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Title: The Man with the Golden Gun
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Date of first publication: 1965
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: New American Library of World Literature, [1965]
Date first posted: 12 August 2018
Date last updated: 12 August 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1558

This ebook was produced by Al Haines, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


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.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN

by IAN FLEMING





TABLE OF CONTENTS


  1. "Can I Help You?"
  2. Attentat!
  3. "Pistols" Scaramanga
  4. The Stars Foretell
  5. No. 3 1/2 Love Lane
  6. The Easy Grand
  7. Un-real Estate
  8. Pass the Canaps!
  9. Minutes of the Meeting
  10. Belly-Lick, etc.
  11. Ballcock, and Other, Trouble
  12. In a Glass, Very Darkly
  13. Hear the Train Blow!
  14. The Great Morass
  15. Crab-meat
  16. The Wrapup
  17. Endit





THE MAN WITH THE GOLDEN GUN




CHAPTER 1. "CAN I HELP YOU?"


The Secret Service holds much that is kept secret even from very senior
officers in the organization. Only M. and his Chief of Staff know
absolutely everything there is to know. The latter is responsible for
keeping the Top Secret record known as The War Book so that, in the
event of the death of both of them, the whole story, apart from what is
available to individual Sections and Stations, would be available to
their successors.

One thing that James Bond, for instance, didn't know was the machinery
at Headquarters for dealing with the public, whether friendly or
otherwise--drunks, lunatics, bona fide applications to join the Service,
and enemy agents with plans for penetration or even assassination.

On that cold, clear morning in November he was to see the careful
cogwheels in motion.

The girl at the switchboard at the Ministry of Defence flicked the
switch to HOLD and said to her neighbour, "It's another nut who says
he's James Bond. Even knows his code number. Says he wants to speak to
M. personally."

The senior girl shrugged. The switchboard had had quite a few such calls
since, a year before, James Bond's death on a mission to Japan had been
announced in the press. There had even been one pestiferous woman who,
at every full moon, passed on messages from Bond on Uranus, where it
seemed he had got stuck while awaiting entry into heaven. She said, "Put
him through to Liaison, Pat."

The Liaison Section was the first cog in the machine, the first sieve.
The operator got back on the line: "Just a moment, sir. I'll put you on
to an officer who may be able to help you."

James Bond, sitting on the edge of his bed, said, "Thank you."

He had expected some delay before he could establish his identity. He
had been warned to expect it by the charming "Colonel Boris" who had
been in charge of him for the past few months after he had finished his
treatment in the luxurious Institute on the Nevsky Prospekt in
Leningrad. A man's voice came on the line. "Captain Walker speaking. Can
I help you?"

James Bond spoke slowly and clearly. "This is Commander James Bond
speaking. Number 007. Would you put me through to M., or his secretary,
Miss Moneypenny. I want to make an appointment."

Captain Walker pressed two buttons on the side of his telephone. One of
them switched on a tape recorder for the use of his department, the
other alerted one of the duty officers in the Action Room of the Special
Branch at Scotland Yard that he should listen to the conversation, trace
the call, and at once put a tail on the caller. It was now up to Captain
Walker, who was in fact an extremely bright ex-prisoner-of-war
interrogator from Military Intelligence, to keep the subject talking for
as near five minutes as possible. He said, "I'm afraid I don't know
either of these two people. Are you sure you've got the right number?"

James Bond patiently repeated the Regent number which was the main
outside line for the Secret Service. Together with so much else, he had
forgotten it, but Colonel Boris had known it and had made him write it
down among the small print on the front page of his forged British
passport that said his name was Frank Westmacott, company director.

"Yes," said Captain Walker sympathetically. "We seem to have got that
part of it right. But I'm afraid I can't place these people you want to
talk to. Who exactly are they? This Mr. Em, for instance. I don't think
we've got anyone of that name at the Ministry."

"Do you want me to spell it out? You realize this is an open line?"

Captain Walker was rather impressed by the confidence in the speaker's
voice. He pressed another button, and, so that Bond would hear it, a
telephone bell rang. He said, "Hang on a moment, would you? There's
someone on my other line." Captain Walker got on to the head of his
Section. "Sorry, sir. I've got a chap on who says he's James Bond and
wants to talk to M. I know it sounds crazy and I've gone through the
usual motions with the Special Branch and so on, but would you mind
listening for a minute? Thank you, sir."

Two rooms away a harassed man, who was the Chief Security Officer for
the Secret Service, said "Blast!" and pressed a switch. A microphone on
his desk came to life. The Chief Security Officer sat very still. He
badly needed a cigarette, but his room was now live to Captain Walker
and to the lunatic who called himself "James Bond." Captain Walker's
voice came over at full strength. "I'm so sorry. Now then. This man Mr.
Em you want to talk to. I'm sure we needn't worry about security. Could
you be more specific?"

James Bond frowned. He didn't know that he had frowned, and he wouldn't
have been able to explain why he had done so. He said, and lowered his
voice, again inexplicably, "Admiral Sir Miles Messervy. He is head of a
department in your Ministry. The number of his room used to be twelve on
the eighth floor. He used to have a secretary called Miss Moneypenny.
Good-looking girl. Brunette. Shall I give you the Chief of Staff's name?
No? Well, let's see, it's Wednesday. Shall I tell you what'll be the
main dish on the menu in the canteen? It should be steak-and-kidney
pudding."

The Chief Security Officer picked up the direct telephone to Captain
Walker. Captain Walker said to James Bond, "Damn! There's the other
telephone again. Shan't be a minute." He picked up the green telephone.
"Yes, sir?"

"I don't like that bit about the steak-and-kidney pudding. Pass him on
to the Hard Man. No. Cancel that. Make it the Soft. There was always
something odd about 007's death. No body. No solid evidence. And the
people on that Japanese island always seemed to me to be playing it
pretty close to the chest. The stone-face act. It's just possible. Keep
me informed, would you?"

Captain Walker got back to James Bond. "Sorry about that. It's being a
busy day. Now then, this inquiry of yours. Afraid I can't help you
myself. Not my part of the Ministry. The man you want is Major Townsend.
He should be able to locate this man you want to see. Got a pencil? It's
number forty-four Kensington Cloisters. Got that? Kensington double five
double five. Give me ten minutes and I'll have a word with him and see
if he can help. All right?"

James Bond said dully, "That's very kind of you." He put down the
telephone. He waited exactly ten minutes and picked up the receiver and
asked for the number.

James Bond was staying at the Ritz Hotel. Colonel Boris had told him to
do so. Bond's file in the K.G.B. Archive described him as a high-liver,
so, on arrival in London, he must stick to the K.G.B. image of the high
life. Bond went down in the lift to the Arlington Street entrance. A man
at the newsstand got a good profile of him with a buttonhole Minox. When
Bond went down the shallow steps to the street and asked the
commissionaire for a taxi, a Canonflex with a telescopic lens clicked
away busily from a Red Roses laundry van at the neighbouring goods
entrance, and in due course the same van followed Bond's taxi while a
man inside the van reported briefly to the Action Room of the Special
Branch.

Number forty-four Kensington Cloisters was a dull Victorian mansion in
grimy red brick. It had been chosen for its purpose because it had once
been the headquarters of the Empire League for Noise Abatement, and its
entrance still bore the brass plate of this long-defunct organization,
the empty shell of which had been purchased by the Secret Service
through the Commonwealth Relations Office. It also had a spacious
old-fashioned basement, re-equipped as detention cells, and a rear exit
into a quiet mews.

The Red Roses laundry van watched the front door shut behind James Bond
and then moved off at a sedate speed to its garage not far from Scotland
Yard while the process of developing the Canonflex film went on in its
interior.

"Appointment with Major Townsend," said Bond.

"Yes. He's expecting you, sir. Shall I take your raincoat?" The
powerful-looking doorman put the coat on a coat hanger and hung it up on
one of a row of hooks beside the door. As soon as Bond was safely
closeted with Major Townsend, the coat would go swiftly to the
laboratory on the first floor where its provenance would be established
from an examination of the fabric. Pocket dust would be removed for more
leisurely research. "Would you follow me, sir?"

