James Bond Anthology (321 page)

Bond smiled thinly. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, Felix. I knew it already. Hendriks has been told to rub me. Our old friend at K.G.B. headquarters, Semichastny, has got it in for me. I’ll tell you why one of these days.’ He told Leiter of the Mary Goodnight episode of the early hours. Leiter listened gloomily. Bond concluded, ‘So there’s no object in getting out now. We shall hear all the dope and probably their plans for me at this meeting at ten. Then they’ve got this excursion business afterwards. Personally I guess the shooting match’ll take place somewhere out in the country where there are no witnesses. Now, if you and Nick could work out something that’d upset the Away Engagement, I’ll make myself responsible for the home pitch.’

Leiter looked thoughtful. Some of the cloud lifted from his face. He said, ‘I know the plans for this afternoon. Off on this miniature train through the cane fields, picnic, then the boat out of Green Island Harbour, deep-sea fishing and all that. I’ve reconnoitred the route for it all.’ He raised the thumb of his left hand and pinged the end of his steel hook thoughtfully. ‘Ye-e-e-s. It’s going to mean some quick action and a heap of luck and I’ll have to get the hell up to Frome for some supplies from your friend Hugill. Will he hand over some gear on your say-so? Okay, then. Come into my office and write him a note. It’s only a half-hour’s drive and Nick can hold the front desk for that time. Come on.’ He opened a side door and went through into his office. He beckoned Bond to follow and shut the door behind him. At Leiter’s dictation, Bond took down the note to the manager of the WISCO sugar estates and then went out and along to his room. He took a strong nip of straight bourbon and sat on the edge of his bed and looked unseeingly out of the window and across the lawn to the sea’s horizon. Like a dozing hound chasing a rabbit in its dreams, or like the audience at an athletics meeting that lifts a leg to help the high-jumper over the bar, every now and then, his right hand twitched involuntarily. In his mind’s eye, in a variety of imagined circumstances, it was leaping for his gun.

Time passed and James Bond still sat there, occasionally smoking half-way through a Royal Blend and then absent-mindedly stubbing it out in the bed-table ash-tray. An observer would have made nothing of his thoughts. The pulse in his left temple was beating a little fast. There was some tension, but perhaps only the concentration applied to his thinking, in the slightly pursed lips, but the brooding, blue-grey eyes that saw nothing were relaxed, almost sleepy. It would have been impossible to guess that James Bond was contemplating the possibility of his own death later that day, feeling the soft-nosed bullets tearing into him, seeing his body jerking on the ground, his mouth perhaps screaming. Those were certainly part of his thoughts, but the twitching right hand was evidence that, in much of the whirring film of his thoughts, the enemy’s fire was not going unanswered – perhaps had even been anticipated.

James Bond gave a deep relaxed sigh. His eyes came back into focus. He looked at his watch. It said 9.50. He got up, ran both hands down his lean face with a scrubbing motion, and went out and along the corridor to the conference room.

12 | IN A GLASS, VERY DARKLY

The set-up was the same. Bond’s travel literature was on the buffet table where he had left it. He went through into the conference room. It had only been cursorily tidied. Scaramanga had probably said it was not to be entered by the staff. The chairs were roughly in position, but the ash-trays had not been emptied. There were no stains on the carpet and no signs of the carpet having been washed. It had probably been a single shot through the heart. With Scaramanga’s soft-nosed bullets, the internal damage would be devastating, but the fragments of the bullet would stay in the body and there would be no bleeding. Bond went round the table, ostentatiously positioning the chairs more accurately. He identified the one where Ruby Rotkopf must have sat, across the table from Scaramanga, because it had a cracked leg. He dutifully examined the windows and looked behind the curtains, doing his job. Scaramanga came into the room followed by Mr Hendriks. He said roughly, ‘Okay, Mr Hazard. Lock both doors like yesterday. No one to come in. Right?’

‘Yes.’ As Bond passed Mr Hendriks he said cheerfully, ‘Good morning, Mr Hendriks. Enjoy the party last night?’

Mr Hendriks gave his usual curt bow. He said nothing. His eyes were granite marbles.

