersed with the dark, glinting green of
breadfruit and the sudden Bengal fire of Flame of the Forest, gave way
to the lower forests of ebony, mahogany, mahoe and logwood. And when
they reached the plains of Agualta Vale the green sea of sugar-cane and
bananas stretched away to where the distant fringe of glittering
shrapnel bursts marked the palm-groves along the north coast.

Quarrel was a good companion on the drive and a wonderful guide. He
talked about the trap-door spiders as they passed through the famous
palm-gardens of Castleton, he told about a fight he had witnessed
between a giant centipede and a scorpion and he explained the difference
between the male and female paw-paw. He described the poisons of the
forest and the healing properties of tropical herbs, the pressure the
palm kernel develops to break open its coconut, the length of a
humming-bird's tongue, and how crocodiles carry their young in their
mouths laid lengthways like sardines in a tin.

He spoke exactly but without expertise, using Jamaican language in which
plants 'strive' or 'quail', moths are 'bats' and 'love' is used instead
of 'like'. As he talked he would raise his hand in greeting to the
people on the road and they would wave back and shout his name.

'You seem to know a lot of people,' said Bond as the driver of a bulging
bus with ROMANCE in large letters over the windshield gave him a couple
of welcoming blasts on his windhorn.

'I bin watching Surprise for tree muns, Cap'n,' answered Quarrel, ''n I
been travelling this road twice a week. Everyone soon know you in
Jamaica. They got good eyes.'

By half-past ten they had passed through Port Maria and branched off
along the little parochial road that runs down to Shark Bay. Round a
turning they suddenly came on it below them and Bond stopped the car and
they got out.

The bay was crescent shaped, perhaps three-quarters of a mile wide at
its arms. Its blue surface was ruffled by a light breeze blowing from
the north-east, the edge of the Trade Winds that are born five hundred
miles away in the Gulf of Mexico and then go on their long journey round
the world.

A mile from where they stood, a long line of breakers showed the reef
just outside the bay and the narrow untroubled waters of the passage
which was the only entrance to the anchorage. In the centre of the
crescent, the Isle of Surprise rose a hundred feet sheer out of the
water, small waves creaming against its easterly base, calm waters in
its lee.

It was nearly round, and it looked like a tall grey cake topped with
green icing on a blue china plate.

They had stopped about a hundred feet above the little cluster of
fishermen's huts behind the palm-fringed beach of the bay and they were
level with the flat green top of the island, half a mile away. Quarrel
pointed out the thatched roofs of the wattle-and-daub shanties among the
trees in the centre of the island. Bond examined them through Quarrel's
binoculars. There was no sign of life except a thin wisp of smoke
blowing away with the breeze.

Below them, the water of the bay was pale green on the white sand. Then
it deepened to dark blue just before the broken brown of a submerged
fringe of inner reef that made a wide semicircle a hundred yards from
the island. Then it was dark blue again with patches of lighter blue and
aquamarine. Quarrel said that the depth of the _Secatur_'s anchorage was
about thirty feet.

To their left, in the middle of the western arms of the bay, deep among
the trees behind a tiny white sand beach, was their base of operations,
Beau Desert. Quarrel described its layout and Bond stood for ten minutes
examining the three-hundred-yard stretch of sea between it and the
_Secatur_'s anchorage up against the island.

In all, Bond spent an hour reconnoitring the place, then, without going
near their house or the village, they turned the car and got back on the
main coast road.

They drove on through the beautiful little banana port of Oracabessa and
Ocho Rios with its huge new bauxite plant, along the north shore to
Montego Bay, two hours away. It was now February and the season was in
full swing. The little village and the straggle of large hotels were
bathed in the four months' gold-rush that sees them through the whole
year. They stopped at a rest-house on the other side of the wide bay and
had lunch and then drove on through the heat of the afternoon to the
western tip of the island, two hours further on.

Here, because of the huge coastal swamps, nothing has happened since
Columbus used Manatee Bay as a casual anchorage. Jamaican fishermen have
taken the place of the Arawak Indians, but otherwise there is the
impression that time has stood still.

Bond thought it the most beautiful beach he had ever seen, five miles of
white sand sloping easily into the breakers and, behind, the palm trees
marching in graceful disarray to the horizon. Under them, the grey
canoes were pulled up beside pink mounds of discarded conch shells, and
among them smoke rose from the palm thatch cabins of the fishermen in
the shade between the swamp-lands and the sea.

In a clearing among the cabins, set on a rough lawn of Bahama grass, was
the house on stilts built as a week-end cottage for the employees of the
West Indian Citrus Company. It was built on stilts to keep the termites
at bay and it was closely wired against mosquito and sandfly. Bond drove
off the rough track and parked under the house. While Quarrel chose two
rooms and made them comfortable Bond put a towel round his waist and
walked through the palm trees to the sea, twenty yards away.

For an hour he swam and lazed in the warm buoyant water, thinking of
Surprise and its secret, fixing those three hundred yards in his mind,
wondering about the shark and barracuda and the other hazards of the
sea, that great library of books one cannot read.

Walking back to the little wooden bungalow, Bond picked up his first
sandfly bites. Quarrel chuckled when he saw the flat bumps on his back
that would soon start to itch maddeningly.

'Can't do nuthen to keep them away, Cap'n,' he said. 'But Ah kin stop
them ticklin'. You best take a shower first to git the salt off. They
only bites hard for an hour in the evenin' and then they likes salt with
their dinner.'

When Bond came out of the shower Quarrel produced an old medicine bottle
and swabbed the bites with a brown liquid that smelled of creosote.

'We get more skeeters and sandfly in the Caymans than anywheres else in
the world,' he said, 'but we gives them no attention so long as we got
this medicine.'

The ten minutes of tropical twilight brought its quick melancholy and
then the stars and the three-quarter moon blazed down and the sea died
to a whisper. There was the short lull between the two great winds of
Jamaica, and then the palms began to whisper again.

Quarrel jerked his head towards the window.

'De "Undertaker's Wind",' he commented.

'How's that?' asked Bond, startled.

'On-and-off shore breeze de sailors call it,' said Quarrel. 'De
Undertaker blow de bad air out of de Island night-times from six till
six. Then every morning de "Doctor's Wind" come and blow de sweet air in
from de sea. Leastwise dat's what we calls dem in Jamaica.'

Quarrel looked quizzically at Bond.

'Guess you and de Undertaker's Wind got much de same job, Cap'n,' he
said half-seriously.

Bond laughed shortly. 'Glad I don't have to keep the same hours,' he
said.

Outside, the crickets and the tree-frogs started to zing and tinkle and
the great hawkmoths came to the wire-netting across the windows and
clutched it, gazing with trembling ecstasy at the two oil lamps that
hung from the cross-beams inside.

Occasionally a pair of fishermen, or a group of giggling girls, would
walk by down the beach on their way to the single tiny rum-shop at the
point of the bay. No man walked alone for fear of the duppies under the
trees, or the rolling calf, the ghastly animal that comes rolling
towards you along the ground, its legs in chains and flames coming out
of its nostrils.

While Quarrel prepared one of the succulent meals of fish and eggs and
vegetables that were to be their staple diet, Bond sat under the light
and pored over the books that Strangways had borrowed from the Jamaica
Institute, books on the tropical sea and its denizens by Beebe and Allyn
and others, and on submarine hunting by Cousteau and Hass. When he set
out to cross those three hundred yards of sea, he was determined to do
it expertly and to leave nothing to chance. He knew the calibre of Mr
Big and he guessed that the defences of Surprise would be technically
brilliant. He thought they would not involve simple weapons like guns
and high explosives. Mr Big needed to work undisturbed by the police. He
had to keep out of reach of the law. He guessed that somehow the forces
of the sea had been harnessed to do The Big Man's work for him and it
was on these that he concentrated, on murder by shark and barracuda,
perhaps by manta ray and octopus.

The facts set out by the naturalists were chilling and awe-inspiring,
but the experiences of Cousteau in the Mediterranean and of Hass in the
Red Sea and Caribbean were more encouraging.

That night Bond's dreams were full of terrifying encounters with giant
squids and stingrays, hammerheads and the sawteeth of barracuda, so that
he whimpered and sweated in his sleep.

On the next day he started his training under the critical, appraising
eyes of Quarrel. Every morning he swam a mile up the beach before
breakfast and then ran back along the firm sand to the bungalow. At
about nine they would set out in a canoe, the single triangular sail
taking them fast through the water up the coast to Bloody Bay and Orange
Bay where the sand ends in cliffs and small coves and the reef is close
in against the coast.

Here they would beach the canoe and Quarrel would take him out with
spears and masks and an old underwater harpoon gun on breathtaking
expeditions in the sort of waters he would encounter in Shark Bay.

They hunted quietly, a few yards apart, Quarrel moving effortlessly in
an element in which he was almost at home.

Soon Bond too learned not to fight the sea but always to give and take
with the currents and eddies and not to struggle against them, to use
judo tactics in the water.

On the first day he came home cut and poisoned by the coral and with a
dozen sea-egg spines in his side. Quarrel grinned and treated the wounds
with merthiolate and Milton. Then, as every evening, he massaged Bond
for half an hour with palm oil, talking quietly the while about the fish
they had seen that day, explaining the habits of the carnivores and the
ground-feeders, the camouflage of fish and their machinery for changing
colour through the blood stream.

He also had never known fish to attack a man except in desperation or
because there was blood in the water. He explained that fish are rarely
hungry in tropical waters and that most of their weapons are for defence
and not for attack. The only exception, he admitted, was the barracuda.
'Mean fish,' he called them, fearless since they knew no enemy except
disease, capable of fifty miles an hour over short distances, and with
the worst battery of teeth of any fish in the sea.

One day they shot a ten-pounder that had been hanging round them,
melting into the grey distances and then reappearing, silent, motionless
in the upper water, its angry tiger's eyes glaring at them so close that
they could see its gills working softly and the teeth glinting like a
wolf's along its cruel underslung jaw.

Quarrel finally took the harpoon gun from Bond and shot it, badly,
through the streamlined belly. It came straight for them, its jaws on
their great hinges wide open like a striking rattle-snake. Bond made a
wild lunge at it with his spear just as it was on to Quarrel. He missed
but the spear went between its jaws. They immediately snapped shut on
the steel shaft, and as the fish tore the spear out of Bond's hand,
Quarrel stabbed at it with his knife and it went mad, dashing through
the water with its entrails hanging out, the spear clenched between its
teeth, and the harpoon dangling from its body. Quarrel could scarcely
hold the line as the fish tried to tear the wide barb through the walls
of its stomach, but he moved with it towards a piece of submerged reef
and climbed on to it and slowly pulled the fish in.