It was a narrow corridor of freshly painted clapboard with a tall,
single window which concealed the fluoroscope triggered automatically
from beneath the ugly patterned carpet. The findings of its X-ray eye
would be fed into the laboratory above the passage. The passage ended in
two facing doors marked "A" and "B." The doorman knocked on Room B and
stood aside for Bond to enter.

It was a pleasant, very light room, close-carpeted in dove-grey Wilton.
The military prints on the cream walls were expensively framed. A small,
bright fire burned under an Adam mantelpiece, which bore a number of
silver trophies and two photographs in leather frames--one of a
nice-looking woman and the other of three nice-looking children. There
was a central table with a bowl of flowers and two comfortable club
chairs on either side of the fire. No desk or filing cabinets, nothing
official-looking. A tall man, as pleasant as the room, got up from the
far chair, dropped _The Times_ on the carpet beside it, and came forward
with a welcoming smile. He held out a firm, dry hand.

This was the Soft Man.

"Come in. Come in. Take a pew. Cigarette? Not the ones I seem to
remember you favour. Just the good old Senior Service."

Major Townsend had carefully prepared the loaded remark--a reference to
Bond's liking for the Morland Specials with the three gold rings. He
noted Bond's apparent lack of comprehension. Bond took a cigarette and
accepted a light. They sat down facing one another. Major Townsend
crossed his legs comfortably. Bond sat up straight. Major Townsend said,
"Well now. How can I help you?"

Across the corridor, in Room A--a cold Office of Works cube, equipped
only with a hissing gas fire, an ugly desk under a naked neon light, and
two wooden chairs--Bond's reception by the Hard Man, an ex-police
superintendent ("ex" because of a brutality case in Glasgow for which he
had taken the rap), would have been very different. There, the man who
went under the name of Mr. Robson would have given him the full
intimidation treatment--harsh, bullying interrogation, threats of
imprisonment for false representation, and God knows what else, and,
perhaps, if he had shown signs of hostility or developing a nuisance
value, a little judicious roughing-up in the basement.

Such was the ultimate sieve which sorted out the wheat from the chaff
from among those members of the public who desired access to the Secret
Service. There were other people in the building who dealt with the
letters. Those written in pencil or in multicoloured inks, and those
enclosing a photograph, remained unanswered. Those which threatened or
were litigious were referred to the Special Branch. The solid, serious
ones were passed, with a comment from the best graphologist in the
business, to the Liaison Section at Headquarters for "further action."
Parcels went automatically, and fast, to the Bomb Disposal Squad at
Knightsbridge Barracks. The eye of the needle was narrow. On the whole,
it discriminated appropriately. It was an expensive setup, but it is the
first duty of a secret service to remain not only secret but secure.

There was no reason why James Bond, who had always been on the operative
side of the business, should know anything about the entrails of the
Service, any more than he should have understood the mysteries of the
plumbing or electricity supply of his flat in Chelsea or the working of
his own kidneys. Colonel Boris, however, had known the whole routine.
The secret services of all the great powers know the public face of
their opponents, and Colonel Boris had very accurately described the
treatment that James Bond must expect before he was cleared and was
allowed access to the office of his former chief.

So now James Bond paused before he replied to Major Townsend's question
about how he could be of help. He looked at the Soft Man and then into
the fire. He added up the accuracy of the description he had been given
of Major Townsend's appearance, and before he said what he had been told
to say, he gave Colonel Boris ninety out of a hundred. The big, friendly
face, the wide-apart, pale-brown eyes, bracketed by the wrinkles of a
million smiles, the military moustache, the rimless monocle dangling
from a thin black cord, the brushed-back, thinning sandy hair, the
immaculate double-breasted blue suit, stiff white collar and brigade
tie--it was all there. But what Colonel Boris hadn't said was that the
friendly eyes were as cold and steady as gunbarrels and that the lips
were thin and scholarly.

James Bond said patiently: "It's really quite simple. I'm who I say I
am. I'm doing what I naturally would do, and that's report back to M."

"Quite. But you must realize"--a sympathetic smile--"that you've been
out of contact for nearly a year. You've been officially posted as
'missing, believed killed.' Your obituary has even appeared in _The
Times_. Have you any evidence of identity? I admit that you look very
much like your photographs, but you must see that we have to be very
sure before we pass you on up the ladder."

"A Miss Mary Goodnight was my secretary. She'd recognize me all right.
So would dozens of other people at H.Q."

"Miss Goodnight's been posted abroad. Can you give me a brief
description of H.Q., just the main geography?"

Bond did so.

"Right. Now, who was a Miss Maria Freudenstadt?"

"Was?"

"Yes, she's dead."

"Thought she wouldn't last long. She was a double, working for K.G.B.
Section One Hundred controlled her. I wouldn't get any thanks for
telling you any more."

Major Townsend had been primed with this very secret top question. He
had been given the answer, more or less as Bond had put it. This was the
clincher. This _had_ to be James Bond. "Well, we're getting on fine.
Now, it only remains to find out where you've come from and where you've
been all these months and I won't keep you any longer."

"Sorry. I can only tell that to M. personally."

"I see." Major Townsend put on a thoughtful expression. "Well, just let
me make a telephone call or two and I'll see what can be done." He got
to his feet. "Seen today's _Times_?" He picked it up and handed it to
Bond. It had been specially treated to give good prints. Bond took it.
"Shan't be long."

Major Townsend shut the door behind him and went across the passage and
through the door marked "A," where he knew that "Mr. Robson" would be
alone. "Sorry to bother you, Fred. Can I use your scrambler?" The chunky
man behind the desk grunted through the stem of his pipe and remained
bent over the midday _Evening Standard_ racing news.

Major Townsend picked up the green receiver and was put through to the
laboratory. "Major Townsend speaking. Any comment?" He listened,
carefully, said thank you, and got through to the Chief Security Officer
at Headquarters. "Well, sir, I think it must be 007. Bit thinner than
his photographs. I'll be giving you his prints as soon as he's gone.
Wearing his usual rig--dark-blue single-breasted suit, white shirt, thin
black knitted silk tie, black casuals--but they all look brand-new.
Raincoat bought yesterday from Burberry's. Got the Freudenstadt question
right, but says he won't say anything about himself except to M.
personally. But whoever he is, I don't like it much. He fluffed on his
special cigarettes. He's got an odd sort of glazed, sort of faraway
look, and the 'scope shows that he's carrying a gun in his right-hand
coat pocket--curious sort of contraption, doesn't seem to have got a
butt to it. I'd say he's a sick man. I wouldn't personally recommend
that M. should see him, but I wouldn't know how we're to get him to talk
unless he does." He paused. "Very good, sir. I'll stay by the telephone.
I'm on Mr. Robson's extension."

There was silence in the room. The two men didn't get on well together.
Major Townsend gazed into the gas fire, wondering about the man next
door. The telephone burred. "Yes, sir? Very good, sir. Would your
secretary send along a car from the pool? Thank you, sir."

Bond was sitting in the same upright posture, _The Times_ still unopened
in his hand. Major Townsend said cheerfully, "Well, that's fixed.
Message from M. that he's tremendously relieved you're all right and
he'll be free in about half an hour. Car should be here in ten minutes
or so. And the Chief of Staff says he hopes you'll be free for lunch
afterwards."

James Bond smiled for the first time. It was a thin smile which didn't
light up his eyes. He said, "That's very kind of him. Would you tell him
I'm afraid I shan't be free."




CHAPTER 2. ATTENTAT!


The Chief of Staff stood in front of M.'s desk and said firmly, "I
really wouldn't do it, sir. I can see him, or someone else can. I don't
like the smell of it at all. I think 007's round the bend. There's no
doubt it's him all right. The prints have just been confirmed by Chief
of Security. And the pictures are all right--and the recording of his
voice. But there are too many things that don't add up. This forged
passport we found in his room at the Ritz, for instance. All right. So
he wanted to come back into the country quietly. But it's too good a
job. Typical K.G.B. sample. And the last entry is West Germany, day
before yesterday. Why didn't he report to Station B or W? Both those
Heads of Station are friends of his, particularly 016 in Berlin. And why
didn't he go and have a look at his flat? He's got some sort of a
housekeeper there, Scotswoman called May, who's always sworn he was
still alive and has kept the place going on her savings. The Ritz is
sort of stage Bond. And these new clothes. Why did he have to bother?
Doesn't matter what he was wearing when he came in through Dover. Normal
thing, if he was in rags, would have been to give me a ring--he had my
home number--and get me to fix him up. Have a few drinks and run over
his story and then report here. Instead of that we've got this typical
penetration approach and Security worried as hell."