Bond went out and locked the doors and took up his position with the brochures and the champagne glass. Immediately, Hendriks began talking, quickly and urgently, fumbling for the English words. ‘Mister S. I have bad troubles to report. My Zentrale in Havana spoke with me this morning. They have heard direct from Moscow. This man’ – he must have made a gesture towards the door – ‘this man is the British secret agent, the man Bond. There is no doubt. I am given the exact descriptions. When he goes swimming this morning, I am examining his body through glasses. The wounds on his body are clearly to be seen. The scar down the right side of the face leaves no doubt. And his shooting last night! The ploddy fool is proud of his shooting. I would like to see a member of my organization behave in zees stupid fashions! I would have him shot immediately.’ There was a pause. The man’s tone altered, became slightly menacing. His target was now Scaramanga. ‘But, Mister S. How can this have come about? How can you possibly have let it arrive? My Zentrale is dumbfounded at the mistake. The man might have done much damage but for the watchfulness of my superiors. Please explain, Mister S. I must be making the very full report. How is it that you are meeting this man? How is it that you are then carrying him efen into the centre of The Group? The details, pliss, Mister. The full accounting. My superiors will be expressing sharp criticism of the lack of vigilance against the enemy.’

Bond heard the rasp of a match against a box. He could imagine Scaramanga sitting back and going through the smoking routine. The voice, when it came, was decisive, uncowed. ‘Mr Hendriks, I appreciate your outfit’s concern about this and I congratulate them on their sources of information. But you tell your Central this: I met this man completely by accident, at least I thought so at the time, and there’s no use worrying about how it happened. It hasn’t been easy to set up this conference and I needed help. I had to get two managers in a hurry from New York to handle the hotel people. They’re doing a good job, right? The floor staff and all the rest I had to get from Kingston. But what I really needed was a kind of personal assistant who could be around to make sure that everything went smoothly. Personally, I just couldn’t be bothered with all the details. When this guy dropped out of the blue he looked all right to me. So I picked him up. But I’m not stupid. I knew that when this show was over I’d have to get rid of him, just in case he’d learned anything he shouldn’t have. Now you say he’s a member of the Secret Service. I told you at the beginning of this conference that I eat these people for breakfast when I have a mind to. What you’ve told me changes just one thing: he’ll die today instead of tomorrow. And here’s how it’s going to happen.’ Scaramanga lowered his voice. Now Bond could only hear disjointed words. The sweat ran down from his ear as he pressed it to the base of the champagne glass. ‘Our train trip … rats in the cane … unfortunate accident … before I do it … one hell of a shock … details to myself … promise you a big laugh’. Scaramanga must have sat back again. Now his voice was normal. ‘So you can rest easy. There’ll be nothing left of the guy by this evening. Okay? I could get it over with now by just opening the door. But two blown fuses in two days might stir up gossip around here. And this way there’ll be a heap of fun for everyone on the picnic.’

Mr Hendriks’s voice was flat and uninterested. He had carried out his orders and action was about to follow, definite action. There could be no complaint of delay in carrying out orders. He said, ‘Yes. What you are proposing will be satisfactory. I shall observe the proceedings with much amusement. And now to other business. Plan Orange. My superiors are wishing to know that everything is in order.’

‘Yes. Everything’s in order at Reynolds Metal, Kaiser Bauxite and Alumina of Jamaica. But your stuff’s plenty – what do they call it – volatile. Got to be replaced in the demolition chambers every five years. Hey,’ there was a dry chuckle, ‘I sure snickered when I saw that the how-do-it labels on the drums were in some of these African languages as well as English. Ready for the big black uprising, huh? You better warn me about The Day. I hold some pretty vulnerable stocks on Wall Street.’

‘Then you will lose a lot of money,’ said Mr Hendriks flatly. ‘I shall not be told the date. I do not mind. I hold no stocks. You would be wise to keep your money in gold or diamonds or rare postage stamps. And now the next matter. It is of interest to my superiors to be able to place their hands on a very great quantity of narcotics. You have a source for the supply of ganja, or marijuana as we call it. You are now receiving your supplies in pound weight. I am asking whether you can stimulate your sources of supply to providing the weed by the hundredweight. It is suggested that you then run shipments to the Pedro Cays. My friends can arrange for collection from there.’