When Quarrel had cut its throat and they twisted the spear out of its
jaws they found bright, deep scratches in the steel.

They took the fish ashore and Quarrel cut its head off and opened the
jaws with a piece of wood. The upper jaw rose in an enormous gape,
almost at right angles to the lower, and revealed a fantastic battery of
razor-sharp teeth, so crowded that they overlapped like shingles on a
roof. Even the tongue had several runs of small pointed recurved teeth
and, in front, there were two huge fangs that projected forward like a
snake's.

Although it only weighed just over ten pounds, it was over four feet
long, a nickel bullet of muscle and hard flesh.

'We shoot no more 'cudas,' said Quarrel. 'But for you I been in hospital
for a month and mebbe lost ma face. It was foolish of me. If we swim
towards it, it gone away. Dey always do. Dey cowards like all fish. Doan
you worry bout those,' he pointed at the teeth. 'You never see dem
again.'

'I hope not,' said Bond. 'I haven't got a face to spare.'

By the end of the week, Bond was sunburned and hard. He had cut his
cigarettes down to ten a day and had not had a single drink. He could
swim two miles without tiring, his hand was completely healed and all
the scales of big city life had fallen from him.

Quarrel was pleased. 'You ready for Surprise, Cap'n,' he said, 'and I
not like be de fish what tries to eat you.'

Towards nightfall on the eighth day they came back to the rest-house to
find Strangways waiting for them.

'I've got some good news for you,' he said. 'Your friend Felix Leiter's
going to be all right. At all events he's not going to die. They've had
to amputate the remains of an arm and a leg. Now the plastic surgery
chaps have started building up his face. They called me up from St
Petersburg yesterday. Apparently he insisted on getting a message to
you. First thing he thought of when he could think at all. Says he's
sorry not to be with you and to tell you not to get your feet wet--or at
any rate, not as wet as he did.'

Bond's heart was full. He looked out of the window. 'Tell him to get
well quickly,' he said abruptly. 'Tell him I miss him.' He looked back
into the room. 'Now what about the gear? Everything okay?'

'I've got it all,' said Strangways, 'and the _Secatur_ sails tomorrow
for Surprise. After clearing at Port Maria, they should anchor before
nightfall. Mr Big's on board--only the second time he's been down here.
Oh, and they've got a woman with them. Girl called Solitaire, according
to the CIA. Know anything about her?'

'Not much,' said Bond. 'But I'd like to get her away from him. She's not
one of his team.'

'Sort of damsel in distress,' said the romantic Strangways. 'Good show.
According to the CIA she's a corker.'

But Bond had gone out on the veranda and was gazing up at his stars.
Never before in his life had there been so much to play for. The secret
of the treasure, the defeat of a great criminal, the smashing of a
Communist spy ring, and the destruction of a tentacle of SMERSH, the
cruel machine that was his own private target. And now Solitaire, the
ultimate personal prize.

The stars winked down their cryptic morse and he had no key to their
cipher.




                            18. Beau Desert


Strangways went back alone after dinner and Bond agreed that they would
follow at first light. Strangways left him a fresh pile of books and
pamphlets on shark and barracuda and Bond went through them with rapt
attention.

They added little to the practical lore he had picked up from Quarrel.
They were all by scientists and much of the data on attacks was from the
beaches of the Pacific where a flashing body in the thick surf would
excite any inquisitive fish.

But there seemed to be general agreement that the danger to underwater
swimmers with breathing equipment was far less than to surface swimmers.
They might be attacked by almost any of the shark family, particularly
when the shark was stimulated and excited by blood in the water, by the
smell of a swimmer or by the sensory vibration set up by an injured
person in the water. But they could sometimes be frightened off, he
read, by loud noises in the water--even by shouting below the
surface--and they would often flee if a swimmer chased them.

The most successful form of shark repellent, according to US Naval
Research Laboratory tests, was a combination of copper acetate and a
dark nigrosine dye, and cakes of this mixture were apparently now
attached to the Mae Wests of all the US Armed Forces.

Bond called in Quarrel. The Cayman Islander was scornful until Bond read
out to him what the Navy Department had to say about their researches at
the end of the war among packs of sharks stimulated by what was
described as 'extreme mob behaviour conditions': '...Sharks were
attracted to the back of the shrimp boat with trash fish,' read out
Bond. 'Sharks appeared as a slashing, splashing shoal. We prepared a tub
of fresh fish and another tub of fish mixed with repellent powder. We
got up to the shoal of sharks and the photographer started his camera. I
shovelled over the plain fish for thirty seconds while the sharks, with
much splashing, ate them. Then I started on the repellent fish and
shovelled for thirty seconds, repeating the procedure three times. On
the first trial the sharks were quite ferocious in feeding on plain fish
right at the stern of the boat. They cut fish for only about five
seconds after the repellent mixture was thrown over. A few came back
when the plain fish were put out immediately following the repellent. On
a second trial thirty minutes later, a ferocious school fed for the
thirty seconds that plain fish were supplied, but left as soon as the
repellent struck the water. There were no attacks on fish while the
repellent was in the water. On the third trial we could not get the
sharks nearer than twenty yards of the stern of the boat.'

'What do you make of that?' asked Bond.

'You better have some of dat stuff,' said Quarrel, impressed against his
will.

Bond was inclined to agree with him. Washington had cabled that cakes of
the stuff were on the way. But they had not yet arrived and were not
expected for another forty-eight hours. If the repellent did not arrive,
Bond was not dismayed. He could not imagine that he would encounter such
dangerous conditions in his underwater swim to the island.

Before he went to bed, he finally decided that nothing would attack him
unless there was blood in the water or unless he communicated fear to a
fish that threatened. As for octopus, scorpion fish and morays, he would
just have to watch where he put his feet. To his mind, the three-inch
spines of the black sea-eggs were the greatest hazard to normal
underwater swimming in the tropics and the pain they caused would not be
enough to interfere with his plans.

They left before six in the morning and were at Beau Desert by half-past
ten.

The property was a beautiful old plantation of about a thousand acres
with the ruins of a fine Great House commanding the bay. It was given
over to pimento and citrus inside a fringe of hardwoods and palms and
had a history dating back to the time of Cromwell. The romantic name was
in the fashion of the eighteenth century, when Jamaican properties were
called Bellair, Bellevue, Boscobel, Harmony, Nymphenburg or had names
like Prospect, Content or Repose.

A track, out of sight of the island in the bay, led them among the trees
down to the little beach-house. After the week's picnic at Manatee Bay,
the bathrooms and comfortable bamboo furniture seemed very luxurious and
the brightly coloured rugs were like velvet under Bond's hardened feet.

Through the slats of the jalousies Bond looked across the little garden,
aflame with hibiscus, bougainvillea and roses, which ended in the tiny
crescent of white sand half obscured by the trunks of the palms. He sat
on the arm of a chair and let his eyes go on, inch by inch, across the
different blues and browns of sea and reef until they met the base of
the island. The upper half of it was obscured by the dipping feathers of
the palm trees in the foreground, but the stretch of vertical cliff
within his vision looked grey and formidable in the half-shadow cast by
the hot sun.

Quarrel cooked lunch on a primus stove so that no smoke would betray
them, and in the afternoon Bond slept and then went over the gear from
London that had been sent across from Kingston by Strangways. He tried
on the thin black rubber frogman's suit that covered him from the
skull-tight helmet with the Perspex window to the long black flippers
over his feet. It fitted like a glove and Bond blessed the efficiency of
M's 'Q' Branch.

They tested the twin cylinders, each containing a thousand litres of
free air compressed to two hundred atmospheres, and Bond found the
manipulation of the demand valve and the reserve mechanism simple and
fool-proof. At the depth he would be working the supply of air would
last him for nearly two hours underwater.

There was a new and powerful Champion harpoon gun and a commando dagger
of the type devised by Wilkinsons during the war. Finally, in a box
covered with danger-labels, there was the heavy limpet mine, a flat cone
of explosive on a base, studded with wide copper bosses, so powerfully
magnetized that the mine would stick like a clam to any metal hull.
There were a dozen pencil-shaped metal and glass fuses set for ten
minutes to eight hours and a careful memorandum of instructions that
were as simple as the rest of the gear. There was even a box of
benzedrine tablets to give endurance and heightened perception during
the operation and an assortment of underwater torches, including one
that threw only a tiny pencil-thin beam.

Bond and Quarrel went through everything, testing joints and contacts
until they were satisfied that nothing further remained to be done, then
Bond went down among the trees and gazed and gazed at the waters of the
bay, guessing at depths, tracing routes through the broken reef and
estimating the path of the moon, which would be his only point of
reckoning on the tortuous journey.

At five o'clock, Strangways arrived with news of the _Secatur_.

'They've cleared Port Maria,' he said. 'They'll be here in ten minutes
at the outside. Mr Big had a passport in the name of Gallia and the girl
in the name of Latrelle, Simone Latrelle. She was in her cabin,
prostrate with what the negro captain of the _Secatur_ described as
sea-sickness. It may have been. Scores of empty fish-tanks on board.
More than a hundred. Otherwise nothing suspicious and they were given a
clean bill. I wanted to go on board as one of the Customs team but I
thought it best that the show should be absolutely normal. Mr Big stuck
to his cabin. He was reading when they went to see his papers. How's the
gear?'

'Perfect,' said Bond. 'Guess we'll operate tomorrow night. Hope there's
a bit of a wind. If the air-bubbles are spotted we shall be in a mess.'

Quarrel came in. 'She's coming through the reef now, Cap'n.'

They went down as close to the shore as they dared and put their glasses
on her.

She was a handsome craft, black with a grey superstructure, seventy foot
long and built for speed--at least twenty knots, Bond guessed. He knew
her history, built for a millionaire in 1947 and powered with twin
General Motors Diesels, steel hull and all the latest wireless gadgets,
including ship-to-shore telephone and Decca navigator. She was wearing
the Red Ensign at her cross-trees and the Stars and Stripes aft and she
was making about three knots through the twenty-foot opening of the
reef.

She turned sharply inside the reef and came down to seaward of the
island. When she was below it, she put her helm hard over and came up
with the island to port. At the same time three negroes in white ducks
came running down the cliff steps to the narrow jetty and stood by to
catch lines. There was a minimum of backing and filling before she was
made fast just opposite to the watchers ashore, and the two anchors
roared down among the rocks and coral scattered round the island's
foundations in the sand. She lay well secured even against a 'Norther'.
Bond estimated there would be about twenty feet of water below her keel.

As they watched, the huge figure of Mr Big appeared on deck. He stepped
on to the jetty and started slowly to climb the steep cliff steps. He
paused often, and Bond thought of the diseased heart pumping laboriously
in the great grey-black body.