The Chief of Staff paused. He knew he wasn't getting through. As soon as
he had begun, M. had swivelled his chair sideways and had remained,
occasionally sucking at an unlighted pipe, gazing moodily out through
the window at the jagged skyline of London. Obstinately, the Chief of
Staff concluded, "Do you think you could leave this one to me, sir? I
can get hold of Sir James Molony in no time and have 007 put into The
Park for observation and treatment. It'll all be done very gently.
V.I.P. handling and so on. I can say you've been called to the Cabinet
or something. Security says 007's looking a bit thin. Build him up.
Convalescence and all that. That can be the excuse. If he cuts up rough,
we can always give him some dope. He's a good friend of mine. He won't
hold it against us. He obviously needs to be got back in the groove--if
we can do it, that is."

M. slowly swivelled his chair round. He looked up at the tired, worried
face that showed the strain of being the equivalent of Number Two in the
Secret Service for ten years and more. M. smiled. "Thank you, Chief of
Staff. But I'm afraid it's not as easy as all that. I sent 007 out on
his last job to shake him out of his domestic worries. You remember how
it all came about. Well, we had no idea that what seemed a fairly
peaceful mission was going to end up in a pitched battle with Blofeld.
Or that 007 was going to vanish off the face of the earth for a year.
Now we've got to know what happened during that year. And 007's quite
right. I sent him out on that mission, and he's got every right to
report back to me personally. I know 007. He's a stubborn fellow. If he
says he won't tell anyone else, he won't. Of course I want to hear what
happened to him. You'll listen in. Have a couple of good men at hand. If
he turns rough, come and get him. As for his gun"--M. gestured vaguely
at the ceiling--"I can look after that. Have you tested the damned
thing?"

"Yes, sir. It works all right. But...."

M. held up a hand. "Sorry, Chief of Staff. It's an order." A light
winked on the intercom. "That'll be him. Send him straight in, would
you?"

"Very good, sir." The Chief of Staff went out and closed the door.

James Bond was standing smiling vaguely down at Miss Moneypenny. She
looked distraught. When James Bond shifted his gaze and said "Hullo,
Bill" he still wore the same distant smile. He didn't hold out his hand.
Bill Tanner said, with a heartiness that rang with a terrible falsity in
his ears, "Hullo, James. Long time no see." At the same time, out of the
corner of his eye, he saw Miss Moneypenny give a quick, emphatic shake
of the head. He looked her straight in the eyes. "M. would like to see
007 straight away."

Miss Moneypenny lied desperately: "You know M.'s got a Chiefs of Staff
meeting at the Cabinet Office in five minutes?"

"Yes. He says you must somehow get him out of it." The Chief of Staff
turned to James Bond. "Okay, James. Go ahead. Sorry you can't manage
lunch. Come and have a gossip after M.'s finished with you."

Bond said, "That'll be fine." He squared his shoulders and walked
through the door over which the red light was already burning.

Miss Moneypenny buried her face in her hands. "Oh, Bill!" she said
desperately. "There's something wrong with him. I'm frightened."

Bill Tanner said, "Take it easy, Penny. I'm going to do what I can." He
walked quickly into his office and shut the door. He went over to his
desk and pressed a switch. M.'s voice came into the room: "Hullo, James.
Wonderful to have you back. Take a seat and tell me all about it."

Bill Tanner picked up the office telephone and asked for Head of
Security.

James Bond took his usual place across the desk from M. A storm of
memories whirled through his consciousness like badly cut film on a
projector that had gone crazy. Bond closed his mind to the storm. He
must concentrate on what he had to say, and do, and on nothing else.

"I'm afraid there's a lot I still can't remember, sir. I got a bang on
the head"--he touched his right temple--"somewhere along the line on
that job you sent me to do in Japan. Then there's a blank until I got
picked up by the police on the waterfront at Vladivostok. No idea how I
got there. They roughed me up a bit and in the process I must have got
another bang on the head because suddenly I remembered who I was and
that I wasn't a Japanese fisherman which was what I thought I was. So
then of course the police passed me on to the local branch of the
K.G.B.--it's a big grey building on the Morskaya Ulitsa facing the
harbour near the railway station, by the way--and when they
belinographed my prints to Moscow there was a lot of excitement and they
flew me there from the military airfield just north of the town at
Vtoraya Rechka and spent weeks interrogating me--or trying to, rather,
because I couldn't remember anything except when they prompted me with
something they knew themselves and then I could give them a few hazy
details to add to their knowledge. Very frustrating for them."

"Very," commented M. A small frown had gathered between his eyes. "And
you told them everything you could? Wasn't that rather generous of you?"

"They were very nice to me in every way, sir. It seemed the least I
could do. There was this Institute place in Leningrad. They gave me
V.I.P. treatment. Top brain specialists and everything. They didn't seem
to hold it against me that I'd been working against them for most of my
life. And other people came and talked to me very reasonably about the
political situation and so forth. The need for East and West to work
together for world peace. They made clear a lot of things that hadn't
occurred to me before. They quite convinced me." Bond looked obstinately
across the table into the clear blue sailor's eyes that now held a red
spark of anger. "I don't suppose you understand what I mean, sir. You've
been making war against someone or other all your life. You're doing so
at this moment. And for most of my adult life you've used me as a tool.
Fortunately that's all over now."

M. said fiercely, "It certainly is. I suppose among other things you've
forgotten is reading reports of our P.O.W.s in the Korean war who were
brainwashed by the Chinese. If the Russians are so keen on peace, what
do they need the K.G.B. for? At the last estimate, that was about one
hundred thousand men and women 'making war'--as you call it--against us
and other countries. This is the organization that was so charming to
you in Leningrad. Did they happen to mention the murder of Horcher and
Stutz in Munich last month?"

"Oh yes, sir." Bond's voice was patient, equable. "They have to defend
themselves against the secret services of the West. If you would
demobilize all this"--Bond waved a hand--"they would be only too
delighted to scrap the K.G.B. They were quite open about it all."

"And the same thing applies to their two hundred divisions and their
U-boat fleet and their I.C.B.M.s, I suppose?" M.'s voice rasped.

"Of course, sir."

"Well, if you found these people so reasonable and charming, why didn't
you stay there? Others have. Burgess is dead, but you could have chummed
up with Maclean."

"We thought it more important that I should come back and fight for
peace here, sir. You and your agents have taught me certain skills for
use in the underground war. It was explained to me how these skills
could be used in the cause of peace."

James Bond's hand moved nonchalantly to his right-hand coat pocket. M.,
with equal casualness, shifted his chair back from his desk. His left
hand felt for the button under the arm of the chair.

"For instance?" said M. quietly, knowing that death had walked into the
room and was standing beside him, and that this was an invitation for
death to take his place in the chair.

James Bond had become tense. There was a whiteness round his lips. The
blue-grey eyes still stared blankly, almost unseeingly at M. The words
rang out harshly, as if forced out of him by some inner compulsion. "It
would be a start if the warmongers could be eliminated, sir. This is for
Number One on the list."

The hand, snub-nosed with black metal, flashed out of the pocket, but,
even as the poison hissed down the barrel of the bulb-butted pistol, the
great sheet of armour-plate glass hurtled down from the baffled slit in
the ceiling and, with a last sigh of hydraulics, braked to the floor.
The jet of viscous brown fluid splashed harmlessly into its centre and
trickled slowly down, distorting the reflection of M.'s face and the arm
he had automatically thrown up for additional protection.

The Chief of Staff had burst into the room, followed by the Head of
Security. They threw themselves on James Bond. Even as they seized his
arms, his head fell forward on his chest and he would have slid from his
chair to the ground if they hadn't supported him. They hauled him to his
feet. He was in a dead faint. The Head of Security sniffed. "Cyanide,"
he said curtly. "We must all get out of here. And bloody quick!" (The
emergency had snuffed out Headquarters manners.) The pistol lay on the
carpet where it had fallen. He kicked it away. He said to M., who had
walked out from behind his glass shield, "Would you mind leaving the
room, sir? Quickly. I'll have this cleaned up during the lunch hour." It
was an order. M. went to the open door. Miss Moneypenny stood with her
clenched hand up to her mouth. She watched with horror as James Bond's
supine body was hauled out and, the heels of its shoes leaving tracks on
the carpet, taken into the Chief of Staff's room.