There was a brief silence. Scaramanga would be smoking his thin cheroot. He said, ‘Yeah, I think we could swing that. But they’ve just put some big teeth into these ganja laws. Real rough jail sentences, see? So the goddam price has up and gone through the roof. The going price today is £16 an ounce. A hundredweight of the stuff could cost thousands of pounds. And it’s darned bulky in those quantities. My fishing boat could probably only ship one hundredweight at a time. Anyway, where’s it for? You’ll be lucky to get those quantities ashore. A pound or two is difficult enough.’

‘I am not being told the destinations. I assume it is for America. They are the largest consumers. Arrangements have been made to receive this and other consignments initially off the coast of Georgia. I am being told that this area is full of small islands and swamps and is already much favoured by smugglers. The money is of no importance. I have instructions to make an initial outlay of a million dollars, but at keen market prices. You will be receiving your usual ten per cent commission. Is it that you are interested?’

‘I’m always interested in a hundred thousand dollars. I’ll have to get in touch with my growers. They have their plantations in the Maroon country. That’s in the centre of the island. This is going to take time. I can give you a quotation in about two weeks – a hundredweight of the stuff f.o.b. the Pedro Cays. Okay?’

‘And a date? The Cays are very flat. This is not stuff to be left lying about, isn’t it?’

‘Sure. Sure. Now then. Any other business? Okay. Well, I’ve got something I’d like to bring up. This casino lark. Now, this is the picture. The government are tempted. They think it’ll stimulate the tourist industry. But the Heavies – the boys who were kicked out of Havana, the Vegas machine, the Miami jokers, Chicago – the whole works, didn’t take the measure of these people before they put the heat on. And they overplayed the slush fund approach – put too much money in the wrong pockets. Guess they should have employed a public relations outfit. Jamaica looks small on the map, and I guess the Syndicates thought they could hurry through a neat little operation like the Nassau job. But the Opposition party got wise, and the Church, and the old women, and there was talk of the Mafia taking over in Jamaica, the old “Cosa Nostra” and all that crap, and the spiel flopped. Remember we were offered an “in” coupla years back? That was when they saw it was a bust and wanted to unload their promotion expenses, coupla million bucks or so, on to The Group. You recall I advised against and gave my reasons. Okay. So we said no. But things have changed. Different party in power, bit of a tourist slump last year, and a certain Minister has been in touch with me. Says the climate’s changed. Independence has come along and they’ve got out from behind the skirts of Aunty England. Want to show that Jamaica’s with it. Got oomph and all that. So this friend of mine says he can get gambling off the pad here. He told me how and it makes sense. Before, I said stay out. Now I say come in. But it’s going to cost money. Each of us’ll have to chip in with a hundred thousand bucks to give local encouragement. Miami’ll be the operators and get the franchise. The deal is that they’ll put us in for five per cent – but off the top. Get me? On these figures, and they’re not loaded, our juice should have been earned in eighteen months. After that it’s gravy. Get the photo? But your, er, friends, don’t seem too keen on these, er, capitalist enterprises. How do you figure it? Will they ante up? I don’t want for us to go outside for the green. And, as from yesterday, we’re missing a shareholder. Come to think of it, we’ve got to think of that too. Who we goin’ to rope in as Number Six? We’re short of a game for now.’

James Bond wiped his ear and the bottom of the glass with his handkerchief. It was almost unbearable. He had heard his own death sentence pronounced, the involvement of the K.G.B. with Scaramanga and the Caribbean spelled out, and such minor dividends as sabotage of the bauxite industry, massive drug smuggling into the States and gambling politics thrown in. It was a majestic haul in area Intelligence. He had the ball! Could he live to touch down with it? God, for a drink! He put his ear back to the hot base of the glass.

There was silence. When it came, the voice of Hendriks was cautious, indecisive. He obviously wanted to say ‘I pass’ – with the corollary, ‘until I’ve talked to my Zentrale, isn’t it?’

He said, ‘Mister S. Is difficult pizzness, yes? My superiors are not disliking the profitable involvements but, as you will be knowing, they are most liking the pizzness that has the political objective. It was on these conditions that they instructed me to ally myself with your Group. The money, that is not the problem. But how am I to explain the political objective of opening casinos in Jamaica? This I am wondering.’