He was followed by two negro members of the crew hauling up a light
stretcher on which a body was strapped. Through his glasses Bond could
see Solitaire's black hair. Bond was worried and puzzled and he felt a
tightening of the heart at her nearness. He prayed the stretcher was
only a precaution to prevent Solitaire from being recognized from the
shore.

Then a chain of twelve men was established up the steps and the
fish-tanks were handed up one by one. Quarrel counted a hundred and
twenty of them.

Then some stores went up by the same method.

'Not taking much up this time,' commented Strangways when the operation
ceased. 'Only half a dozen cases gone up. Generally about fifty. Can't
be staying long.'

He had hardly finished speaking before a fish-tank, which their glasses
showed was half full of water and sand, was being gingerly passed back
to the ship, down the human ladder of hands. Then another and another,
at about five-minute intervals.

'My God,' said Strangways. 'They're loading her up already. That means
they'll be sailing in the morning. Wonder if it means they've decided to
clean the place out and that this is the last cargo.'

Bond watched carefully for a while and then they walked quietly up
through the trees, leaving Quarrel to report developments.

They sat down in the living-room, and while Strangways mixed himself a
whisky-and-soda, Bond gazed out of the window and marshalled his
thoughts.

It was six o'clock and the fireflies were beginning to show in the
shadows. The pale primrose moon was already high up in the eastern sky
and the day was dying swiftly at their backs. A light breeze was
ruffling the bay and the scrolls of small waves were unfurling on the
white beach across the lawn. A few small clouds, pink and orange in the
sunset, were meandering by overhead and the palm trees clashed softly in
the cool Undertaker's Wind.

'Undertaker's Wind,' thought Bond and smiled wryly. So it would have to
be tonight. The only chance, and the conditions were so nearly perfect.
Except that the shark-repellent stuff would not arrive in time. And that
was only a refinement. There was no excuse. This was what he had
travelled two thousand miles and five deaths to do. And yet he shivered
at the prospect of the dark adventure under the sea that he had already
put off in his mind until tomorrow. Suddenly he loathed and feared the
sea and everything in it. The millions of tiny antennae that would stir
and point as he went by that night, the eyes that would wake and watch
him, the pulses that would miss for the hundredth of a second and then
go beating quietly on, the jelly tendrils that would grope and reach for
him, as blind in the light as in the dark.

He would be walking through thousands of millions of secrets. In three
hundred yards, alone and cold, he would be blundering through a forest
of mystery towards a deadly citadel whose guardians had already killed
three men. He, Bond, after a week's paddling with his nanny beside him
in the sunshine, was going out tonight, in a few hours, to walk alone
under that black sheet of water. It was crazy, unthinkable. Bond's flesh
cringed and his fingers dug into his wet palms.

There was a knock on the door and Quarrel came in. Bond was glad to get
up and move away from the window to where Strangways was enjoying his
drink under a shaded reading light.

'They're working with lights now, Cap'n,' Quarrel said with a grin.
'Still a tank every five minutes. I figure that'll be ten hours' work.
Be through about four in the morning. Won't sail before six. Too
dangerous to try the passage without plenty light.'

Quarrel's warm grey eyes in the splendid mahogany face were looking into
Bond's, waiting for orders.

'I'll start at ten sharp,' Bond found himself saying. 'From the rocks to
the left of the beach. Can you get us some dinner and then get the gear
out on to the lawn? Conditions are perfect. I'll be over there in half
an hour.' He counted on his fingers. 'Give me fuses for five to eight
hours. And the quarter-hour one in reserve in case anything goes wrong.
Okay?'

'Aye aye, Cap'n,' said Quarrel. 'You jes leave 'em all to me.'

He went out.

Bond looked at the whisky bottle, then he made up his mind and poured
half a glass on top of three ice cubes. He took the box of benzedrine
tablets out of his pocket and slipped a tablet between his teeth.

'Here's luck,' he said to Strangways and took a deep swallow. He sat
down and enjoyed the tough hot taste of his first drink for more than a
week. 'Now,' he said, 'tell me exactly what they do when they're ready
to sail. How long it takes them to clear the island and get through the
reef. If it's the last time, don't forget they'll be taking off an extra
six men and some stores. Let's try to work it out as closely as we can.'

In a moment Bond was immersed in a sea of practical details and the
shadow of fear had fled back to the dark pools under the palm trees.

Exactly at ten o'clock, with nothing but anticipation and excitement in
him, the shimmering black bat-like figure slipped off the rocks into ten
feet of water and vanished under the sea.

'Go safely,' said Quarrel to the spot where Bond had disappeared. He
crossed himself. Then he and Strangways moved back through the shadows
to the house to sleep uneasily in watches and wait fearfully for what
might come.




                         19. Valley of Shadows


Bond was carried straight to the bottom by the weight of the limpet mine
that he had secured to his chest with tapes and by the leaded belt which
he wore round his waist to correct the buoyancy of the compressed-air
cylinders.

He didn't pause for an instant but immediately streaked across the first
fifty yards of open sand in a fast crawl, his face just above the sand.
The long webbed feet would almost have doubled his normal speed if he
had not been hampered by the weight he was carrying and by the light
harpoon gun in his left hand, but he travelled fast and in under a
minute he came to rest in the shadow of a mass of sprawling coral.

He paused and examined his sensations.

He was warm in the rubber suit, warmer than he would have been swimming
in the sunshine. He found his movements very easy and breathing
perfectly simple so long as his breath was even and relaxed. He watched
the tell-tale bubbles streaming up against the coral in a fountain of
silver pearls and prayed that the small waves were hiding them.

In the open he had been able to see perfectly. The light was soft and
milky but not strong enough to melt the mackerel shadows of the surface
waves that chequered the sand. Now, up against the reef, there was no
reflection from the bottom, and the shadows under the rocks were black
and impenetrable.

He risked a quick glance with his pencil torch and immediately the
underbelly of the mass of brown tree-coral came alive. Anemones with
crimson centres waved their velvet tentacles at him, a colony of black
sea-eggs moved their toledo-steel spines in sudden alarm and a hairy
sea-centipede halted in its hundred strides and questioned with its
eyeless head. In the sand at the base of the tree a toad-fish softly
drew its hideous warty head back into its funnel and a number of
flower-like sea-worms whisked out of sight down their gelatinous tubes.
A covey of bejewelled butterfly and angel fish flirted into the light
and he marked the flat spiral of a Long-spined Star Shell.

Bond tucked the light back in his belt.

Above him the surface of the sea was a canopy of quicksilver. It
crackled softly like fat frying in a saucepan. Ahead the moonlight
glinted down into the deep crooked valley that sloped down and away on
the route he had to follow. He left his sheltering tree of coral and
walked softly forward. Now it was not so easy. The light was tricky and
bad and the petrified forest of the coral reef was full of culs-de-sac
and tempting but misleading avenues.

Sometimes he had to climb almost to the surface to get over a tangled
scrub of tree- and antler-coral and when this happened he profited by it
to check his position with the moon that glowed like a huge pale
rocket-burst through the broken water. Sometimes the hourglass waist of
a niggerhead gave him shelter and he rested for a few moments knowing
that the small froth of his air-bubbles would be hidden by the jagged
knob protruding above the surface. Then he would focus his eyes on the
phosphorescent scribbles of the minute underwater night-life and
perceive whole colonies and populations about their microscopic
business.

There were no big fish about, but many lobsters were out of their holes
looking huge and prehistoric in the magnifying lens of the water. Their
stalk-like eyes glared redly at him and their foot-long spined antennae
asked him for the password. Occasionally they scuttled nervously
backwards into their shelters, their powerful tails kicking up the sand,
and crouched on the tips of their eight hairy feet, waiting for the
danger to pass. Once the great streamers of a Portuguese man-of-war
floated slowly by. They almost reached his head from the surface,
fifteen feet away, and he remembered the whiplash of a sting from the
contact of one of their tendrils that had burned for three of his days
at Manatee Bay. If they caught a man across the heart they could kill
him. He saw several green and speckled moray eels, the latter moving
like big yellow and black snakes along patches of sand, the green ones
baring their teeth from some hole in the rock, and several West Indian
blowfish, like brown owls with huge soft green eyes. He poked at one
with the end of his gun and it swelled out to the size of a football and
became a mass of dangerous white spines. Wide sea fans swayed and
beckoned in the eddies, and in the grey valleys they caught the light of
the moon and waved spectrally, like fragments of the shrouds of men
buried at sea. Often in the shadows there were unexplained, heavy
movements and swirls in the water and the sudden glare of large eyes at
once extinguished. Then Bond would whirl round, thumbing up the
safety-catch on his harpoon gun, and stare back into the darkness. But
he shot at nothing and nothing attacked him as he scrambled and
slithered through the reef.

The hundred yards of coral took him a quarter of an hour. When he got
through and rested on a round lump of brain-coral under the shelter of a
last niggerhead, he was glad that nothing but a hundred yards of
grey-white water lay in front of him. He still felt perfectly fresh and
the elation and clarity of mind produced by the benzedrine were still
with him, but the gauntlet of hazards through the reef had been a
constant fret, with the risk of tearing his rubber skin always on his
mind. Now the forest of razor-blade coral was behind, to be exchanged
for shark and barracuda or perhaps a sudden stick of dynamite dropped
into the centre of the little flower of his bubbles on the surface.

It was while he was measuring the dangers ahead that the octopus got
him. Round both ankles.

He had been sitting with his feet on the sand and suddenly they were
manacled to the base of the round toadstool of coral on which he was
resting. Even as he realized what had happened a tentacle began to snake
up his leg and another one, purple in the dim light, wandered down his
webbed left foot.

He gave a start of fear and disgust and at once he was on his feet,
shuffling and straining to get away. But there was no inch of yield and
his movements only gave the octopus an opportunity to pull his heels
tighter under the overhang of the round rock. The strength of the brute
was prodigious and Bond could feel his balance going fast. In a moment
he would be pulled down flat on his face and then, hampered by the mine
on his chest and the cylinders on his back, it might be almost
impossible to get at the beast.

Bond snatched his dagger out of his belt and jabbed down between his
legs. But the overhang of the rock impeded him and he was terrified of
cutting his rubber skin. Suddenly he was toppled over, lying on the
sand. At once his feet began to be drawn into a wide lateral cleft under
the rock. He scrabbled at the sand and tried to curl round to get within
range with the dagger. But the thick hump of the mine protruding from
his chest prevented him. On the edge of panic, he remembered the harpoon
gun. Before, he had dismissed it as being a hopeless weapon at that
short range, but now it was the only chance. It lay on the sand where he
had left it. He reached for it and put up the safety-catch. The mine
prevented him from aiming. He slid the barrel along his legs and probed
each of his feet with the tip of the harpoon to find the gap between
them. At once a tentacle seized the steel tip and began tugging. The gun
slipped between his manacled feet and he pulled the trigger blindly.