M. said sharply, "Close that door, Miss Moneypenny. Get the duty M.O. up
right away. Come along, girl! Don't just stand there gawking! And not a
word of this to anyone. Understood?"

Miss Moneypenny pulled herself back from the edge of hysterics. She said
an automatic "Yes, sir," pulled the door shut, and reached for the
interoffice telephone.

M. walked across and into the Chief of Staff's office and closed the
door. Head of Security was on his knees beside Bond. He had loosened his
tie and collar button and was feeling his pulse. Bond's face was white
and bathed in sweat. His breathing was a desperate rattle, as if he had
just run a race. M. looked briefly down at him and then, his face hidden
from the others, at the wall beyond the body. He turned to the Chief of
Staff. He said briskly, "Well, that's that. My predecessor died in that
chair. Then it was a simple bullet, but from much the same sort of a
crazed officer. One can't legislate against the lunatic. But the Office
of Works certainly did a good job with that gadget. Now then, Chief of
Staff. This is of course to go no further. Get Sir James Molony as soon
as you can and have 007 taken down to The Park. Ambulance, surreptitious
guard. I'll explain things to Sir James this afternoon. Briefly, as you
heard, the K.G.B. got hold of him. Brainwashed him. He was already a
sick man. Amnesia of some kind. I'll tell you all I know later. Have his
things collected from the Ritz and his bill paid. And put something out
to the Press Association. Something on these lines: 'The Ministry of
Defence is pleased--' no, say 'delighted to announce that Commander
James Bond etc., who was posted as missing, believed killed while on a
mission to Japan last November, has returned to this country after a
hazardous journey across the Soviet Union which is expected to yield
much valuable information. Commander Bond's health has inevitably
suffered from his experiences and he is convalescing under medical
supervision.'" M. smiled frostily. "That bit about information'll give
no joy to Comrade Semichastny and his troops. And add a D
notice-to-editors: 'It is particularly requested, for security reasons,
that the minimum of speculation or comment be added to the above
communiqu and that no attempts be made to trace Commander Bond's
whereabouts.' All right?"

Bill Tanner had been writing furiously to keep up with M. He looked up
from his scratchpad, bewildered. "But aren't you going to make any
charges, sir? After all, treason and attempted murder... I mean, not
even a court martial?"

"Certainly not." M.'s voice was gruff. "007 was a sick man. Not
responsible for his actions. If one can brainwash a man, presumably one
can un-brainwash him. If anyone can, Sir James can. Put him back on half
pay for the time being, in his old Section. And see he gets full back
pay and allowances for the past year. If the K.G.B. has the nerve to
throw one of my best men at me, I have the nerve to throw him back at
them. 007 was a good agent once. There's no reason why he shouldn't be a
good agent again. Within limits, that is. After lunch, give me the file
on Scaramanga. If we can get him fit again, that's the right-sized
target for 007."

The Chief of Staff protested, "But that's suicide, sir! Even 007 could
never take him."

M. said coldly, "What would 007 get for this morning's bit of work?
Twenty years? As a minimum, I'd say. Better for him to fall on the
battlefield. If he brings it off, he'll have won his spurs back again
and we can all forget the past. Anyway, that's my decision."

There was a knock on the door and the duty Medical Officer came into the
room. M. bade him good afternoon and turned stiffly on his heel and
walked out through the open door.

The Chief of Staff looked at the retreating back. He said, under his
breath, "You coldhearted bastard!" Then, with his usual minute
thoroughness and sense of duty, he set about the tasks he had been
given. His not to reason why!




CHAPTER 3. "PISTOLS" SCARAMANGA


At Blades, M. ate his usual meagre luncheon--a grilled Dover sole
followed by the ripest spoonful he could gouge from the club Stilton.
And as usual he sat by himself in one of the window seats and barricaded
himself behind _The Times_, occasionally turning a page to demonstrate
that he was reading it, which, in fact, he wasn't. But Porterfield
commented to the headwaitress, Lily, a handsome, much-loved ornament of
the club, that "there's something wrong with the old man today. Or maybe
not exactly wrong, but there's something up with him." Porterfield
prided himself on being something of an amateur psychologist. As
headwaiter, and father confessor to many of the members, he knew a lot
about all of them and liked to think he knew everything, so that, in the
tradition of incomparable servants, he could anticipate their wishes and
their moods. Now, standing with Lily in a quiet moment behind the finest
cold buffet on display at that date anywhere in the world, he explained
himself. "You know that terrible stuff Sir Miles always drinks? That
Algerian red wine that the wine committee won't even allow on the wine
list. They only have it in the club to please Sir Miles. Well, he
explained to me once that in the navy they used to call it the
Infuriator because if you drank too much of it, it seems that it used to
put you into a rage. Well now, in the ten years that I've had the
pleasure of looking after Sir Miles, he's never ordered more than half a
carafe of the stuff."

Porterfield's benign, almost priestly countenance assumed an expression
of theatrical solemnity as if he had read something really terrible in
the tea leaves. "Then what happens today?" Lily clasped her hands
tensely and bent her head fractionally closer to get the full impact of
the news. "The old man says, 'Porterfield. A bottle of Infuriator. You
understand? A full bottle!' So of course I didn't say anything but went
off and brought it to him. But you mark my words, Lily"--he noticed a
lifted hand down the long room and moved off--"there's something hit Sir
Miles hard this morning and no mistake."

M. sent for his bill. As usual he paid, whatever the amount of the bill,
with a five-pound note for the pleasure of receiving in change crisp new
pound notes, new silver and gleaming copper pennies, for it is the
custom at Blades to give its members only freshly minted money.
Porterfield pulled back his table and M. walked quickly to the door,
acknowledging the occasional greeting with a preoccupied nod and a brief
lifting of the hand. It was two o'clock. The old black Phantom Rolls
took him quietly and quickly northwards through Berkeley Square, across
Oxford Street and via Wigmore Street, into Regent's Park. M. didn't look
out at the passing scene. He sat stiffly in the back, his bowler hat
squarely set on the middle of his head, and gazed unseeing at the back
of the chauffeur's head with hooded, brooding eyes.

For the hundredth time, since he had left his office that morning, he
assured himself that his decision was right. If James Bond could be
straightened out--and M. was certain that that supreme neurologist, Sir
James Molony, could bring it off--it would be ridiculous to reassign him
to normal staff duties in the Double-O Section. The past could be
forgiven, but not forgotten--except with the passage of time. It would
be most irksome for those in the know to have Bond moving about
Headquarters as if nothing had happened. It would be doubly embarrassing
for M. to have to face Bond across that desk. And James Bond, if aimed
straight at a known target--M. put it in the language of
battleships--was a supremely effective firing-piece. Well, the target
was there and it desperately demanded destruction. Bond had accused M.
of using him as a tool. Naturally. Every officer in the Service was a
tool for one secret purpose or another. The problem on hand could only
be solved by a killing. James Bond would not possess the Double-O prefix
if he had not high talents, frequently proved, as a gunman. So be it! In
exchange for the happenings of that morning, in expiation of them, Bond
must prove himself at his old skills. If he succeeded, he would have
regained his previous status. If he failed, well, it would be a death
for which he would be honoured. Win or lose, the plan would solve a vast
array of problems. M. closed his mind once and for all on his decision.
He got out of the car and went up in the lift to the eighth floor and
along the corridor, smelling the smell of some unknown disinfectant more
and more powerfully as he approached his office.

Instead of using his key to the private entrance at the end of the
corridor M. turned right, through Miss Moneypenny's door. She was
sitting in her usual place, typing away at the usual routine
correspondence. She got to her feet.

"What's this dreadful stink, Miss Moneypenny?"

"I don't know what it's called, sir. Head of Security brought along a
squad from Chemical Warfare at the War Office. He says your office is
all right to use again but to keep the windows open for a while. So I've
turned on the heating. Chief of Staff isn't back from lunch yet, but he
told me to tell you that everything you wanted done is under way. Sir
James is operating until four but will expect your call after that.
Here's the file you wanted, sir."

M. took the brown folder with the red Top Secret star in its top
right-hand corner. "How's 007? Did he come round all right?"

