Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (25 page)

There were only seven people left at Sanchez’s estate. Two gardeners, three chefs, one bodyguard and Lupe. The bodyguard made no fuss. The others seemed quite pleased to see the police doing their job properly. Lupe insisted on being taken with them. She was so insistent that even Rojas could not persuade her to stay. Oddly, she also made considerable fuss about taking Sanchez’s iguana with them. ‘Me? I don’t like the beast.’ She gave a prima donna performance, both voice and gestures in a high key. ‘But I want it to be there to see Sanchez’s end.’

When the two helicopters arrived over the temple the chaos was already mounting. They landed near the main entrance where Rojas’ other police had closed off the exit road with cars. Smoke and flame was rising from the rear of the building, but the police were busy checking queues of white-robed disciples. Buses belonging to the Institute were lined up, and the disciples had been sorted out, while the police helped them on board.

‘They look like some big choir, eh?’ Rojas said. ‘We’ll interrogate them later.’

Q was more concerned about Bond and Pam. ‘Find them and you’ll find Sanchez I’ll be bound,’ he said, suddenly pointing towards one of the buses. ‘Better take a look at that little lot.’ He was pointing to a group of orientals whose robes seemed to fit badly, some of them were swamped by the garments, others completely overwhelmed by them.

Rojas strode over to the bus, unholstering his pistol. ‘Okay, you people.’ They stopped, looking for a way of escape and, when finding none, slowly raised their hands. ‘You ready to sing, boys?’ Rojas asked with a chuckle.

The oriental drug-dealers were handcuffed and removed from the bus, then Rojas turned to Q. ‘I’ve instructed my men to get into the temple and look for Sanchez and your people.’ He clasped Q’s shoulder. ‘However, my friend, I have told them they must take no risks. To me it looks as though this building’s done for. It’ll take over an hour to get the fire department out here, and by that time . . . well.’

Sanchez, his remaining lieutenants, and the tankers were by this time long gone. As were James Bond and Pamela Bouvier.

It took them twenty minutes to reach the crop duster, and another fifteen, once airbone, to spot Sanchez. Bond was crammed in behind Pam, his legs resting on her shoulders, and his body crouched, head down just below the cockpit dome.

Bond had done the navigating, taking a chance on Sanchez and his convoy not going by any direct route. He had been right. From nearly two thousand feet they plainly saw Sanchez’s car first, just beginning to climb through the foothills.

The road looked perilously narrow, and, higher, when it reached the mountains, it snaked and climbed upwards, doubling back on itself, so that, at times, one part of the road twisted directly above another section. The convoy of tankers, led by the jeep, was spread out over two miles of roadway, the jeep about a mile ahead of the first tanker. Sanchez’s car and the pick-up followed, far behind.

‘Keep well above Sanchez’s car,’ Bond shouted. ‘I’m opening the canopy and I want you to put me slap on top of the last tanker in line.’

Pam nodded, concentrating on flying. They passed over the limousine. Bond slid the canopy back, and with a struggle, climbed out of the cockpit. The wind was so strong that his extra weight slewed the aircraft, making Pam readjust constantly by kicking the rudder bar, while it took Bond all his skill and concentration to stay on the wing.

Gently he grabbed the foothold in the fuselage below the cockpit, and, by stages, climbed down through the wing struts until he reached the undercarriage.

During the whole procedure the wind forced his body back, so that the least mistake, one wrong move and his body would be thrown from the plane like a piece of torn paper.

Pam had started to descend, and Bond could see the big tanker ahead of him, getting larger with every second. He tucked his legs around the strut between the wheels of the undercarriage, waiting for Pam to level off, match her speed with that of the tanker and drop to within inches of the long curved top.

The noise of the wind, and that of the tanker below, pounding over the primitive road, was almost unbearable. Dust flew up into Bond’s face so that he could hardly see what he was doing. Then, quite suddenly, everything changed for a tiny moment. The airplane seemed to float motionless over the tanker, and the wind dropped. He was within feet of the curved metal container. He dropped, scrabbling for a second on the slippery surface, then hanging on as he adjusted to the new mode of transport, the tanker bumping and jolting over the road’s bad surface.