Immediately a great cloud of viscous, stringy ink rolled out of the
cleft towards his face. But one leg was free and then the other and he
whipped them round and under him and seized the haft of the three-foot
harpoon where it disappeared under the rock. He pulled and strained
until, with a rending of flesh, it came away from the black fog that
hung over the hole. Panting, he got up and stood away from the rock, the
sweat pouring down his face under the mask. Above him, the tell-tale
stream of silver bubbles rose straight to the surface and he cursed the
wounded 'pusfeller' in its lair.

But there was no time to worry further with it and he reloaded his gun
and struck out with the moon over his right shoulder.

Now he made good going through the misty grey water and he concentrated
only on keeping his face a few inches above the sand and his head well
down to streamline his body. Once, out of the corner of his eye, he saw
a stingray as big as a ping-pong table shuffle out of his path, the tips
of its great speckled wings beating like a bird's, its long horned tail
streaming out behind it. But he paid it no attention, remembering that
Quarrel had said that rays never attack except in self-defence. He
reflected that it had probably come in over the outer reef to lay its
eggs, or 'Mermaids' Purses' as the fishermen call them, because they are
shaped like a pillow with a stiff black string at each corner, on the
sheltered sandy bottom.

Many shadows of big fish lazed across the moonlit sand, some as long as
himself. When one followed beside him for at least a minute he looked up
to see the white belly of a shark ten feet above him like a glaucous
tapering airship. Its blunt nose was buried inquisitively in his stream
of air-bubbles. The wide sickle slit of its mouth looked like a puckered
scar. It leant sideways and glanced down at him out of one hard pink
naked eye, then it wobbled its great scythe-shaped tail and moved slowly
into the wall of grey mist.

He frightened a family of squids, ranging from about six pounds down to
an infant of six ounces, frail and luminous in the half-light, hanging
almost vertical in a diminishing chorus-line. They righted themselves
and shot off with streamlined jet propulsion.

Bond rested for a moment about half way and then went on. Now there were
barracuda about, big ones of up to twenty pounds. They looked just as
deadly as he had remembered them. They glided above him like silver
submarines, looking down out of their angry tigers' eyes. They were
curious about him and about his bubbles and they followed him, around
and above him, like a pack of silent wolves. By the time Bond met the
first bit of coral that meant he was coming up with the island there
must have been twenty of them moving quietly, watchfully in and out of
the opaque wall that enclosed him.

Bond's skin cringed under the black rubber but he could do nothing about
them and he concentrated on his objective.

Suddenly there was a long metallic shape hanging in the water above him.
Behind it there was a jumble of broken rock leading steeply upwards.

It was the keel of the _Secatur_ and Bond's heart thumped in his chest.

He looked at the Rolex watch on his wrist. It was three minutes past
eleven o'clock. He selected the seven-hour fuse from the handful he
extracted from a zipped side-pocket and inserted it in the fuse pocket
of the mine and pushed it home. The rest of the fuses he buried in the
sand so that if he was captured the mine would not be betrayed.

As he swam up, carrying the mine between his hands, bottom upwards, he
was aware of a commotion in the water behind him. A barracuda flashed
by, its jaws half open, almost hitting him, its eyes fixed on something
at his back. But Bond was intent only on the centre of the ship's keel
and on a point about three feet above it.

The mine almost dragged him the last few feet, its huge magnets
straining for the metallic kiss with the hull. Bond had to pull hard
against it to prevent the clang of contact. Then it was silently in
place and with its weight removed Bond had to swim strongly to counter
his new buoyancy and get down again and away from the surface.

It was as he turned to swim towards the twin propellers on his way to
the shelter of the rocks that he suddenly saw the terrible things that
had been going on behind him.

The great pack of barracuda seemed to have gone mad. They were whirling
and snapping in the water like hysterical dogs. Three sharks that had
joined them were charging through the water with a clumsier frenzy. The
water was boiling with the dreadful fish and Bond was slammed in the
face and buffeted again and again within a few yards. At any moment he
knew his rubber skin would be torn with the flesh below it and then the
pack would be on him.

'Extreme mob behaviour conditions.' The Navy Department's phrase flashed
into his mind. This was just when he might have saved himself with the
shark-repellent stuff. Without it he might only have a few more minutes
to live.

In desperation he threshed through the water along the ship's keel, the
safety-catch up on the harpoon gun that was now only a toy in the face
of this drove of maddened cannibal fish.

He reached the two big copper screws and clung to one of them, panting,
his lips drawn back from his teeth in a snarl of fear, his eyes
distended as he faced the frenzy of the boiling sea around him.

He at once saw that the mouths of the hurtling, darting fish were half
open and that they were plunging in and out of a brownish cloud,
spreading downwards from the surface. Close to him a barracuda hung for
an instant, something brown and glittering in its jaws. It gave a great
swallow and then swirled back into the mle.

At the same time he noticed that it was getting darker. He looked up and
saw with dawning comprehension that the quicksilver surface of the sea
had turned red, a horrible glinting crimson.

Threads of the stuff drifted within his reach. He hooked some towards
him with the end of his gun. Held the end close up against his glass
mask.

There was no doubt about it.

Up above, someone was spraying the surface of the sea with blood and
offal.




                        20. Bloody Morgan's Cave


Immediately Bond understood why all these barracuda and shark were
lurking round the island, how they were kept frenzied with bloodlust by
this nightly banquet, why, against all reason, the three men had been
washed up half-eaten by the fish.

Mr Big had just harnessed the forces of the sea for his protection. It
was a typical invention--imaginative, technically fool-proof and very
easy to operate.

Even as Bond's mind grasped it all, something hit him a terrific blow in
the shoulder and a twenty-pound barracuda backed away, black rubber and
flesh hanging from its jaws. Bond felt no pain as he let go of the
bronze propeller and threshed wildly for the rocks, only a horrible
sickness in the pit of his stomach at the thought of part of himself
between those hundred razor-sharp teeth. Water started to ooze between
the close-fitting rubber and his skin. It would not be long before it
penetrated up his neck and into the mask.

He was just going to give up and shoot the twenty feet to the surface
when he saw a wide fissure in the rocks in front of him. Beside it a
great boulder lay on its side and somehow he got behind it. He turned
from the partial shelter it gave just in time to see the same barracuda
coming at him again, its upper jaw held at right angles to the lower for
its infamous gaping strike.

Bond fired almost blind with the harpoon gun. The rubber thongs whammed
down the barrel and the barbed harpoon caught the big fish in the centre
of its raised upper jaw, pierced it and stuck with half the shaft and
the line still free.

The barracuda stopped dead in its tracks, three feet from Bond's
stomach. It tried to get its jaws together and then gave a mighty shake
of its long reptile's head. Then it shot away, zigzagging madly, the gun
and line, jerked from Bond's hand, streaming behind it. Bond knew that
the other fish would be on to it, tearing it to bits, before it had gone
a hundred yards.

Bond thanked God for the diversion. His shoulder was now surrounded by a
cloud of blood. In a matter of seconds the other fish would catch the
scent. He slipped round the boulder with the thought that he would
scramble up under the shelter of the jetty and somehow hide himself
above the level of the sea until he had made a fresh plan.

Then he saw the cave that the boulder had hidden.

It was really almost a door into the base of the island. If Bond had not
been swimming for his life he could have walked in. As it was, he dived
straight through the opening and only stopped when several yards
separated him from the glimmering entrance.

Then he stood upright on the soft sand and switched on his torch. A
shark might conceivably come in after him but in the confined space it
would be almost impossible for it to bring its underslung mouth to bear
on him. It would certainly not come in with a rush for even the shark is
frightened of hazarding its tough skin among rocks, and he would have
plenty of chance of going for its eyes with his dagger.

Bond shone his torch on the ceiling and sides of the cave. It had
certainly been fashioned or finished by man. Bond guessed that it had
been dug outwards from somewhere in the centre of the island.

'At least another twenty yards to go, men,' Bloody Morgan must have said
to the slave overseers. And then the picks would have burst suddenly
through to the sea and a welter of arms and legs and screaming mouths,
gagged for ever with water, would have hurtled back into the rock to
join the bodies of other witnesses.

The great boulder at the entrance would have been put in position to
seal the seaward exit. The Shark Bay fisherman who suddenly disappeared
six months before must have one day found it rolled away by a storm or
by the tidal wave following a hurricane. Then he had found the treasure
and had known he would need help to dispose of it. A white man would
cheat him. Better go to the great negro gangster in Harlem and make the
best terms he could. The gold belonged to the black men who had died to
hide it. It should go back to the black men.

Standing there, swaying in the slight current in the tunnel, Bond
guessed that one more barrel of cement had splashed into the mud of the
Harlem River.

It was then that he heard the drums.

Out amongst the big fish he had heard a soft thunder in the water that
had grown as he entered the cave. But he had thought it was only the
waves against the base of the island, and anyway he had had other things
to think about.

But now he could distinguish a definite rhythm and the sound boomed and
swelled around him in a muffled roar as if he himself were imprisoned
inside a vast kettle-drum. The water seemed to tremble with it. He
guessed its double purpose. It was a great fish-call used, when
intruders were about, to attract and excite the fish still further.
Quarrel had told him how the fishermen at night beat the sides of their
canoes with the paddle to wake and bring the fish. This must be the same
idea. And at the same time it would be a sinister Voodoo warning to the
people on shore, made doubly effective when the dead body was washed up
on the following day.

Another of Mr Big's refinements, thought Bond. Another spark thrown off
by that extraordinary mind.

Well, at least he knew where he was now. The drums meant that he had
been spotted. What would Strangways and Quarrel think as they heard
them? They would just have to sit and sweat it out. Bond had guessed the
drums were some sort of trick and he had made them promise not to
interfere unless the _Secatur_ got safely away. That would mean that all
Bond's plans had failed. He had told Strangways where the gold was
hidden and the ship would have to be intercepted on the high seas.

Now the enemy was alerted, but would not know who he was nor that he was
still alive. He would have to go on if only to stop Solitaire at all
costs from sailing in the doomed ship.

Bond looked at his watch. It was half an hour after midnight. So far as
Bond was concerned, it might have been a week since he started his
lonely voyage through the sea of dangers.

He felt the Beretta under his rubber skin and wondered if it was already
ruined by the water that had got in through the rent made by the
barracuda's teeth.

Then, the roar of the drums getting louder every moment, he moved on
into the cave, his torch throwing a tiny pinpoint of light ahead of him.

