Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (21 page)

He beached on the seaward side of Sanchez’s dock, and began the long climb up the hill, using his built-in sense of direction, occasionally glimpsing the lighted funicular railway, and finally, muscles aching, reached the well-lit guest and living quarters with its hideous white patio, plaster camels, concrete palm trees and couches. Now he only had to hope Sanchez had not already discovered his absence. He did not risk the French windows, but went around the side of the building, into the brightly lit corridor, with its perfectly spaced doors to the guest rooms.

He left the luggage outside, and did not switch the lights on. He was just about to close the door when he heard the voices. Sanchez and Lupe walking up the corridor. He stood beside his door, one ear to the tiny gap, listening.

‘Goodnight, Franz,’ Lupe said, and there was a pause during which, Bond presumed, they kissed.

‘You look very tired, baby. You get a good rest.’ Another pause, then, ‘What in hell is that?’ He had spotted the luggage, and Bond heard Lupe cough, gaining time before she spoke.

‘Bond’s clothes. He had the luggage sent over from the hotel this afternoon. He’s been sleeping all day.’

‘Perez!’ Sanchez called, and more footsteps came hurrying down the passage.

That was enough for Bond. In a moment he had stripped off his shirt and leapt into the bed.

A moment later, the door crashed open and the lights came on.

‘Wha . . . Oh! . . . Where . . .’ Bond sat up, bare-chested, rubbing imitation sleep from his eyes.

Sanchez came over to the bed, and smiled at him. Once more the gold in his mouth glittered. ‘Amigo! Sorry to wake you. You need the rest. But you should know that the information you gave me paid off. I got the one who had the gall to put out a contract on me.’

‘Any time I can be of service, as you well know.’

‘Good,’ Sanchez nodded. ‘You think you will be well enough to travel tomorrow?’

‘Of course,’ Bond felt a churning of anticipation in his stomach. He tried to sound disinterested. ‘Where’re we going?’

‘That will be my surprise. But I promise you won’t be disappointed. Now, get more rest. See you in the morning, okay?’

‘Right.’

Perez, who had been standing beside his master, holding Bond’s cases, nodded, putting the bags on the floor.

As soon as they had left Bond undressed down to his shorts, and began making preparations to shower.

He was heading for the bathroom when he heard the door move behind him. He swung around, hands up, ready for anything. Lupe had slipped in. She had a finger to her lips and wore only a filmy robe over an elaborate
basque.

She approached him slowly. ‘I thought I heard that bastard talking to you.’

‘I think he probably trusts me now.’

She gave an exaggerated sigh, ‘You’re impossible.’

‘He says we’re going on a trip tomorrow. Where’s he taking me?’

‘I don’t know. Truly, I have no idea. There is a place he goes to often, but he’s never taken me. It is his big secret that he shares with everybody else around here – except me.’ She took him by the hand, pulling him towards the bed where they sat, side by side.

‘Surely, you must have heard something,’ Bond pressed.

‘Well, I do know he’s showing the Chinese around this special place of his. Some other oriental people arrived today. Mr Kwang and his friend left, I think. But there are more here now.’ Without warning, her eyes filled with tears. ‘Truly, James. I promise you, I don’t know where he’s taking you; I don’t really know what he intends for me – not in the end. James,’ she now clung to his arm. ‘James, what’s going to happen to us?’

She was a very beautiful woman, Bond thought. Sanchez did not know how lucky he was. At a snap of his fingers this lovely girl would follow him to hell, even though she hated him. ‘Don’t worry,’ he tried to soothe her. ‘You’ll be safe. When all this is over I’ll see you get back to your family. Back home.’

It was as though he had put a torch to a fuse. He saw her fingers curl, their long nails like claws, and her eyes lit up with loathing. ‘No! I spent the first fifteen years of my life trying to get away from my home. People like you have no idea what it’s like, living in the shanty towns all over this country. I was one of ten children. Ten, with no food, no hope, no love!’ A fine spray came from between her lips as she spat out her hatred. ‘Bad and evil though he is, Sanchez got me out of there.’ She turned her head, looking up at him, her eyes soft, a yearning in her face replacing the rage. ‘James, can’t I stay with you?’

‘I’m not sure that would work out, Lupe.’ He knew it sounded half-hearted. Why could he never resist a beautiful girl?

