Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (6 page)

As he searched, Bond noticed a logo and legend embossed into the top of the coffin-like structure. The legend read ‘
Krestfeed Maggot Incubator. Patent Pending
’. Feeling like a naughty child, Bond gently pressed the button near the drawer. There was a slight whirring noise and the drawer slid out towards him.

At first he shrank back at the unpleasant sight of thousands of white maggots, a seething, squirming mess which filled the entire box. Well, you eventually got to know maggots pretty well, he thought. In a way they were a symbol of death, for it was the squirming maggot that fed on your putrefying flesh. It was still a revolting sight, and Bond, not usually so squeamish, had to screw his face into an idiot grimace before plunging his hand into this moving mass of tiny living predators. He scooped around, searching with his hand for anything that might have been hidden. Within a minute his fingers struck paydirt and he pulled out a clear heavy plastic bag. It was obviously waterproof, and he did not think the white powder which weighed heavy in his hand was a detergent. Most likely what had been hidden here was cocaine.

He was about to lift the bag out of the live coffin of maggots when instinct suddenly signalled to his brain that he was not alone. He dropped the bag back amongst the maggots, where it had been hidden, but too late. The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck and a voice – he thought it was the guard who had greeted him on his previous visit – whispered, ‘Just hold it right there, friend.’ At the same time Bond felt his automatic being removed from its holster.

An entire scenario of thoughts cracked through Bond’s mind in the fraction of a second. Like all trained men in his profession, tactical movements in this kind of situation assembled themselves almost instinctively, and were acted upon with the same precise speed. He lowered his hands into the boiling sea of maggots.

‘Can I take my hands out?’ he asked, his voice cool, but heart and brain racing.

‘As long as you do it real slow, friend.’

Bond cupped his hands and began to withdraw them, just like the man said, real slow. Then, at the last minute, he quickened the upward movement, and fast as the moray eel, swung the handfuls of maggots over his left shoulder, whirling upright, his body turning away from the pistol at his neck.

The guard – it was the one he had seen earlier – gave a cry of disgust, both hands moving towards his face, which had taken the pile of wet maggots smack in the eyes. Bond closed in with a series of blurred moves. The hard edge of his right hand, outstretched with the thumb pulled back, chopped at the guard’s right wrist, sending the pistol clattering to the wooden floor. But before the gun hit the ground, Bond had both hands around the man’s wrist in a vice-like grip, pulling down hard so that, for a moment, the subclavian artery was pinched between muscle, cutting the flow to the jugular. The result, as always, was a fractional blackout, and in this eye-blink, Bond whipped the arm behind the guard’s back, moving behind him and pushing upwards. The movement was enough to flip the man’s body off-balance and upwards. With one last jerk he toppled his attacker into the long drawer of seething maggots.

The man must have regained control of his brain as he hit the undulating live brew, for he screamed with terror. The scream came to abrupt end as Bond threw himself forward and banged at the on/off button in the main framework of the incubator. Silently the drawer, with its struggling occupant, slid into the closed position.

‘Enjoy,’ Bond muttered to the unhearing maggots as he leapt for his automatic which was a few feet behind the tank. As he swept it from the boards, a high-powered rifle bullet splintered the woodwork only inches from his hand. He wheeled, the pistol up in the two-handed grip, getting off two shots in the direction of the rifle fire. He caught a blur as the marksman dropped to the ground, firing again.

Bond rolled on to his feet, diving for cover behind the first of the huge main tanks and, crouching, began to move to the left. As he reached the third tank, so another shot cannoned out in the relatively enclosed space of the warehouse, shattering the tank and covering Bond with water. A fish leapt out and Bond found himself skidding among a whole waterfall of fish running from the broken tank.

Another shot clanged against the catwalk high above, and Bond rolled to his right, behind the second tank, mind racing. The shot had come from his far left, which meant the rifleman was trying to position himself in a line with Bond. Thinking of the many movies he had seen where the hero races upwards during pursuit, he made a grab at the metal ladder leading to the upper catwalk. As he reached the top he could hear his adversary clanking up the ladder at the far end. If he did not move quickly, they would be facing each other along the metal walk. He ran half-a-dozen paces, fired another two shots to discourage the rifleman from getting on to the catwalk too quickly, then, vaulting over the guard-rail he grabbed the edge of the catwalk and hung there with one hand, the other still clutching the automatic.