He had gone about ten yards when a faint glimmer showed in the water
ahead of him. He dowsed the torch and went cautiously towards it. The
sandy floor of the cave started to move upwards and with every yard the
light grew brighter. Now he could see dozens of small fish playing
around him and ahead the water seemed full of them, attracted into the
cave by the light. Crabs peered from the small crevices in the rocks and
a baby octopus flattened itself into a phosphorescent star against the
ceiling.

Then he could make out the end of the cave and a wide shining pool
beyond it, the white sandy bottom as bright as day. The throb of the
drums was very loud. He stopped in the shadow of the entrance and saw
that the surface was only a few inches away and that lights were shining
down into the pool.

Bond was in a quandary. Any further step and he would be in full view of
anyone looking at the pool. As he stood, debating with himself, he was
horrified to see a thin red cloud of blood spreading beyond the entrance
from his shoulder. He had forgotten the wound, but now it began to
throb, and when he moved his arm pain shot through it. There was also
the thin stream of bubbles from the cylinders, but he hoped these were
just creeping up to burst unnoticed at the lip of the entrance.

Even as he drew back a few inches into his hole, his future was settled
for him.

Above his head there was a single huge splash and two negroes, naked
except for the glass masks over their faces, were on to him, long
daggers held like lances in their left hands.

Before his hand reached the knife at his belt they had seized both his
arms and were hauling him to the surface.

Hopelessly, helplessly, Bond let himself be manhandled out of the pool
on to flat sand. He was pulled to his feet and the zips of his rubber
suit were torn open. His helmet was snatched off his head and his
holster from his shoulder and suddenly he was standing among the debris
of his black skin, like a flayed snake, naked except for his brief
swimming-trunks. Blood oozed down from the jagged hole in his left
shoulder.

When his helmet came off Bond was almost deafened by the shattering boom
and stutter of the drums. The noise was in him and all around him. The
hastening syncopated rhythm galloped and throbbed in his blood. It
seemed enough to wake all Jamaica. Bond grimaced and clenched his senses
against the buffeting tempest of noise. Then his guards turned him round
and he was faced with a scene so extraordinary that the sound of the
drums receded and all his consciousness was focused through his eyes.

In the foreground, at a green baize card-table, littered with papers, in
a folding chair, sat Mr Big, a pen in his hand, looking incuriously at
him. A Mr Big in a well-cut fawn tropical suit, with a white shirt and
black knitted silk tie. His broad chin rested on his left hand and he
looked up at Bond as if he had been disturbed in his office by a member
of the staff asking for a raise in salary. He looked polite but faintly
bored.

A few steps away from him, sinister and incongruous, the scarecrow
effigy of Baron Samedi, erect on a rock, gaped at Bond from under its
bowler hat.

Mr Big took his hand off his chin, and his great golden eyes looked Bond
over from top to toe.

'Good morning, Mister James Bond,' he said at last, throwing his flat
voice against the dying crescendo of the drums. 'The fly has indeed been
a long time coming to the spider, or perhaps I should say "the minnow to
the whale". You left a pretty wake of bubbles after the reef.'

He leant back in his chair and was silent. The drums softly thudded and
boomed.

So it was the fight with the octopus that had betrayed him. Bond's mind
automatically registered the fact as his eyes moved on past the man at
the table.

He was in a rock chamber as big as a church. Half the floor was taken up
with the clear white pool from which he had come and which verged into
aquamarine and then blue near the black hole of the underwater entrance.
Then there was the narrow strip of sand on which he was standing, and
the rest of the floor was smooth flat rock dotted with a few grey and
white stalagmites.

Some way behind Mr Big, steep steps mounted towards a vaulted ceiling
from which short limestone stalactites hung down. From their white
nipples water dripped intermittently into the pool or on to the points
of the young stalagmites that rose towards them from the floor.

A dozen bright arc lights were fixed high up on the walls and reflected
golden highlights from the naked chests of a group of negroes standing
to his left on the stone floor rolling their eyes and watching Bond,
their teeth showing in delighted cruel grins.

Round their black and pink feet, in a debris of broken timber and rusty
iron hoops, mildewed strips of leather and disintegrating canvas, was a
blazing sea of gold coin--yards, piles, cascades of round golden specie
from which the black legs rose as if they had been halted in the middle
of a walk through flame.

Beside them were piled row upon row of shallow wooden trays. There were
some on the floor partly filled with gold coin, and at the bottom of the
steps a single negro had stopped on his way up and he was holding one of
the trays in his hands and it was full of gold coin, four cylindrical
rows of it, held out as if for sale between his hands.

Further to the left, in a corner of the chamber, two negroes stood by a
bellying iron cauldron suspended over three hissing blow-lamps, its base
glowing red. They held iron skimmers in their hands and these were
splashed with gold half way up the long handles. Beside them was a
towering jumble of gold objects, plate, altar pieces, drinking vessels,
crosses, and a stack of gold ingots of various sizes. Along the wall
near them were ranged rows of metal cooling trays, their segmented
surfaces gleaming yellow, and there was an empty tray on the floor near
the cauldron and a long gold-spattered ladle, its handle bound with
cloth.

Squatting on the floor not far from Mr Big, a single negro had a knife
in one hand and a jewelled goblet in the other. Beside him on a tin
plate was a pile of gems that winked dully, red and blue and green, in
the glare of the arcs.

It was warm and airless in the great rock chamber and yet Bond shivered
as his eyes took in the whole splendid scene, the blazing violet-white
lights, the shimmering bronze of the sweating bodies, the bright glare
of the gold, the rainbow pool of jewels and the milk and aquamarine of
the pool. He shivered at the beauty of it all, at this fabulous
petrified ballet in the great treasure-house of Bloody Morgan.

His eyes came back to the square of green baize and the great zombie
face and he looked at the face and into the wide yellow eyes with awe,
almost with reverence.

'Stop the drums,' said The Big Man to no one in particular. They had
died almost to a whisper, a lisping beat right on the pulse of the
blood. One of the negroes took two softly clanging steps amongst the
gold coin and bent down. There was a portable phonograph on the floor
and a powerful amplifier leant beside it against the rock wall. There
was a click and the drums stopped. The negro shut the lid of the machine
and went back to his place.

'Get on with the work,' said Mr Big, and at once all the figures started
moving as if a penny had been put in a slot. The cauldron was stirred,
the gold was picked up and clicked into the boxes, the man picked busily
at his jewelled goblet and the negro with the tray of gold moved on up
the stairs.

Bond stood and dripped sweat and blood.

The Big Man bent over the lists on his table and wrote one or two
figures with his pen.

Bond stirred and felt the prick of a dagger over his kidneys.

The Big Man put down his pen and got slowly to his feet. He moved away
from the table.

'Take over,' he said to one of Bond's guards and the naked man walked
round the table and sat down in Mr Big's chair and picked up the pen.

'Bring him up.' Mr Big walked over to the steps in the rock and started
to climb them slowly.

Bond felt a prick in his side. He stepped out of the debris of his black
skin and followed the slowly climbing figure.

No one looked up from his work. No one would slacken when Mr Big was out
of sight. No one would put a jewel or a coin in his mouth.

Baron Samedi was left in charge.

Only his Zombie had gone from the cave.




                      21. 'Good Night to You Both'


They climbed slowly up, past an open door near the ceiling, for about
forty feet and then paused on a wide landing in the rock. Here a single
negro with an acetylene light beside him was fitting trays full of gold
coin into the centre of the fish-tanks, scores of which were stacked
against the wall.

As they waited, two negroes came down the steps from the surface, picked
up one of the prepared tanks and went back up the steps with it.

Bond guessed the tanks were stocked with sand and weed and fish
somewhere up above and then passed to the human chain that stretched
down the cliff face.

Bond noticed that some of the waiting tanks had gold ingots fitted in
the centre, and others a gravel of jewels, and he revised his estimate
of the treasure, quadrupling it to around four million sterling.

Mr Big stood for a few moments with his eyes on the stone floor. His
breathing was deep but controlled. Then they went on up.

Twenty steps higher there was another landing, smaller and with a door
leading off it. The door had a new chain and padlock on it. The door
itself was made of platted iron slats, brown and corroded with rust.

Mr Big paused again and they stood side by side on the small platform of
rock.

For a moment Bond thought of escape, but, as if reading his mind, the
negro guard crowded him up against the stone wall away from The Big Man.
And Bond knew his first duty was to stay alive and get to Solitaire and
somehow keep her away from the doomed ship where the acid was slowly
eating through the copper of the time-fuse.

From above, a strong draught of cold air was coming down the shaft and
Bond felt the sweat drying on him. He put his right hand up to the wound
in his shoulder, undeterred by the prick of the guard's dagger in his
side. The blood was dry and caked and most of the arm was numb. It ached
viciously.

Mr Big spoke.

'That wind, Mister Bond,' he pointed up the shaft, 'is known in Jamaica
as "The Undertaker's Wind".'

Bond shrugged his right shoulder and saved his breath.

Mr Big turned to the iron door, took a key from his pocket and unlocked
it. He went through and Bond and his guard followed.

It was a long, narrow passage of a room with rusty shackles low down in
the walls at less than yard intervals.

At the far end, where a hurricane light hung from the stone roof, there
was a motionless figure under a blanket on the floor. There was one more
hurricane light over their heads near the door, otherwise nothing but a
smell of damp rock, and ancient torture, and death.

'Solitaire,' said Mr Big softly.

Bond's heart leapt and he started forward. At once a huge hand grasped
him by the arm.

'Hold it, white man,' snapped his guard and twisted his wrist up between
his shoulder-blades, hefting it higher until Bond lashed out with his
left heel. It hit the other man's shin, and hurt Bond more than the
guard.

Mr Big turned round. He had a small gun almost covered by his huge hand.

'Let him go,' he said, quietly. 'If you want an extra navel, Mister
Bond, you can have one. I have six of them in this gun.'

Bond brushed past The Big Man. Solitaire was on her feet, coming towards
him. When she saw his face she broke into a run, holding out her two
hands.

'James,' she sobbed. 'James.'

She almost fell at his feet. Their hands clutched at each other.

'Get me some rope,' said Mr Big in the doorway.

'It's all right, Solitaire,' said Bond, knowing that it wasn't. 'It's
all right. I'm here now.'

He picked her up and held her at arm's length. It hurt his left arm. She
was pale and dishevelled. There was a bruise on her forehead and black
circles under her eyes. Her face was grimy and tears had made streaks
down the pale skin. She had no make-up. She wore a dirty white linen
suit and sandals. She looked thin.

'What's the bastard been doing to you?' said Bond. He suddenly held her
tightly to him. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck.

Then she drew away and looked at her hand.

'But you're bleeding,' she said. 'What is it?'

She turned him half round and saw the black blood on his shoulder and
down his arm.

'Oh my darling, what is it?'