Miss Moneypenny's face was expressionless. "I gather so, sir. The M.O.
gave him a sedative of some kind, and he was taken off on a stretcher
during the lunch hour. He was covered up. They took him down in the
service lift to the garage. I haven't had any inquiries."

"Good. Well, bring me in the signals, would you. There's been a lot of
time wasted today on all these domestic excitements." Carrying the brown
folder, M. went through the door into his office. Miss Moneypenny
brought in the signals and stood dutifully beside him while he went
through them, occasionally dictating a comment or a query. She looked
down at the bowed, iron-grey head with the bald patch polished for years
by a succession of naval caps and wondered, as she had wondered so often
over the past ten years, whether she loved or hated this man. One thing
was certain. She respected him more than any man she had known or had
read of.

M. handed her the file. "Thank you. Now just give me a quarter of an
hour, and then I'll see whoever wants me. The call to Sir James has
priority of course."

M. opened the brown folder, reached for his pipe and began
absent-mindedly filling it as he glanced through the list of subsidiary
files to see if there was any other docket he immediately needed. Then
he set a match to his pipe and settled back in his chair and read:

                       FRANCISCO (PACO) "PISTOLS"
                               SCARAMANGA

And underneath, in lower-case type:

    Free-lance assassin mainly under K.G.B. control through D.S.S.,
    Havana, Cuba, but often as an independent operator for other
    organizations, in the Caribbean and Central American states. Has
    caused widespread damage, particularly to the S.S., but also to
    C.I.A. and other friendly services, by murder and scientific
    maiming since 1959, the year when Castro came to power and which
    seems also to have been the trigger for Scaramanga's operations.
    Is widely feared and admired in said territory throughout which
    he appears, despite police precautions, to have complete freedom
    of access. Has thus become something of a local myth and is
    known in his "territory" as The Man with the Golden Gun--a
    reference to his main weapon which is a gold-plated,
    long-barrelled, single-action Colt .45. He uses special bullets
    with a heavy, soft (24 ct.) gold core jacketed with silver and
    cross-cut at the tip, on the dum-dum principle, for maximum
    wounding effect. Himself loads and artifices this ammunition. Is
    responsible for the death of 267 (British Guiana), 398
    (Trinidad), 943 (Jamaica), and 768 and 742 (Havana), and for the
    maiming and subsequent retirement from the S.S. of 098, Area
    Inspection Officer, by bullet wounds in both knees. (See above
    references in Central Records for Scaramanga's victims in
    Martinique, Haiti, and Panama.)

    DESCRIPTION: Age about 35. Height 6 ft. 3 in. Slim and fit.
    Eyes, light brown. Hair reddish in a crew cut. Long sideburns.
    Gaunt, sombre face with thin pencil moustache, brownish. Ears
    very flat to the head. Ambidextrous. Hands very large and
    powerful and immaculately manicured. Distinguishing marks: a
    third nipple about two inches below his left breast. (N.B. In
    Voodoo and allied local cults this is considered a sign of
    invulnerability and great sexual prowess.) Is an insatiable but
    indiscriminate womanizer who invariably has sexual intercourse
    shortly before a killing in the belief that it improves his
    "eye." (N.B. A belief shared by many professional lawn tennis
    players, golfers, gun and rifle marksmen, and others.)

    ORIGINS: A relative of the Catalan family of circus managers of
    the same name with whom he spent his youth. Self-educated. At
    the age of 16 (after the incident described below under
    MOTIVATION) emigrated illegally to the United States where he
    lived a life of petty crime on the fringes of the gangs until he
    graduated as a full-time gunman for The Spangled Mob in Nevada
    with the cover of pitboy in the casino of the Tiara Hotel in Las
    Vegas where in fact he acted as executioner of cheats and other
    transgressors within and outside The Mob. In 1958 was forced to
    flee the States as the result of a famous duel against his
    opposite number for the Detroit Purple Gang, a certain Ramon
    "The Rod" Rodriguez, which took place by moonlight on the third
    green of the Thunderbird golf course at Las Vegas. (Scaramanga
    got two bullets into the heart of his opponent before the latter
    had fired a shot. Distance 20 paces.) Believed to have been
    compensated by The Mob with $100,000. Travelled the whole
    Caribbean area investing fugitive funds for various Las Vegas
    interests and later, as his reputation for keen and successful
    dealing in real estate and plantations became consolidated, for
    Trujillo of the Dominican Republic and Batista of Cuba. In 1959
    settled in Havana and, seeing the way the wind blew, while
    remaining ostensibly a Batista man, began working undercover for
    the Castro party, and after the revolution, obtained an
    influential post as foreign "enforcer" for the D.S.S. In this
    capacity, on behalf, that is, of the Cuban secret police, he
    undertook the assassinations mentioned above.

    PASSPORT: Various, including Cuban diplomatic.

    DISGUISES: None. They are not necessary. The myth surrounding
    this man, the equivalent, let us say, of that surrounding the
    most famous film star, and the fact that he has no police
    record, have hitherto given him complete freedom of movement and
    indemnity from interference in "his" territory. In most of the
    islands and mainland republics which constitute this territory,
    he has groups of admirers (e.g., the Rastafari in Jamaica) and
    commands powerful pressure groups who give him protection and
    succour when called upon to do so. Moreover, as the ostensible
    purchaser, and usually the legal front, for the "hot money"
    properties mentioned above, he has legitimate access, frequently
    supported by his diplomatic status, to any part of his
    territory.

    RESOURCES: Considerable but of unknown extent. Travels on
    various credit cards of the Diners' Club variety. Has a numbered
    account with the Union des Banques de Crdit, Zurich, and
    appears to have no difficulty in obtaining foreign currency from
    the slim resources of Cuba when he needs it.

    MOTIVATION: (Comment by C.C.)....

M. refilled and relit his pipe, which had died. What had gone before was
routine information which added nothing to his basic knowledge of the
man. What followed would be of more interest. "C.C." covered the
identity of a former Regius Professor of History at Oxford who lived
a--to M.--pampered existence at Headquarters in a small and--in M.'s
opinion--overcomfortable office. In between--again in M.'s
opinion--overluxurious and overlong meals at the Garrick Club, he
wandered, at his ease, into Headquarters, examined such files as the
present one, asked questions and had signals of inquiry sent, and then
delivered his judgment. But M., for all his prejudices against the man,
his haircut, the casualness of his clothes, what he knew of his way of
life, and the apparently haphazard process of his ratiocination,
appreciated the sharpness of the mind, the knowledge of the world, that
C.C. brought to his task, and, so often, the accuracy of his judgments.
In short, M. always enjoyed what C.C. had to say, and he now picked up
the file again with relish.