He had jumped at a point where a shaft of tubular steel led under the catwalk, strengthening it, and holding it to the wall with around two inches to spare between it and the metal slats of the walkway. Like a monkey, Bond swung under the catwalk, holding the shaft of steel with one hand, taking all his weight.

He could hear the rifleman pounding above him, firing shot after shot as he ran towards where he thought Bond would be standing. The man was almost certainly firing from the hip. Bond, now feeling agonising strain on his left arm, raised his automatic, so that it pointed directly upwards in one of the gaps.

The catwalk juddered as the man came at a run. The shot had to be perfect, not too soon, but just as the rifleman was above him. Almost by instinct, Bond judged the moment. He felt, rather than saw, the shape getting nearer, and, as it loomed directly above him, he fired off two rounds. There was a shriek of pain, and he heard the rifle go flying, while the man, doubled up, still conscious, but screaming in agony clutched at his loins.

Bond withdrew the pistol from the gap in the metal. ‘Right between the slats,’ he murmured, holstering the gun, then clinging on to the steel support, mercifully taking the strain on both arms.

He felt a sticky wet splatter of blood fall on to his forehead, and, as he looked upwards, the rifleman fell against the guard-rail. He was a big man, tall and heavy, breathing in short rattling gulps. As he hit the guard-rail he seemed to stand up. But all control had gone, the man fell again on to the side of the rail and pitched over into the tank below.

There was another dreadful scream. The tank’s water boiled and there were odd flashes of movement and what seemed to be light. It took Bond a moment to realise that the creatures in the tank directly below him were electric eels. What a way to go, Bond reflected. Shot through the loins and then shot through with high voltage.

Bond swung himself towards the edge of the catwalk, and, with great care, knowing what lay beneath him, climbed back on to the catwalk, slippery with blood.

He walked slowly back to the ladder and finally went down the steps again, automatic at the ready, even though he could hear no other movement inside the warehouse. It was time, he thought, to get back to Sharky.

Walking forward, he paused by the tank holding the moray eel, then went closer to the edge of the great sunken cage. The water remained placid, though he knew now what horror waited below. The shark he had seen on his way up was a simple and very effective killing machine. Holstering his pistol. Bond saw for the first time that, directly above the trap in the steel mesh which covered the cage, a rope hung from a pulley on a beam high in the rafters. There was a large hook, roughly at shoulder level. He could imagine what pleasure some of these men must have had, lowering meat through the trap and into the water below. But it was time to go. He would have to make some kind of report to Hawkins.

He was just about to move towards the trapdoor leading down to the jetty, when another voice, once more quite recognisable, came out of the shadows behind him.

‘Freeze. Then turn around very slowly.’

Killifer stood only a few feet away, a large briefcase at his feet and a very large ·357 Magnum held in the two-handed grip. ‘You perform any fancy business and you’ll make my day, punk.’ Killifer smiled at the Clint Eastwood imitation.

Bond sighed, ‘I do wish you wouldn’t refer to me as “punk”,’ he said. ‘If anyone’s a punk, it’s you, Killifer. You sold out, huh?’ nodding towards the briefcase.

‘Two million is an awful lot of dollars to refuse, Mr Bond. Fact is I really had no option. Now, if you’ll just move over to the trapdoor in the middle of the cage, we’ll finish the day’s work and I can get on my way.’

Bond moved out into the centre of the mesh covering. You did not have to possess much experience to know it was not a good idea to argue with the kind of revolver Killifer was holding. It flashed through Bond’s mind that, if it came to it, he
would
make a wrong move. Rather a Magnum bullet than the slightly slower horror of the shark.

‘Now you can open the trapdoor.’

Bond did as he was told. ‘I suppose this is where you put your “old buddy” Felix Leiter.’

‘Not me, Bond. Chalk that up to Sanchez and Krest. I found it rather revolting. They hung the best part of a steer on that hook there. It was heavier than poor old Felix. The steer went down and Felix dangled at the other end of the rope. Sanchez and Krest had a name for that damned shark. Called it the Tooth Fairy. How d’you like that?’