She started to cry again, forlornly, hopelessly, realizing suddenly that
they were both lost.

'Tie them up,' said The Big Man from the door. 'Here under the light. I
have things to say to them.'

The negro came towards them and Bond turned. Was it worth a gamble? The
negro had nothing but rope in his hands. But The Big Man had stepped
sideways and was watching him, the gun held loosely, half pointing at
the floor.

'No, Mister Bond,' he said simply.

Bond eyed the big negro and thought of Solitaire and his own wounded
arm.

The negro came up and Bond allowed his arms to be tied behind his back.
They were good knots. There was no play in them. They hurt.

Bond smiled at Solitaire. He half closed one eye. It was nothing but
bravado, but he saw a hopeful awareness dawn through her tears.

The negro led him back to the doorway.

'There,' said The Big Man, pointing at one of the shackles.

The negro cut Bond's legs from under him with a sudden sweep of his
shin. Bond fell on his wounded shoulder. The negro pulled him by the
rope up to the shackle, tested it, and put the rope through and then
down to Bond's ankles which he bound securely. He had stuck his dagger
in a crevice in the rock. He pulled it out and cut the rope and went
back to where Solitaire was standing.

Bond was left sitting on the stone floor, his legs straight out in
front, his arms hoisted up and secured behind him. Blood dripped down
from his freshly opened wound. Only the remains of the benzedrine in his
system kept him from fainting.

Solitaire was bound and placed almost opposite him. There was a yard
between their feet.

When it was done, The Big Man looked at his watch.

'Go,' he said to the guard. He closed the iron door behind the man and
leant against it.

Bond and the girl looked at each other and The Big Man gazed down on
both of them.

After one of his long silences he addressed Bond. Bond looked up at him.
The great grey football of a head under the hurricane lamp looked like
an elemental, a malignant spectre from the centre of the earth, as it
hung in mid air, the golden eyes blazing steadily, the great body in
shadow. Bond had to remind himself that he had heard its heart pumping
in its chest, had heard it breathe, had seen sweat on the grey skin. It
was only a man, of the same species as himself, a big man, with a
brilliant brain, but still a man who walked and defecated, a mortal man
with a diseased heart.

The wide rubbery mouth split open and the flat, slightly everted lips
drew back from the big white teeth.

'You are the best of those that have been sent against me,' said Mr Big.
His quiet flat voice was thoughtful, measured. 'And you have achieved
the deaths of four of my assistants. My followers find this incredible.
It was fully time that accounts should be squared. What happened to the
American was not sufficient. The treachery of this girl,' he still
looked at Bond, 'whom I found in the gutter and whom I was prepared to
put on my right hand, has also brought my infallibility in question. I
was wondering how she should die, when providence, or Baron Samedi as my
followers will believe, brought you also to the altar with your head
bowed ready for the axe.'

The mouth paused, with the lips parted. Bond saw the teeth come together
to form the next word.

'So it is convenient that you should die together. That will happen, in
an appropriate fashion,' The Big Man looked at his watch, 'in two and a
half hours' time. At six o'clock, give or take,' he added, 'a few
minutes.'

'Let's give those minutes,' said Bond. 'I enjoy my life.'

'In the history of negro emancipation,' Mr Big continued in an easy
conversational tone, 'there have already appeared great athletes, great
musicians, great writers, great doctors and scientists. In due course,
as in the developing history of other races, there will appear negroes
great and famous in every other walk of life.' He paused. 'It is
unfortunate for you, Mister Bond, and for this girl, that you have
encountered the first of the great negro criminals. I use a vulgar word,
Mister Bond, because it is the one you, as a form of policeman, would
yourself use. But I prefer to regard myself as one who has the ability
and the mental and nervous equipment to make his own laws and act
according to them rather than accept the laws that suit the lowest
common denominator of the people. You have doubtless read Trotter's
_Instincts of the Herd in War and Peace_, Mister Bond. Well, I am by
nature and predilection a wolf and I live by a wolf's laws. Naturally
the sheep describe such a person as a "criminal".

'The fact, Mister Bond,' The Big Man continued after a pause, 'that I
survive and indeed enjoy limitless success, although I am alone against
countless millions of sheep, is attributable to the modern techniques I
described to you on the occasion of our last talk, and to an infinite
capacity for taking pains. Not dull, plodding pains, but artistic,
subtle pains. And I find, Mister Bond, that it is not difficult to
outwit sheep, however many of them there may be, if one is dedicated to
the task and if one is by nature an extremely well-equipped wolf.

'Let me illustrate to you, by an example, how my mind works. We will
take the method I have decided upon by which you are both to die. It is
a modern variation on the method used in the time of my kind patron, Sir
Henry Morgan. In those days it was known as "keel-hauling".'

'Pray continue,' said Bond, not looking at Solitaire.

'We have a paravane on board the yacht,' continued Mr Big as if he were
a surgeon describing a delicate operation to a body of students, 'which
we use for trawling for shark and other big fish. This paravane, as you
know, is a large buoyant torpedo-shaped device, which rides on the end
of a cable, away from the side of a ship, and which can be used for
sustaining the end of a net, and drawing it through the water when the
ship is in motion, or if fitted with a cutting device, for severing the
cables of moored mines in time of war.

'I intend,' said Mr Big, in a matter-of-fact discursive tone of voice,
'to bind you together to a line streamed from this paravane and to tow
you through the sea until you are eaten by sharks.'

He paused, and his eyes looked from one to the other. Solitaire was
gazing wide-eyed at Bond and Bond was thinking hard, his eyes blank and
his mind boring into the future. He felt he ought to say something.

'You are a big man,' he said, 'and one day you will die a big, horrible
death. If you kill us, that death will come soon. I have arranged for
it. You are going mad very fast or you would see what our murder will
bring down on you.'

Even as he spoke Bond's mind was working fast, counting hours and
minutes, knowing that The Big Man's own death was creeping, with the
acid in the fuse, round the minute hand towards his personal hour of
final rendezvous. But would he and Solitaire be dead before that hour
struck? There would not be more than minutes, perhaps seconds in it. The
sweat poured off his face on to his chest. He smiled across at
Solitaire. She looked back at him opaquely, her eyes not seeing him.

Suddenly she gave an agonized cry that made Bond's nerves jerk.

'I don't know,' she cried. 'I can't see. It's so near, so close. There
is much death. But...'

'Solitaire,' shouted Bond, terrified that whatever strange things she
saw in the future might give a warning to The Big Man. 'Pull yourself
together.'

There was an angry bite in his voice.

Her eyes cleared. She looked dumbly at him, without comprehension.

The Big Man spoke again.

'I am not going mad, Mister Bond,' he said evenly, 'and nothing you have
arranged will affect me. You will die beyond the reef and there will be
no evidence. I shall tow the remains of your bodies until there is
nothing left. That is part of the dexterity of my intentions. You may
also know that shark and barracuda play a role in Voodooism. They will
have their sacrifice and Baron Samedi will be appeased. That will
satisfy my followers. I wish also to continue my experiments with
carnivorous fish. I believe they only attack when there is blood in the
water. So your bodies will be towed from the island. The paravane will
take them over the reef. I believe you will not be harmed inside the
reef. The blood and offal that is thrown into these waters every night
will have dispersed or been consumed. But when your bodies have been
dragged over the reef, then I'm afraid you will bleed, your bodies will
be very raw. And then we will see if my theories are correct.'

The Big Man put his hand behind him and pulled the door open.

'I will leave you now,' he said, 'to reflect on the excellence of the
method I have invented for your death together. Two necessary deaths are
achieved. No evidence is left behind. Superstition is satisfied. My
followers pleased. The bodies are used for scientific research.

'That is what I meant, Mister James Bond, by an infinite capacity for
taking artistic pains.'

He stood in the doorway and looked at them.

'A short, but very good night to you both.'




                           22. Terror by Sea


It was not yet light when their guards came for them. Their leg ropes
were cut and with their arms still pinioned they were led up the
remaining stone stairs to the surface.

They stood amongst the sparse trees and Bond sniffed the cool morning
air. He gazed through the trees towards the east and saw that there the
stars were paler and the horizon luminous with the breaking dawn. The
night-song of the crickets was almost done and somewhere on the island a
mocking bird bubbled its first notes.

He guessed that it was either side of half-past five.

They stood there for several minutes. Negroes brushed past them carrying
bundles and jippa-jippa holdalls, talking in cheerful whispers. The
doors of the handful of thatched huts among the trees had been left
swinging open. The men filed to the edge of the cliff to the right of
where Bond and Solitaire were standing and disappeared over the edge.
They didn't come back. It was evacuation. The whole garrison of the
island was decamping.

Bond rubbed his naked shoulder against Solitaire and she pressed against
him. It was cold after the stuffy dungeon and Bond shivered. But it was
better to be on the move than for the suspense down below to be
prolonged.

They both knew what had to be done, the nature of the gamble.

When The Big Man had left them, Bond had wasted no time. In a whisper,
he had told the girl of the limpet mine against the side of the ship
timed to explode a few minutes after six o'clock and he had explained
the factors that would decide who would die that morning.

First, he gambled on Mr Big's mania for exactitude and efficiency. The
_Secatur_ must sail on the dot of six o'clock. Then there must be no
cloud, or visibility in the half-light of dawn would not be sufficient
for the ship to make the passage through the reef and Mr Big would
postpone the sailing. If Bond and Solitaire were on the jetty alongside
the ship, they would then be killed with Mr Big.

Supposing the ship sailed dead on time, how far behind and to one side
of her would their bodies be towed? It would have to be on the port side
for the paravane to clear the island. Bond guessed the cable to the
paravane would be fifty yards and that they would be towed twenty or
thirty yards behind the paravane.

If he was right, they would be hauled over the outer reef about fifty
yards after the _Secatur_ had cleared the passage. She would probably
approach the passage at about three knots and then put on speed to ten
or even twenty. At first their bodies would be swept away from the
island in a slow arc, twisting and turning at the end of the tow-rope.
Then the paravane would straighten out and when the ship had got through
the reef, they would still be approaching it. The paravane would then
cross the reef when the ship was about forty yards outside it and they
would follow.

Bond shuddered to think of the mauling their bodies would suffer being
dragged at any speed over the razor-sharp ten yards of coral rocks and
trees. The skin on their backs and legs would be flayed off.

Once over the reef they would be just a huge bleeding bait and it would
be only a matter of minutes before the first shark or barracuda was on
to them.

And Mr Big would sit comfortably in the stern sheets, watching the
bloody show, perhaps with glasses, and ticking off the seconds and
minutes as the living bait got smaller and smaller and finally the fish
snapped at the bloodstained rope.

Until there was nothing left.