Lupe’s arms came up around his neck. ‘How can we tell?’ she whispered. ‘How can we tell . . . ? Unless we try.’

Bond felt her cool lips on his, then her thrusting tongue and the pressure of her body on his as they fell back on to the bed.

The first time they came up for air, Lupe said, ‘I think this is going to work out very well.’

14

THE TEMPLE OF MEDITATION

Pam and Q were ready to leave the hotel at 7.30. Breakfast had been served, and their bags were already packed and waiting when the buzzer sounded.

It was Pam who opened the door, expecting a bellboy. She gave a little gasp when she saw the nubile Lupe Lamora standing there, breathless, with her face etched in concern.

When she spoke, the words tumbled over one another. ‘Ms Kennedy? I saw you at the casino with James.’ She glanced over at Q who had emerged from his bedroom. ‘I need to talk with you. In private.’

Pam glanced at Q. ‘It’s okay,’ she said, closing the door. ‘James’s uncle is with me. You can speak in front of him.’

‘It’s James . . .’

‘What’s happened?’ not disguising her alarm.

‘He’s in great danger. Sanchez is no fool. He might act as though James is his friend, but I know he’s still running very detailed checks on him.’

In spite of the small lump of jealousy that was rapidly getting larger in her mind, Pam smiled a reassurance. ‘It’s okay. James is well out of the country by now,’ she lied.

Lupe’s eyes widened. ‘But he’s not. Don’t you know? Last night he
stayed
at Sanchez’s place. In fact he stayed with me.’

Pam turned towards Q who saw she had gone pale, her mouth set in a hard line.

‘You mean he stayed at Sanchez’s place?’ Q asked, trying to pour metaphorical oil on proverbial troubled waters. The waters were starting to show, springing to Pam’s eyes.

‘
Si!
Yes. Franz is taking him on some trip. With the Chinese. They leave at ten. Please! Please! You must help him.’ She was also near tears. ‘I couldn’t go on living if anything happened to him. Lord help me, I love James so much.’

Q saw Pam’s back stiffen and knew what might come. He hurried over and took Lupe by the arm, leading her towards the door. ‘My dear, you must go back to Sanchez’s place before you’re missed. Now, don’t worry, we’ll think of something.’ And with that he hustled her out of the door.

When he turned back to Pam, the situation was much worse than he expected. The anger had flooded scarlet to her face, ‘The lousy, two-timing, double-crossing, lying, male chauvinist, son-of-a-bitch!’ she exploded. ‘ “Oh, I love James so much.” ’ She imitated Lupe’s voice with a fair degree of accuracy. ‘Well, damned if I’ll help him. Self-centred, reptilian, ungrateful, fornicating, useless cretin. James-bloody-Bond can go to hell in a handbasket as far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t even help him to cross the road!’

‘I think I’d better go and organise some transport. A couple of clapped-out cars, I think. Vehicles people won’t look at too closely.’ He put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. ‘Pam, my dear, don’t judge him too harshly. Field operatives have to use every means at their disposal . . .’

‘Bullshit!’ she yelled, ‘I
know
all about bloody field agents . . . I’ve . . . I know . . .’ The next moment she was weeping on Q’s shoulder. ‘Oh damn him, Uncle Q. Did he
have
to do this?’

‘Quite probably. Let me go and get cars. Damn it, Pamela, the man’s in danger.’

Once he had gone, Pam Bouvier sat down and thought. She had, in fact, been feeling a shade guilty, having filched the cheque Bond had taken, for quarter of a million dollars, at the casino. After all, it was made out to her. Only after cashing the thing had she felt guilt.

By ten that morning, she was seated in a small, uncomfortable mongrel motorcar, in the main parking lot of Isthmus City International airport. She held a small two-way handset and was waiting for Q’s instructions.

Q, in the disguise of a peasant gardener, loitered near the gates to the estate, his car, a little
deux chevaux
, was hidden a mile down the road, and he hacked at the verge near the gates with a hoe he had ‘borrowed’ on the walk up from the car.

They left at ten o’clock, on the dot. First, a pick-up truck driven by the man called Braun, with three armed guards making a show of weapons. Truman-Lodge was at the wheel of the first stretch limo, driving four of the Chinese, while the rest were in Sanchez’s private limo, driven by his chauffeur. An open jeep brought up the rear. Perez drove, and Q saw that Bond was sitting next to him, but two more guards, openly displaying weapons, were in the rear. Sanchez himself was conspicuous by his absence, which, Q reflected, did not make the heart grow any fonder of him.