‘Bizarre.’ Bond was thinking of his next move. There really wasn’t one.

‘Well, that’s what they called him. As he bit at the steer, so it got lighter and, no pun intended, Leiter started to go down. That Tooth Fairy got real frustrated when he couldn’t reach the steer. Eventually he reached Felix though; and he’ll reach you, Mr Bond.’

‘Don’t be too sure of that.’ The voice came from behind Bond, from the trapdoor leading down to the jetty. Sharky had arrived.

For a second, Killifer turned sideways and fired two shots. In the moment of distraction and firing, Bond grabbed the hook and rope, swinging it with full force at Killifer who dropped to his knees, his Magnum clattering down. Bond stepped in and to one side, kicking with full force. Killifer opened his mouth and was projected along the mesh until his body was half in and half out of the trapdoor meant for Bond.

‘Bad shot, Mr Killifer.’ Sharky came bounding up from the other trapdoor.

‘For God’s sake help me.’ Killifer sounded short of breath and terrified. He was off balance, half his body through the trap, his hands scrabbling at the steel mesh. ‘For God’s sake, Bond.’ His eyes went to the large briefcase. ‘I’ll share the money with you. Split it even. That’s a million each. Please. A million each.’

Slowly, Bond went over to the briefcase and picked it up, weighing it in his hand as though thinking about it. Then he lifted the case and flung it at Killifer. ‘I think you should take the lot, Ed. It’s all yours.’

In a reflex action, Killifer took his hands off the mesh to grab at the case. Almost in slow motion his body slid through the trapdoor and down into the water accompanied by a scream of sheer terror.

They saw the shark’s head and jaws rear up once, then the briefcase hit the beast on the nose and exploded money across the water. Killifer’s head appeared twice more, screaming hysterically, the water around him becoming red, and the money settled across it, like a scarlet oil slick.

‘What a terrible waste,’ said Sharky, his voice quivering with shock. ‘What a terrible waste – of money.’

‘Come on,’ Bond put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot to do and it’s getting light. By the way, thanks for the nick-of-time rescue. You could have made it a little sooner.’

‘Oh, I wanted the man to have a bit of fun in his last minutes,’ Sharky smiled. ‘But what a damned waste of dollars.’

They went down, back to the dinghy.

‘What now?’ Sharky asked.

‘Find Sanchez, what else?’

‘How we do that? Put an ad in the paper?’

‘No, but I think Felix had a way. You find out about that underwater sledge. It must be registered somewhere, and it belongs to Krest, if the name’s anything to go by.’

Sharky began rowing away, down the tunnel, then out into the bay. ‘And while I do that?’

‘I shall be risking life and limb, trying to get at Felix’s little secret. I’m pretty sure I know where it is.’

5

FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

They had agreed to meet in Mallory Square to watch the sunset. This, as any visitor to Key West knows, is a
must
ritual for tourists and even for some residents.

‘Let’s lie low today,’ Bond had said. ‘You find out what you can. As for me, well, the things I have in mind can only really be done after dark.’ He did not know then that with the darkness would come other unplanned events.

About an hour before sunset, the worshippers begin to gather in Mallory Square, and with them, the showmen, travelling magicians, jugglers, fire-eaters, acrobats, painters and the purveyors of hand-made baubles. It is a fun occasion, harmless, and certainly beautiful on clear nights when the sun produces a spectacular crimson sky, the colour reflecting on the whole town.

Sharky and Bond met just as the sun went down and the hundreds of people in the square began to applaud God for the special effects.

‘Okay, I got what you want.’ Sharky spoke without even looking at Bond.

‘Tell me.’

‘
Wavekrest
is really a big marine research ship, owned by your good friend Milton Krest.’

‘Who else?’ Bond said to the sunset. ‘So that undersea sledge is an adjunct of the big ship?’

‘You got it. They’re out collecting specimens off Coy Sol Bank.’

‘What kind of specimens?’

‘Nobody knows, except maybe the Shadow,’ Sharky laughed. ‘But, if you want to find out, we can get there in my fishing boat. Take around six hours.’