Then the paravane would be hoisted inboard and the yacht would plough
gracefully on towards the distant Florida Keys, Cape Sable and the
sun-soaked wharf in St Petersburg Harbour.

And if the mine exploded while they were still in the water, only fifty
yards away from the ship? What would be the effect of the shock-waves on
their bodies? It might not be deadly. The hull of the ship should absorb
most of it. The reef might protect them.

Bond could only guess and hope.

Above all they must stay alive to the last possible second. They must
keep breathing as they were hauled, a living bundle, through the sea.
Much depended on how they would be bound together. Mr Big would want
them to stay alive. He would not be interested in dead bait.

If they were still alive when the first shark's fin showed on the
surface behind them Bond had coldly decided to drown Solitaire. Drown
her by twisting her body under his and holding her there. Then he would
try and drown himself by twisting her dead body back over his to keep
him under.

There was nightmare at every turn of his thoughts, sickening horror in
every grisly aspect of the monstrous torture and death this man had
invented for them. But Bond knew he must remain cold and absolutely
resolved to fight for their lives to the end. There was at least warmth
in the knowledge that Mr Big and most of his men would also die. And
there was a glimmer of hope that he and Solitaire would survive. Unless
the mine failed, there was no such hope for the enemy.

All this, and a hundred other details and plans, went through Bond's
mind in the last hour before they were brought up the shaft to the
surface. He shared all his hopes with Solitaire. None of his fears.

She had lain opposite him, her tired blue eyes fixed on him, obedient,
trusting, drinking in his face and his words, pliant, loving.

'Don't worry about me, my darling,' she had said when the men came for
them. 'I am happy to be with you again. My heart is full of it. For some
reason I am not afraid although there is much death very close. Do you
love me a little?'

'Yes,' said Bond. 'And we shall have our love.'

'Giddap,' said one of the men.

And now, on the surface, it was getting lighter, and from below the
cliff Bond heard the great twin Diesels stutter and roar. There was a
light flutter of breeze to windward, but to leeward, where the ship lay,
the bay was a gunmetal mirror.

Mr Big appeared up the shaft, a businessman's leather brief-case in his
hand. He stood for a moment looking round, gaining his breath. He paid
no attention to Bond and Solitaire nor to the two guards standing beside
them with revolvers in their hands.

He looked up at the sky, and suddenly called out, in a loud clear voice,
towards the rim of the sun:

'Thank you, Sir Henry Morgan. Your treasure will be well spent. Give us
a fair wind.'

The negro guards showed the whites of their eyes.

'The Undertaker's Wind it is,' said Bond.

The Big Man looked at him.

'All down?' he asked the guards.

'Yassuh, Boss,' answered one of them.

'Take them along,' said The Big Man.

They went to the edge of the cliff and down the steep steps, one guard
in front, one behind. Mr Big followed.

The engines of the long graceful yacht were turning over quietly, the
exhaust bubbling glutinously, a thread of blue vapour rising astern.

There were two men on the jetty at the guide ropes. There were only
three men on deck besides the Captain and the navigator on the grey
streamlined bridge. There was no room for more. All the available
deckspace, save for a fishing chair rigged right aft, was covered with
fish-tanks. The Red Ensign had been struck and only the Stars and
Stripes hung motionless at the stern.

A few yards clear of the ship the red torpedo-shaped paravane, about six
feet long, lay quietly on the water, now aquamarine in the early dawn.
It was attached to a thick pile of wire cable, coiled up on the deck
aft. To Bond there looked to be a good fifty yards of it. The water was
crystal clear and there were no fish about.

The Undertaker's Wind was almost dead. Soon the Doctor's Wind would
start to breathe in from the sea. How soon? wondered Bond. Was it an
omen?

Away beyond the ship he could see the roof of Beau Desert among the
trees, but the jetty and the ship and the cliff path were still in deep
shadow. Bond wondered if night-glasses would be able to pick them out.
And if they could, what Strangways would be thinking.

Mr Big stood on the jetty and supervised the process of binding them
together.

'Strip her,' he said to Solitaire's guard.

Bond flinched. He stole a glance at Mr Big's wrist watch. It said ten
minutes to six. Bond kept silence. There must not be even a minute's
delay.

'Throw the clothes on board,' said Mr Big. 'Tie some strips round his
shoulder. I don't want any blood in the water yet.'

Solitaire's clothes were cut off her with a knife.

She stood pale and naked. She hung her head and the heavy black hair
fell forward over her face. Bond's shoulder was roughly bound with
strips of her linen skirt.

'You bastard,' said Bond through his teeth.

Under Mr Big's direction, their hands were freed. Their bodies were
pressed together, face to face, and their arms held round each other's
waists and then bound tightly again.

Bond felt Solitaire's soft breasts pressed against him. She leant her
chin on his right shoulder.

'I didn't want it to be like this,' she whispered tremulously.

Bond didn't answer. He hardly felt her body. He was counting seconds.

On the jetty there was a pile of rope to the paravane. It hung down off
the jetty and Bond could see it lying along the sand until it rose to
meet the belly of the red torpedo.

The free end was tied under their armpits and knotted tightly between
them in the space between their necks. It was all very carefully done.
There was no possible escape.

Bond was counting the seconds. He made it five minutes to six.

Mr Big had a last look at them.

'Their legs can stay free,' he said. 'They'll make appetizing bait.' He
stepped off the jetty on to the deck of the yacht.

The two guards went aboard. The two men on the jetty unhitched their
lines and followed. The screws churned up the still water and with the
engines at half speed ahead the _Secatur_ slid swiftly away from the
island.

Mr Big went aft and sat down in the fishing chair. They could see his
eyes fixed on them. He said nothing. Made no gesture. He just watched.

The _Secatur_ cut through the water towards the reef. Bond could see the
cable to the paravane snaking over the side. The paravane started to
move softly after the ship. Suddenly it put its nose down, then righted
itself and sped away, its rudder pulling out and away from the wake of
the ship.

The coil of rope beside them leapt into life.

'Look out,' said Bond urgently, holding tighter to the girl.

Their arms were pulled almost out of their sockets as they were jerked
together off the jetty into the sea.

For a second they both went under, then they were on the surface, their
joined bodies smashing through the water.

Bond gasped for breath amongst the waves and spray that dashed past his
twisted mouth. He could hear the rasping of Solitaire's breath next to
his ear.

'Breathe, breathe,' he shouted through the rushing of the water. 'Lock
your legs against mine.'

She heard him and he felt her knees pressing between his thighs. She had
a paroxysm of coughing, then her breath became more even against his ear
and the thumping of her heart eased against his breast. At the same time
their speed slackened.

'Hold your breath,' shouted Bond. 'I've got to have a look. Ready?'

A pressure of her arms answered him. He felt her chest heave as she
filled her lungs.

With the weight of his body he swung her round so that his head was now
quite out of water.

They were ploughing along at about three knots. He twisted his head
above the small bow-wave they were throwing up.

The _Secatur_ was entering the passage through the reef, about eighty
yards away, he guessed. The paravane was skimming slowly along almost at
right angles to her. Another thirty yards and the red torpedo would be
crossing the broken water over the reef. A further thirty yards behind,
they were riding slowly across the surface of the bay.

Sixty yards to go to the reef.

Bond twisted his body and Solitaire came up, gasping.

Still they moved slowly along through the water.

Five yards, ten, fifteen, twenty.

Only forty yards to go before they hit the coral.

The _Secatur_ would be just through: Bond gathered his breath. It must
be past six now. What had happened to the blasted mine? Bond thought a
quick fervent prayer. God save us, he said into the water.

Suddenly he felt the rope tighten under his arms.

'Breathe, Solitaire, breathe,' he shouted as they got under way and the
water started to hiss past them.

Now they were flying over the sea towards the crouching reef.

There was a slight check. Bond guessed that the paravane had fouled a
niggerhead or a piece of surface coral. Then their bodies hurtled on
again in their deadly embrace.

Thirty yards to go, twenty, ten.

Jesus Christ, thought Bond. We're for it. He braced his muscles to take
the crashing, searing pain, edged Solitaire further above him to protect
her from the worst of it.

Suddenly the breath whistled out of his body and a giant fist thumped
him into Solitaire so that she rose right out of the sea above him and
then fell back. A split second later lightning flashed across the sky
and there was the thunder of an explosion.

They stopped dead in the water and Bond felt the weight of the slack
rope pulling them under.

His legs sank down beneath his stunned body and water rushed into his
mouth.

It was this that brought him back to consciousness. His legs pounded
under him and brought their mouths to the surface. The girl was a dead
weight in his arms. He trod water desperately and looked round him,
holding Solitaire's lolling head on his shoulder above the surface.

The first thing he saw was the swirling water of the reef not five yards
away. Without its protection they would both have been crushed by the
shock-wave of the explosion. He felt the tug and eddy of its currents
round his legs. He backed desperately towards it, catching gulps of air
when he could. His chest was bursting with the strain and he saw the sky
through a red film. The rope dragged him down and the girl's hair filled
his mouth and tried to choke him.

Suddenly he felt the sharp scrape of the coral against the backs of his
legs. He kicked and felt frantically with his feet for a foothold,
flaying the skin off with every movement.

He hardly felt the pain.

Now his back was being scraped, and his arms. He floundered clumsily,
his lungs burning in his chest. Then there was a bed of needles under
his feet. He put all his weight on it, leaning back against the strong
eddies that tried to dislodge him. His feet held and there was rock at
his back. He leant back panting, blood streaming up around him in the
water, holding the girl's cold, scarcely breathing body against him.

For a minute he rested, blessedly, his eyes shut and the blood pounding
through his limbs, coughing painfully, waiting for his senses to focus
again. His first thought was for the blood in the water around him. But
he guessed the big fish would not venture into the reef. Anyway there
was nothing he could do about it.

Then he looked out to sea.

There was no sign of the _Secatur_.

High up in the still sky there was a mushroom of smoke, beginning to
trail, with the Doctor's Wind, in towards the land.

There were things strewn all over the water and a few heads bobbing up
and down and the whole sea was glinting with the white stomachs of fish
stunned or killed by the explosion. There was a strong smell of
explosive in the air. On the fringe of the debris, the red paravane lay
quietly, hull down, anchored by the cable whose other end must lie
somewhere on the bottom. Fountains of bubbles were erupting on the
glassy surface of the sea.

On the edge of the circle of bobbing heads and dead fish a few
triangular fins were cutting fast through the water. More appeared as
Bond watched. Once he saw a great snout come out of the water and smash
down on something. The fins threw up spray as they flashed among the
tidbits. Two black arms suddenly stuck up in the air and then
disappeared. There were screams. Two or three pairs of arms started to
flail the water towards the reef. One man stopped to bang the water in
front of him with the flat of his hand. Then his hands disappeared under
the surface. Then he too began to scream and his body jerked to and fro
in the water. Barracuda hitting into him, said Bond's dazed mind.