As the convoy disappeared, Q took out his little handset and quietly spoke into it. ‘They’ve just left. Pick-up, two limos and a jeep. Turning north on to the main highway. Sanchez not with them. Repeat, Sanchez
not
present. Wait . . .’ He heard a familiar stuttering noise. A moment later, he saw a helicopter rise from the middle of the estate. ‘Get airbone. Sanchez probably in helicopter.’

Pam’s voice came over very clearly. ‘I copy that, Q. Base out.’ In the car park she picked up her briefcase from the seat next to her – she was not going to leave the quarter of a million out of her sight – locked the vehicle and walked between the airport buildings towards the executive parking area where she had left the Beechcraft.

Neither of them were to know the small drama that had gone on, an hour before, at the helipad. Sanchez had told everybody that he would be travelling separately, by chopper, and the helicopter landed around nine, while Q was still making his way towards the estate.

Sanchez and Heller both waited for the machine as it put down gently. Next to the pilot sat another of Sanchez’s henchmen, Dario, who climbed out, carrying a canister around five feet in length.

‘Good,’ Sanchez smiled, reaching out for the canister and unlocking the plastic covering around the electronics pack, which fitted in a stubby T-shape about two feet from one end. Nobody could disguise the fact that it was some kind of handheld portable missile. ‘Good,’ he repeated. ‘You have brought my insurance policy.’

‘I brought all four, as you instructed,
patron
.’ Dario gave a well-oiled smile.

‘We can put them in the vault,’ Heller suggested.

Slowly Sanchez shook his head, ‘Oh, no, Colonel. They come with us. In the helicopter. From now on until all this is completed, I want them nearby.’

The Beechcraft was there, exactly where Pam had left it. But now, as Pam approached, she saw that several mechanics surrounded it. The engines were laid out neatly, in pieces.

‘What in hell’s name’re you doing to my airplane?’ She caught one of the mechanics by the shoulder. He shrugged off her hand and reached out for a clipboard. ‘Overhaul.’ He pointed to the signature at the bottom of the list. ‘Ordered yesterday by Senor Sanchez.’

‘But I’ve got to have a plane . . .’ she stopped, looking towards the gas pumps. A little Cessna, with its high-domed single seat cockpit and crop-spraying canisters under the wing roots, tight in to the fuselage. Very manoeuvrable, she thought. Low stalling speed, plenty of visibility. Just the thing for crop-dusting – or Sanchez-dusting come to that. There was nobody nearby, the keys were in the right place when she climbed on to the wing and peeped into the cockpit. If she was to do it, then it had to be done very quickly indeed. As she switched on, Pam’s eyes swung across the instrument panel. She had a full tank of gas, and could see the spraying canisters were also full.

By this time she was taxiing and doing up the seat belts. Nobody appeared to notice; nobody leapt up and down, though she reckoned the tower would already be shouting blue blazes at her. Deliberately she dumped the earphones out of the cockpit and pulled the high plexiglass dome down, snapping it into the closed position which cut out a lot of external noise.

She remained alert. The little Cessna was a dream to taxi: very responsive. Twisting her head this way and that, watching for other aircraft on the ground or in the circuit, she saw the taxiway turned on to the main runway, almost directly ahead. She turned, braked lightly to make sure, for the last time, that no other airplane was either inbound or outbound, then swerved the aircraft on to the runway and opened the throttle. As the speed rose so she had to bang on the rubber bar to keep the nose straight. Ahead there was a yellow airfield truck, heading down the runway towards her. A man in uniform stood in the back waving for her to stop. The airspeed indicator read sixty and she had no idea of the speed at which the crop duster would unstick. But unstick it must, for the yellow truck was growing larger by the second. Fingers mentally crossed, Pam eased back on the stick, rotating the airplane which lifted into its natural element with ease.

At seven hundred feet, she took the power off and turned north. She thought to herself that the man in the back of the truck was probably changing his pants at this moment, and smiled as she climbed out of the turn, going up to a thousand feet.

Fifteen minutes later she spotted the convoy, just as they turned off the one decent four-lane highway within spitting distance of Isthmus City. On the horizon she saw trees, an unusual feature on the flat red earth of the local countryside. The convoy still moved at a steady pace along a wide dust road.