    I am interested in this man [wrote C.C.] and I have caused
    inquiries to be made on a somewhat wider front than usual, since
    it is not common to be confronted with a secret agent who is at
    once so much of a public figure and yet appears to be infinitely
    successful in the difficult and dangerous field of his
    choice--that of being, in common parlance, "a gun for hire." I
    think I may have found the origin of this partiality for killing
    his fellow men in cold blood, men against whom he has no
    personal animosity but merely the reflected animosity of his
    employers, in the following bizarre anecdote from his youth. In
    the travelling circus of his father, Enrico Scaramanga, the boy
    had several roles. He was a most spectacular trick shot, he was
    a stand-in strong man in the acrobatic troop, often taking the
    place of the usual artiste as bottom man in the "human pyramid"
    act, and he was the mahout, in gorgeous turban, Indian robes,
    etc., who rode the leading elephant in a troupe of three. This
    elephant, by the name of Max, was a male, and it is a
    peculiarity of the male elephant, which I have learned with much
    interest and verified with eminent zoologists, that, at
    intervals during the year, they go "on heat" sexually. During
    these periods, a mucous deposit forms behind the animal's ears
    and this needs to be scraped off since otherwise it causes the
    elephant intense irritation. Max developed this symptom during a
    visit of the circus to Trieste, but, through an oversight, the
    condition was not noticed and given the necessary treatment. The
    big top of the circus had been erected on the outskirts of the
    town adjacent to the coastal railway line and, on the night
    which was, in my opinion, to determine the future way of life of
    the young Scaramanga, Max went berserk, threw the youth, and,
    screaming horrifically, trampled his way through the auditorium,
    causing many casualties, and charged off across the fairground
    and onto the railway line, down which (a frightening spectacle
    under the full moon which, as newspaper cuttings record, was
    shining on that night) he galloped at full speed. The local
    carabiniri were alerted and set off in pursuit by car along the
    main road that flanks the railway line. In due course they
    caught up with the unfortunate monster, which, his frenzy
    expired, stood peacefully facing back the way he had come. Not
    realizing that the elephant, if approached by his handler, could
    now be led peacefully back to his stall, the police opened rapid
    fire and bullets from their carbines and revolvers wounded the
    animal superficially in many places. Infuriated afresh, the
    miserable beast, now pursued by the police car from which the
    hail of fire continued, charged off again along the railway
    line. On arrival at the fairground, the elephant seemed to
    recognize his home, the big top, and, turning off the railway
    line, lumbered back through the fleeing spectators to the centre
    of the deserted arena, and there, weakened by loss of blood,
    pathetically continued with his interrupted act. Trumpeting
    dreadfully in his agony, the mortally wounded Max endeavoured
    again and again to raise himself and stand upon one leg.
    Meanwhile the young Scaramanga, now armed with his pistols,
    tried to throw a lariat over the animal's head while calling out
    the "elephant talk" with which he usually controlled him. Max
    seems to have recognized the youth and--it must have been a
    truly pitiful sight--lowered his trunk to allow the youth to be
    hoisted to his usual seat behind the elephant's head. But at
    this moment the police burst into the sawdust ring, and their
    captain, approaching very close, emptied his revolver into the
    elephant's right eye at a range of a few feet, upon which Max
    fell dying to the ground. Upon this, the young Scaramanga who,
    according to the press, had a deep devotion for his charge, drew
    one of his pistols and shot the policeman through the heart, and
    fled off into the crowd of bystanders pursued by the other
    policemen who could not fire because of the throng of people. He
    made good his escape, found his way south to Naples, and thence,
    as noted above, stowed away to America.

    Now, I see in this dreadful experience a possible reason for the
    transformation of Scaramanga into the most vicious gunman of
    recent years. In him was, I believe, born on that day a
    cold-blooded desire to avenge himself on all humanity. That the
    elephant had run amok and trampled many innocent people, that
    the man truly responsible was his handler, and that the police
    were only doing their duty, would be, psychopathologically,
    either forgotten or deliberately suppressed by a youth of
    hot-blooded stock whose subconscious had been so deeply
    lacerated. At all events, Scaramanga's subsequent career
    requires some explanation, and I trust I am not being fanciful
    in putting forward my own prognosis from the known facts.

M. rubbed the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully down the side of his nose.
Well, fair enough! He turned back to the file.

    I have comment [wrote C.C.] to make on this man's alleged sexual
    potency when seen in relation to his profession. It is a
    Freudian thesis, with which I am inclined to agree, that the
    pistol, whether in the hands of an amateur or of a professional
    gunman, has significance for the owner as a symbol of
    virility--an extension of the male organ--and that excessive
    interests in guns (e.g., gun collections and gun clubs) is a
    form of fetishism. The partiality of Scaramanga for a
    particularly showy variation of weapon and his use of silver and
    gold bullets clearly point, I think, to his being a slave to
    this fetish--and, if I am right, I have doubts about his alleged
    sexual prowess, for the lack of which his gun fetish would be
    either a substitute or a compensation. I have also noted, from a
    "profile" of this man in _Time_ magazine, one fact which
    supports my thesis that Scaramanga may be sexually abnormal. In
    listing his accomplishments, _Time_ notes, but does not comment
    upon, the fact that this man cannot whistle. Now it may only be
    myth, and it is certainly not medical science, but there is a
    popular theory that a man who cannot whistle has homosexual
    tendencies. (At this point, the reader may care to experiment
    and, from his self-knowledge, help to prove or disprove this
    item of folklore!--C.C.)

M. hadn't whistled since he was a boy. Unconsciously his mouth pursed
and a clear note was emitted. He uttered an impatient "tchah!" and
continued with his reading.

    So I would not be surprised to learn that Scaramanga is not the
    Casanova of popular fancy. Passing to the wider implications of
    gunmanship, we enter the realms of the Adlerian power urge as
    compensation for the inferiority complex, and here I will quote
    some well-turned phrases of a certain Mr. Harold L. Peterson in
    his preface to his finely illustrated _The Book of the Gun_
    (published by Paul Hamlyn). Mr. Peterson writes:

    "In the vast array of things man has invented to better his
    condition, few have fascinated him more than the gun. Its
    function is simple; as Oliver Winchester said, with
    nineteenth-century complacency, 'A gun is a machine for throwing
    balls.' But its ever-increasing efficiency in performing this
    task, and its awesome ability to strike home from long range,
    have given it tremendous psychological appeal.

    "For possession of a gun and the skill to use it enormously
    augments the gunner's personal power, and extends the radius of
    his influence and effect a thousand times beyond his arm's
    length. And since strength resides in the gun, the man who
    wields it may be less than strong without being disadvantaged.
    The flashing sword, the couched lance, the bent longbow
    performed to the limit of the man who held it. The gun's power
    is inherent and needs only to be released. A steady eye and an
    accurate aim are enough. Wherever the muzzle points, the bullet
    goes, bearing the gunner's wish or intention swiftly to the
    target.... Perhaps more than any other implement, the gun has
    shaped the course of nations and the destiny of men."

    In the Freudian thesis, "his arm's length" would become the
    length of the masculine organ. But we need not linger over these
    esoterica. The support for my premise is well expressed in Mr.
    Peterson's sinewy prose and--though I would substitute the
    printing press for the gun in his concluding paragraph--his
    points are well taken. The subject, Scaramanga, is, in my
    opinion, a paranoiac in subconscious revolt against the father
    figure (i.e., the figure of authority) and a sexual fetishist
    with possible homosexual tendencies. He has other qualities
    which are self-evident from the earlier testimony. In
    conclusion, and having regard to the damage he has already
    wrought upon the personnel of the S.S., I conclude that his
    career should be terminated with the utmost dispatch--if
    necessary by the inhuman means he himself employs--in the
    unlikely event an agent of equal courage and dexterity can be
    made available.

    [Signed "C.C."]

Beneath, at the end of the docket, the Head of the Caribbean and Central
American Section had minuted "I concur," signed "C.A." To this Chief of
Staff had added, in red ink, "Noted. C.O.S."

M. gazed into space for perhaps five minutes. Then he reached for his
pen and, in green ink, scrawled the word _Action?_ followed by the
italic, authoritative _M_.

Then he sat very still for another five minutes and wondered if he had
signed James Bond's death warrant.




CHAPTER 4. THE STARS FORETELL


There are few less prepossessing places to spend a hot afternoon than
Kingston International Airport in Jamaica. All the money has been spent
on lengthening the runway out into the harbour to take the big jets, and
little was left over for the comfort of transit passengers. James Bond
had come in an hour before on a B.W.I.A. flight from Trinidad, and there
were two hours to go before he could continue the roundabout journey to
Havana. He had taken off his coat and tie and now sat on a hard bench
gloomily surveying the contents of the In-Bond shop with its expensive
scents, liquor, and piles of overdecorated native ware. He had had
luncheon on the plane, it was the wrong time for a drink, and it was too
hot and too far to take a taxi into Kingston even had he wanted to. He
wiped his already soaking handkerchief over his face and neck and cursed
softly and fluently.

A cleaner ambled in and, with the exquisite languor of such people
throughout the Caribbean, proceeded to sweep very small bits of rubbish
hither and thither, occasionally dipping a boneless hand into a bucket
to sprinkle water over the dusty cement floor. Through the slatted
jalousies a small breeze, reeking of the mangrove swamps, briefly
stirred the dead air and then was gone. There were only two other
passengers in the "lounge," Cubans perhaps, with jippa-jappa luggage. A
man and a woman. They sat close together against the opposite wall and
stared fixedly at James Bond, adding minutely to the oppression of the
atmosphere. Bond got up and went over to the shop. He bought a _Daily
Gleaner_ and returned to his place. Because of its inconsequence and
occasionally bizarre choice of news the _Gleaner_ was a favourite paper
of Bond's. Almost the whole of that day's front page was taken up with
new ganja laws to prevent the consumption, sale, and cultivation of this
local version of marijuana. The fact that de Gaulle had just
sensationally announced his recognition of Red China was boxed well down
the page. Bond read the whole paper--"Country Newsbits" and all--with
the minute care bred of desperation.