But one of the heads was getting nearer, making for the bit of reef
where Bond stood, the small waves breaking under his armpits, the girl's
black hair hanging down his back.

It was a large head and a veil of blood streamed down over the face from
a wound in the great bald skull.

Bond watched it come on.

The Big Man was executing a blundering breaststroke, making enough
flurry in the water to attract any fish that wasn't already occupied.

Bond wondered whether he would make it. Bond's eyes narrowed and his
breath became calmer as he watched the cruel sea for its decision.

The surging head came nearer. Bond could see the teeth showing in a
rictus of agony and frenzied endeavour. Blood half veiled the eyes that
Bond knew would be bulging in their sockets. He could almost hear the
great diseased heart thumping under the grey-black skin. Would it give
out before the bait was taken?

The Big Man came on. His shoulders were naked, his clothes stripped off
him by the explosion, Bond supposed, but the black silk tie had remained
and it showed round the thick neck and streamed behind the head like a
Chinaman's pigtail.

A splash of water cleared some blood away from the eyes. They were wide
open, staring madly towards Bond. They held no appeal for help, only a
fixed glare of physical exertion.

Even as Bond looked into them, now only ten yards away, they suddenly
shut and the great face contorted in a grimace of pain.

'Aarrh,' said the distorted mouth.

Both arms stopped flailing the water and the head went under and came up
again. A cloud of blood welled up and darkened the sea. Two six-foot
thin brown shadows backed out of the cloud and then dashed back into it.
The body in the water jerked sideways. Half of The Big Man's left arm
came out of the water. It had no hand, no wrist, no wrist watch.

But the great turnip head, the drawn-back mouth full of white teeth
almost splitting it in half, was still alive. And now it was screaming,
a long gurgling scream that only broke each time a barracuda hit into
the dangling body.

There was a distant shout from the bay behind Bond. He paid no
attention. All his senses were focused on the horror in the water in
front of him.

A fin split the surface a few yards away and stopped.

Bond could feel the shark pointing like a dog, the short-sighted pink
button eyes trying to pierce the cloud of blood and weigh up the prey.
Then it shot in towards the chest and the screaming head went under as
sharply as a fisherman's float.

Some bubbles burst on the surface.

There was the swirl of a sharp brown-spotted tail as the huge Leopard
shark backed out to swallow and attack again.

The head floated back to the surface. The mouth was closed. The yellow
eyes seemed still to look at Bond.

Then the shark's snout came right out of the water and it drove in
towards the head, the lower curved jaw open so that light glinted on the
teeth. There was a horrible grunting scrunch and a great swirl of water.
Then silence.

Bond's dilated eyes went on staring at the brown stain that spread wider
and wider across the sea.

Then the girl moaned and Bond came to his senses.

There was another shout from behind him and he turned his head towards
the bay.

It was Quarrel, his brown gleaming chest towering above the slim hull of
a canoe, his arms flailing at the paddle, and a long way behind him all
the other canoes of Shark Bay skimming like water-boatmen across the
small waves that had started to ripple the surface.

The fresh north-east trade winds had started to blow and the sun was
shining down on the blue water and on the soft green flanks of Jamaica.

The first tears since his childhood came into James Bond's blue-grey
eyes and ran down his drawn cheeks into the blood-stained sea.




                          23. Passionate Leave


Like dangling emerald pendants the two humming-birds were making their
last rounds of the hibiscus and a mocking bird had started on its
evening song, sweeter than a nightingale's, from the summit of a bush of
night-scented jasmine.

The jagged shadow of a man-of-war bird floated across the green Bahama
grass of the lawn as it sailed on the air currents up the coast to some
distant colony, and a slate-blue kingfisher chattered angrily as it saw
the man sitting in the chair in the garden. It changed its flight and
swerved off across the sea to the island. A brimstone butterfly flirted
among the purple shadows under the palms.

The graded blue waters of the bay were quite still. The cliffs of the
island were a deep rose in the light of the setting sun behind the
house.

There was a smell of evening and of coolness after a hot day and a
slight scent of peat-smoke that came from cassava being roasted in one
of the fishermen's huts in the village away to the right.

Solitaire came out of the house and walked on naked feet across the
lawn. She was carrying a tray with a cocktail shaker and two glasses.
She put it down on a bamboo table beside Bond's chair.

'I hope I've made it right,' she said. 'Six to one sounds terribly
strong. I've never had Vodka Martinis before.'

Bond looked up at her. She was wearing a pair of his white silk pyjamas.
They were far too large for her. She looked absurdly childish.

She laughed. 'How do you like my Port Maria lipstick?' she asked. 'And
the eyebrows made up with an HB pencil. I couldn't do anything with the
rest of me except wash it.'

'You look wonderful,' said Bond. 'You're far the prettiest girl in the
whole of Shark Bay. If I had some legs and arms I'd get up and kiss
you.'

Solitaire bent down and kissed him long on the lips, one arm tightly
round his neck. She stood up and smoothed back the comma of black hair
that had fallen down over his forehead.

They looked at each other for a moment, then she turned to the table and
poured him out a cocktail. She poured half a glass for herself and sat
down on the warm grass and put her head against his knee. He played with
her hair with his right hand and they sat for a while looking out
between the trunks of the palm trees at the sea and the light fading on
the island.

The day had been given over to licking wounds and cleaning up the
remains of the mess.

When Quarrel had landed them on the little beach at Beau Desert, Bond
had half carried Solitaire across the lawn and into the bathroom. He had
filled the bath full of warm water. Without her knowing what was
happening he had soaped and washed her whole body and her hair. When he
had cleaned away all the salt and coral slime he helped her out, dried
her and put merthiolate on the coral cuts that striped her back and
thighs. Then he gave her a sleeping draught and put her naked between
the sheets in his own bed. He kissed her. Before he had finished closing
the jalousies she was asleep.

Then he got into the bath and Strangways soaped him down and almost
bathed his body in merthiolate. He was raw and bleeding in a hundred
places and his left arm was numb from the barracuda bite. He had lost a
mouthful of muscle at the shoulder. The sting of the merthiolate made
him grind his teeth.

He put on a dressing-gown and Quarrel drove him to the hospital at Port
Maria. Before he left he had a Lucullian breakfast and a blessed first
cigarette. He fell asleep in the car and he slept on the operating table
and in the cot where they finally put him, a mass of bandages and
surgical tape.

Quarrel brought him back in the early afternoon. By that time Strangways
had acted on the information Bond had given him. There was a police
detachment on the Isle of Surprise; the wreck of the _Secatur_, lying in
about twenty fathoms, was buoyed and the position being patrolled by the
Customs launch from Port Maria. The salvage tug and divers were on their
way from Kingston. Reporters from the local press had been given a brief
statement and there was a police guard on the entrance to Beau Desert
prepared to repel the flood of newspapermen who would arrive in Jamaica
when the full story got out to the world. Meanwhile a detailed report
had gone to M, and to Washington, so that The Big Man's team in Harlem
and St Petersburg could be rounded up and provisionally held on a
blanket gold-smuggling charge.

There were no survivors from the _Secatur_, but the local fishermen had
brought in nearly a ton of dead fish that morning.

Jamaica was aflame with rumours. There were serried ranks of cars on the
cliffs above the bay and along the beach below. Word had got out about
Bloody Morgan's treasure, but also about the packs of shark and
barracuda that had defended it, and because of them there was not a
swimmer who was planning to get out to the scene of the wreck under
cover of darkness.

A doctor had been to visit Solitaire but had found her chiefly concerned
about getting some clothes and the right shade of lip-stick. Strangways
had arranged for a selection to be sent over from Kingston next day. For
the time being she was experimenting with the contents of Bond's
suitcase and a bowl of hibiscus.

Strangways got back from Kingston shortly after Bond's return from
hospital. He had a signal for Bond from M. It read:

    PRESUME YOU HAVE FILED CLAIM TO TREASURE IN YOUR NAME BEHALF
    UNIVERSAL EXPORT STOP PROCEED IMMEDIATELY WITH SALVAGE STOP HAVE
    ENGAGED COUNSEL TO PRESS OUR RIGHTS WITH TREASURY AND COLONIAL
    OFFICE STOP MEANWHILE VERY WELL DONE STOP FORTNIGHT'S PASSIONATE
    LEAVE GRANTED ENDIT

'I suppose he means "Compassionate",' said Bond.

Strangways looked solemn. 'I expect so,' he said. 'I made a full report
of the damage to you. And to the girl,' he added.

'Hm,' said Bond. 'M's cipherenes don't often pick a wrong group.
However.'

Strangways looked carefully out of the window with his one eye.

'It's so like the old devil to think of the gold first,' said Bond.
'Suppose he thinks he can get away with it and somehow dodge a reduction
in the Secret Fund when the next parliamentary estimates come round. I
expect half his life is taken up with arguing with the Treasury. But
still he's been pretty quick off the mark.'

'I filed your claim at Government House directly I got the signal,' said
Strangways. 'But it's going to be tricky. The Crown will be after it and
America will come in somewhere as he was an American citizen. It'll be a
long business.'

They had talked some more and then Strangways had left and Bond had
walked painfully out into the garden to sit for a while in the sunshine
with his thoughts.

In his mind he ran once more the gauntlet of dangers he had entered on
his long chase after The Big Man and the fabulous treasure, and he lived
again through the searing flashes of time when he had looked various
deaths in the face.

And now it was over and he sat in the sunshine among the flowers with
the prize at his feet and his hand in her long black hair. He clasped
the moment to him and thought of the fourteen tomorrows that would be
theirs between them.

There was a crash of broken crockery from the kitchen at the back of the
house and the sound of Quarrel's voice thundering at someone.

'Poor Quarrel,' said Solitaire. 'He's borrowed the best cook in the
village and ransacked the markets for surprises for us. He's even found
some black crabs, the first of the season. Then he's roasting a pitiful
little suckling pig and making an avocado pear salad and we're to finish
up with guavas and coconut cream. And Commander Strangways has left a
case of the best champagne in Jamaica. My mouth's watering already. But
don't forget it's supposed to be a secret. I wandered into the kitchen
and found he had almost reduced the cook to tears.'

'He's coming with us on our passionate holiday,' said Bond. He told her
of M's cable. 'We're going to a house on stilts with palm trees and five
miles of golden sand. And you'll have to look after me very well because
I shan't be able to make love with only one arm.'

There was open sensuality in Solitaire's eyes as she looked up at him.
She smiled innocently.

'What about my back?' she said.






[End of Live and Let Die, by Ian Fleming]