The crop duster lifted and climbed away, leaving him with only the smooth metal and juddering tanker. Slowly Bond inched his way along the top of the tank, heading precariously towards the cab – the four-wheel detachable prime-mover unit – which seemed to be bounding over the road with ease, almost oblivious to the heavy load it pulled.

As he reached the end of the tank, Bond looked down into the space between it and the cab. He could clearly see the couplings and hydraulic tubes passing between the tank and the big prime-mover unit. Just as he was about to attempt the jump into the small area between the two parts of the vehicle, he heard the bullets whining and chipping around his head.

He looked back over the long tank and saw that Sanchez’s car was coming up fast, behind them. He thought he could see Sanchez’s chauffeur at the wheel and Truman-Lodge in the back. He could certainly see Sanchez himself, for the man was leaning out of the front passenger window, firing an Uzi.

Bond had no time to hesitate now. He dropped, and with a jarring crash found himself clinging on to part of the cab, his legs dangling, feet only inches from the road.

The fall winded him, and he hung on tightly until he had control of his breathing, then began to pull himself up among the couplings and tubes. The prime-mover hit several potholes in the road and, three times, Bond was in danger of being hurled to his death under the wheels.

It seemed to take an eternity to drag himself to the passenger side, and at first his brain refused to work out the moves that would carry him to the door of the cab. He could afford no delay. Already Sanchez’s car must be getting very close.

Then order returned to his mind. In four carefully-judged movements, Bond swung from behind the cab to the passenger side, reaching for the door handle, and conscious of bullets thwacking into the door under his arm as he pulled it open and swung into the cab.

The driver turned towards him with a shriek of rage, as though he was an animal who must at all costs protect his territory. As Bond turned slightly to pull the door closed, so the driver lunged out and downwards with his right hand, drawing a lethal-looking machete from a scabbard under the dash. His arm came up, then down in a heavy blow, the machete aimed straight at Bond’s head.

Bond’s arm instinctively came up and blocked the blow. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the prime-mover’s fire-extinguisher clipped in front of him. His hand moved like a striking snake, and, before the driver had a chance to aim a second blow, Bond banged down on the plunger, spraying the man’s face with foam.

With a cry, the driver dropped the machete and let go of the wheel, blinded by the foam. Bond caught hold of the wheel, leaning over the driver who was screaming in a mixture of pain, fear and frustration. As he took the wheel, Bond glimpsed Sanchez’s car in the big wing mirror, coming up on their left-hand side, almost level with the cab. In a reflex action, his hand went right across the driver, pulled down on the door handle, unclipped the man’s safety harness, and with a final burst of strength, pushed the driver from the vehicle.

The body stayed half-in and half-out of the cab, so he finally had to lift a foot and kick the man out into space. He went with much screaming and above the noise of both man and engine, Bond heard the nasty thump as the driver landed smack in the middle of the pursuing car’s bonnet.

By the time Bond had got into the driver’s seat, and hauled the heavy vehicle back on to course, the car was overtaking him. He saw the tanker driver’s body being thrown from the bonnet by a swerve, then ducked as Sanchez emptied an entire clip of bullets into the cab. The machine kept going. In front of him, Bond saw the next tanker, and Sanchez’s car, at full power, riding alongside to overtake it.

There was now panic and fury in Sanchez’s car. Truman-Lodge was reading from a map, breathlessly giving map references to Sanchez, while Sanchez himself was operating the window, in order to shout instructions. As they came alongside the tanker, Sanchez, half-leaning out of the car, ordered his chauffeur to get the tanker driver’s attention, which he did by a perpetual honking of the horn.

‘That mad gringo stole the tanker behind you,’ Sanchez roared above the noise. ‘Don’t let him pass you. If you do,’ he drew his hand over his throat in a gesture that left no doubts. The tanker driver nodded, allowing Sanchez’s car to surge ahead.

As it did so, Sanchez prepared for Bond’s final destruction. Grabbing a walkie-talkie, tuned to the frequency of a similar device in the jeep ahead of the convoy, he gave fast instructions. ‘Perez! Listen to me. Do you read? Over.’

In the jeep, which had been making steady, contented progress until now, Perez pressed the button on his walkie-talkie. ‘I read, strength five. Over.’

‘Bond has escaped,’ Sanchez told him, gesticulating to urge his own driver on. ‘Wait for us at Demon’s Cross. You’ll have the honour of finishing him once and for all.’