His horoscope said: "CHEER UP! Today will bring a pleasant surprise and
the fulfilment of a dear wish. But you must earn your good fortune by
watching closely for the golden opportunity when it presents itself and
then seizing it with both hands." Bond smiled grimly. He would be
unlikely to get on the scent of Scaramanga on his first evening in
Havana. It was not even certain that Scaramanga was there. This was a
last resort. For six weeks, Bond had been chasing his man round the
Caribbean and Central America. He had missed him by a day in Trinidad
and by only a matter of hours in Caracas. Now he had rather reluctantly
taken the decision to try and ferret him out on his home ground, a
particularly inimical home ground, with which Bond was barely familiar.
At least he had fortified himself in British Guiana with a diplomatic
passport, and he was now "Courier" Bond with splendidly engraved
instructions from Her Majesty to pick up the Jamaican diplomatic bag in
Havana and return with it. He had even borrowed the famous Silver
Greyhound, the British Courier's emblem for three hundred years. If he
could do his job and then get a few hundred yards' start, this would at
least give him sanctuary in the British Embassy. Then it would be up to
the F.O. to bargain him out. If he could find his man. If he could carry
out his instructions. If he could get away from the scene of the
shooting. If, if, if.... Bond turned to the advertisements on the
back page. At once an item caught his eye. It was so typically "old"
Jamaica. This is what he read:

                          FOR SALE BY AUCTION
                    AT 77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON,
                      At 10:30 a.m. on WEDNESDAY,
                               27th MAY

                 under Powers of Sale contained in a
                 mortgage from Cornelius Brown _et ux_

                           No. 3 1/2 LOVE LANE,
                           SAVANNAH LA MAR.

    Containing the substantial residence and all that parcel of land
    by measurement on the Northern Boundary three chains and five
    perches, on the Southern Boundary five chains and one perch, on
    the Eastern Boundary two chains exactly, and on the Western
    Boundary four chains and two perches be the same in each case
    and more or less and butting Northerly on No. 4 Love Lane.

                          THE C. D. ALEXANDER
                                CO. LTD.
                      77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON
                              PHONE 4897.

James Bond was delighted. He had had many assignments in Jamaica and
many adventures on the island. The splendid address and all the stuff
about chains and perches and the old-fashioned abracadabra at the end of
the advertisement brought back all the authentic smell of one of the
oldest and most romantic of former British possessions. For all her
new-found "independence" he would bet his bottom dollar that the statue
of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston had _not_ been destroyed or
removed to a museum, as similar relics of an historic infancy had been
in the resurgent African states. He looked at his watch. The _Gleaner_
had consumed a whole hour for him. He picked up his coat and briefcase.
Not much longer to go! In the last analysis, life wasn't all that
dismal. One must forget the bad and remember the good. What were a
couple of hours of heat and boredom in this island compared with
memories of Beau Desert and Honeychile Wilder and his survival against
the mad Dr. No? James Bond smiled to himself as the dusty pictures
clicked across his brain. How long ago it all was! What had happened to
her? She never wrote. The last he had heard, she had had two children by
the Philadelphia doctor she had married. He wandered off into the
grandly named "Concourse," where the booths of many airlines stood empty
and promotion folders and little company flags on their counters
gathered the dust blown in with the mangrove breeze.

There was the customary central display stand holding messages for
incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there
would be something for him. In all his life there never had been.
Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under
tape, beneath each parent letter. Nothing under "B." And nothing under
his alias "H" for "Hazard, Mark" of the "Transworld Consortium,"
successor to the old "Universal Export," that had recently been
discarded as cover for the Secret Service. Nothing. He ran a bored eye
over the other envelopes. He suddenly froze. He looked around him,
languidly, casually. The Cuban couple was out of sight. Nobody else was
looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and
pocketed the buff envelope that said, "Scaramanga. BOAC passenger from
Lima." He stayed where he was for a few minutes and then wandered slowly
off to the door marked MEN.

He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It
contained a B.W.I.A. message form. The neat B.W.I.A. writing said:

    MESSAGE RECEIVED FROM KINGSTON AT 12:15: "THE SAMPLES WILL BE
    AVAILABLE AT NO. 3 1/2 S.L.M. AS FROM MIDDAY TOMORROW."

There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and
triumph. S.L.M.--Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the
three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his
_Gleaner_ horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from
outer space--"seize it with both hands" as the _Gleaner_ had instructed.
He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His
damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they
would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to
the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into
its place under "S" and walked over to the Aeronaves de Mexico booth and
cancelled his reservation. He then went to the BOAC counter and looked
through the timetable. Yes, the Lima flight for Kingston, New York, and
London was due in at 13:15 the next day. He was going to need help. He
remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone
booth and got through to the High Commissioner's Office. He asked for
Commander Ross. After a moment a girl's voice came on the line.
"Commander Ross's assistant. Can I help you?"

There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond
said, "Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London."

The girl's voice became suddenly alert. "I'm afraid Commander Ross is
away from Jamaica. Is there anything I can do?" There was a pause. "What
name did you say?"

"I didn't say any name. But in fact it's...."

The voice broke in excitedly. "Don't tell me. It's James!"

Bond laughed. "Well I'm damned! It's Goodnight! What the hell are you
doing here?"

"More or less what I used to do for you. I heard you were back, but I
thought you were ill or something. How absolutely marvellous! But where
are you talking from?"

"Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later.
Can you get cracking?"

"Of course. Wait till I get a pencil. Right."

"First I need a car. Anything that'll go. Then I want the name of the
top man at Frome, you know, the WISCO estate beyond Savannah La Mar.
Large-scale survey map of that area, a hundred pounds in Jamaican money.
Then be an angel and ring up Alexander's the auctioneers and find out
anything you can about a property that's advertised in today's
_Gleaner_. Say you're a prospective buyer. Three-and-a-half Love Lane.
You'll see the details. Then I want you to come out to Morgan's Harbour,
where I'm going in a minute, be staying the night there, and we'll have
dinner and swop secrets until the dawn steals over the Blue Mountains.
Can do?"

"Of course. But that's a hell of a lot of secrets. What shall I wear?"

"Something that's tight in the right places. Not too many buttons."

She laughed. "You've established your identity. Now I'll get on with all
this. See you about seven. 'Bye."

Gasping for air, James Bond pushed his way out of the little sweatbox.
He ran his handkerchief over his face and neck. He'd be damned! Mary
Goodnight, his darling secretary from the old days in the Double-O
Section! At Headquarters they had said she was abroad. He hadn't asked
any questions. Perhaps she had opted for a change when he had gone
missing. Anyway, what a break! Now he'd got an ally, someone he knew.
Good old _Gleaner_! He got his bag from the Aeronaves de Mexico booth
and went out and hailed a taxi and said "Morgan's Harbour" and sat back
and let the air from the open windows begin to dry him.

The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the
Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in
Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond's job was, was glad to
see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a
view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston Harbour. He said, "What
is it this time? Cubans or smuggling? They're the popular targets these
days."

"Just on my way through. Got any lobsters?"

"Of course."

"Be a good chap and save two for dinner. Broiled with melted butter. And
a pot of that ridiculously expensive foie gras of yours. All right?"

"Wilco. Celebration? Champagne on the ice?"

"Good idea. Now I must get a shower and some sleep. That Kingston
Airport's murder."