In the jeep, Perez smiled and passed the news on to the three heavily built thugs who rode with him.

Just over seven minutes later, Sanchez reached that part of the road which climbed in a series of loops and S-bends, up the most treacherous part of the mountain pass. Perez waited there, the men with him each carrying an Uzi at the ready.

Sanchez gave quick orders to his driver who went to the rear of the car and opened the boot. In it, Sanchez had stored the four missiles Dario had taken from Heller after skewering him to the wall with the fork-lift.

‘If this doesn’t stop him, nothing will.’ Sanchez showed Perez how to aim and fire the missile. ‘Easy as shooting fish in a barrel,’ he said.

‘And this is one fish that will not escape,
patron
. That I promise you.’ Perez was confident that he could use the missile with no problem. Once the thing was switched on, and sighted, all you had to do was press the trigger.

Truman-Lodge was less happy. ‘Each of these tankers is worth forty million bucks, chief . . .’ he began.

‘Then that’s a cheap price to pay for us to be rid of this bastard. I worry about him. He’s the kind that doesn’t give up until he’s dead.’

‘In a few minutes he’ll give up,
patron
.’ Perez leaned the missile against the jeep’s bonnet and pointed it directly up the road, as Sanchez and Truman-Lodge returned to their car, the chauffeur gunning the engine in a racing start, leaving a cloud of dust and the smell of rubber in their wake.

Bond was fighting it out with the other tanker. The first time he had tried to pass, a country bus, loaded with people inside and crates of chickens and assorted livestock on top, had almost ploughed straight into him, head on.

At the second attempt, the tanker swerved violently, cutting off Bond so that he had to brake hard. But, at the third attempt, Bond brought his vehicle almost abreast of the other rig’s cab, before yanking at the wheel. The two great road monsters crunched together, showering sparks as they hit, parted and then hit again. At each hit, Bond brought his juggernaut a little further ahead. Finally the other rig was forced to give way, sliding on to the verge as Bond lumbered past him.

The second tanker driver shouted into his walkie-talkie, hoping someone would pick up his calls of distress. ‘He’s passed me! The gringo’s ahead!’

Hearing it, a mile further on, Perez pushed on the transmit button. ‘Don’t worry,’ he almost whispered. ‘This one won’t trouble you any further.’

The driver of the tanker that had just been overtaken, was not convinced. He had racing instincts, and was on the road again, right behind Bond, drawing out to pass him. The long hard bend ahead came nearer. Now there was another distraction, for the crop duster had caught up with them. Pam flew almost level with the tankers, giving the aircraft little bursts of speed as she came up on Bond’s wing. For a moment Bond’s concentration went and the other tanker, with a burst of speed came up and passed him.

Bond pulled out, determined to overtake the other rig again. The long bend came up, and both Bond and the other driver saw the immediate dangers. There was a steep drop off the left side of the road. The lead driver began to brake as he went into the turn, and Bond put his foot down, coming abreast of him once more just as they rolled out of the turn and saw, three hundred yards ahead, a jeep at an angle across the road.

Through the sights of the missile, Perez saw two targets, then only one as Bond’s tanker passed and moved ahead of the other.

In the cab, Bond glanced over to Pam’s airplane and saw her gesticulating violently. He could not understand what was wrong, looking from her to the road ahead. Only then did he see a figure crouched behind the jeep. A picture of the small missiles sprang into his head.

The tanker was right in the sights now. ‘Goodbye James Bond!’ Perez whispered as he squeezed the trigger.

17

MAN OF FIRE

A whole series of images went through Bond’s mind in that split second. He heard Pam first telling him about the attempted deal with Heller over the missiles, and the colonel’s final rejection of the plan; his sight of Heller with the deadly things on the fork-lift truck; then Heller stapled to the wall in the Temple, the missiles gone . . .

Missile gone . . . ! Missile gone . . . ! He saw the flash just as the full horror imprinted itself on his mind.

Bond wrenched the wheel over and felt the tanker hit a large mound on the verge. One moment he was travelling in a straight line, the next the whole vehicle was rolling over, two of the cab’s wheels still holding the road, the other two angled high in the air, pulling the tanker with it so that the entire rig was tilted to one side.