James Bond awoke at six. At first he didn't know where he was. He lay
and remembered. Sir James Molony had said that his memory would be
sluggish for a while. The E.C.T. treatment at The Park, a discreet
so-called "convalescent home" in a vast mansion in Kent, had been
fierce. Twenty-four bashes at his brain from the black box in thirty
days. After it was over, Sir James had confessed that, if he had been
practising in America, he wouldn't have been allowed to administer more
than eighteen. At first, Bond had been terrified at the sight of the box
and of the two cathodes that would be cupped to each temple. He had
heard that people undergoing shock treatment had to be strapped down,
that their jerking, twitching bodies, impelled by the volts, often
hurtled off the operating table. But that, it seemed, was old hat. Now
there was the longed-for needle with the pentathol, and Sir James said
there was no movement of the body when the current flashed through
except a slight twitching of the eyelids. And the results had been
miraculous. After the pleasant, quiet-spoken analyst had explained to
him what had been done to him in Russia, and after he had passed through
the mental agony of knowing what he had nearly done to M., the old
fierce hatred of the K.G.B. and all its works had been reborn in him,
and, six weeks after he had entered The Park, all he wanted was to get
back at the people who had invaded his brain for their own murderous
purposes. And then had come his physical rehabilitation and the
inexplicable amount of gun practice he had had to do at the Maidstone
police range. And then the day arrived when the Chief of Staff had come
down and spent the day briefing Bond on his new assignment. The reason
for the gun practice became clear. And the scribble of green ink wishing
him luck--signed "M."--boosted his spirits. Two days later he was ready
to enjoy the excitement of the ride to London Airport on his way across
the world.

Bond took another shower and dressed in shirt, slacks, and sandals and
wandered over to the little bar on the waterfront and ordered a double
Walker's deluxe bourbon on the rocks and watched the pelicans diving for
their dinner. Then he had another drink with a water chaser to break it
down and wondered about 3 1/2 Love Lane and what the "samples" would
consist of and how he would take Scaramanga. This had been worrying him
since he had been given his orders. It was all very fine to be told to
"eliminate" the man, but James Bond had never liked killing in cold
blood and to provoke a draw against a man who was possibly the fastest
gun in the world was suicide. Well, he would just have to see which way
the cards fell. The first thing to do was to clean up his cover. The
diplomatic passport he would leave with Goodnight. He would now be "Mark
Hazard" of the "Transworld Consortium," the splendidly vague title which
could cover almost any kind of human activity. His business would have
to be with the West Indian Sugar Company because that was the only
business, apart from Kaiser Bauxite, that existed in the comparatively
deserted western districts of Jamaica. And, at Negril, there was also
the project for developing one of the most spectacular beaches in the
world, beginning with the building of the Thunderbird Hotel. He could be
a rich man looking around for a building site. If his hunch and the
childish predictions of his horoscope were right, and he came up with
Scaramanga at the romantic Love Lane address, it would be a question of
playing it by ear.

The prairie fire of the sunset raged briefly in the west and the molten
sea cooled off into moonlit gunmetal.

A naked arm smelling of Chanel Number 5 snaked round his neck and warm
lips kissed the corner of his mouth. As he reached up to hold the arm
where it was, a breathless voice said, "Oh, James! I'm sorry. I just had
to! It's so wonderful to have you back."

Bond put his hand under the soft chin and lifted up her mouth and kissed
her full on the half-open lips. He said, "Why didn't we ever think of
doing that before, Goodnight? Three years with only that door between
us! What must we have been thinking of?"

She stood away from him. The golden bell of hair fell back to embrace
her neck. She hadn't changed. Still only the faintest trace of makeup,
but now the face was golden with sunburn from which the wide-apart blue
eyes, now ablaze with the moon, shone out with that challenging
directness that had disconcerted him when they had argued over some
office problem. Still the same glint of health over the good bones and
the broad uninhibited smile from the full lips that, in repose, were so
exciting. But now the clothes were different. Instead of the severe
shirt and skirt of the days at Headquarters, she was wearing a single
string of pearls and a one-piece short-skirted frock in the colour of a
pink gin with a lot of bitters in it--the orangey-pink of the inside of
a conch shell. It was all tight against the bosom and the hips. She
smiled at his scrutiny. "The buttons are down the back. This is standard
uniform for a tropical Station."

"I can just see Q Branch dreaming it up. I suppose one of the pearls has
a death pill in it."

"Of course. But I can't remember which. I'll just have to swallow the
whole string. Can I have a daiquiri please instead?"

Bond gave the order. "Sorry, Goodnight. My manners are slipping. I was
dazzled. It's so tremendous finding you here. And I've never seen you in
your working clothes before. Now then, tell me the news. Where's Ross?
How long have you been here? Have you managed to cope with all that junk
I gave you?"

Her drink came. She sipped it carefully. Bond remembered that she rarely
drank and didn't smoke. He ordered another for himself and felt vaguely
guilty that this was his third double and that she wouldn't know it and
when it came wouldn't recognize it as a double. He lit a cigarette.
Nowadays he was trying to keep to twenty and failing by about five. He
stabbed the cigarette out. He was getting near to his target, and the
rigid training rules that had been drilled into him at The Park must
from now on be observed meticulously. The champagne wouldn't count. He
was amused by the conscience this girl had awakened in him. He was also
surprised and impressed.

Mary Goodnight knew that the last question was the one he would want
answered first. She reached into a plain straw handbag on a gold metal
chain and handed him a thick envelope. She said, "Mostly in used
singles. A few fivers. Shall I debit you direct or put it in as
expenses?"

"Direct please."

"The top man at Frome is Tony Hugill. Nice man. Nice wife. Nice
children. We've had a lot to do with him, so he'll be friendly. He was
in Naval Intelligence during the war, sort of commando job, so he knows
the score. Does a good job--Frome produces about a quarter of Jamaica's
sugar output--but Hurricane Flora and the tremendous rains we've been
having here have delayed the crop. Besides that, he's having a lot of
trouble with cane burning and other small sabotage--mostly with thermite
bombs brought in from Cuba. Jamaica's sugar is competition for Castro,
you see. And with Flora and all the rains, the Cuban crop is going to be
only about three million tons this year, compared with a Batista level
of about seven--and very late because the rains have played havoc with
the sucrose content."

She smiled her wide smile. "No secrets. Just reading the _Gleaner_. I
don't understand it all, but apparently, because of the damaged crops
and increased world consumption, there's a tremendous chess game going
on all over the world in sugar--in what they call sugar futures, that's
sort of buying the stuff forward for delivery dates later in the year.
Washington's trying to keep the price down, to upset Cuba's economy, and
Castro's out to keep the world price up so that he can bargain with
Russia. So it's worth Castro's trouble to do as much damage as possible
to rival sugar crops. He's only got his sugar to sell and he wants food
badly. This wheat the Americans are selling to Russia. A lot of that
will find its way back to Cuba, in exchange for sugar, to feed the Cuban
sugar croppers." She smiled again.

"Pretty daft business, isn't it? I don't think Castro can hold out much
longer. The missile business in Cuba must have cost Russia about a
billion pounds. And now they're having to pour money into Cuba, money
and goods, to keep the place on its feet. I can't help thinking they'll
pull out soon and leave Castro to go the way Batista went. It's a
fiercely Catholic country, and Hurricane Flora was considered as the
final judgment from heaven. It sat over the island and simply whipped
it, day after day, for five days. No hurricane in history has ever
behaved like that. The churchgoers don't miss an omen like that. It was
a straight indictment of the regime."

Bond said with admiration, "Goodnight, you're a treasure. You've
certainly been doing your homework."

The direct blue eyes looked straight into his, dodging the compliment.
"This is the stuff I live with here. It's built into the Station. But I
thought you might like some background to Frome, and what I've said
explains why WISCO are getting these cane fires. At least we think it
is." She took a sip of her drink. "Well, that's all about sugar. The
car's outside. You remember Strangways? Well, it's his old Sunbeam
Alpine. The Station bought it, and now I use it. It's a bit aged, but
it's still pretty fast and it won't let you down. It's rather bashed
about, so it won't be conspicuous. The tank's full, and I've put the
survey map in the glove compartment."

"That's fine. Now, last question and then we'll go and have dinner and
tell each other our life stories. But, by the way, what's happened to
your chief, Ross?"

Mary Goodnight looked worried. "To tell you the truth, I don't exactly
know. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and
locate a man called Scaramanga. He's a local gunman of some sort. I
don't know much about him. Apparently Headquarters wants him traced for
some reason." She smiled ruefully. "Nobody ever tells me anything that's
interesting. I just do the donkey work. Well, Commander Ross was due
back two days ago and he hasn't turned up. I've had to send off a Red
Warning, but I've been told to give him another week."

"Well, I'm glad he's out of the way. I'd rather have his Number Two.
Last question. What about this three-and-a-half Love Lane? Did you get
anywhere?"

Mary Goodnight blushed. "Did I not! That was a fine question to get me
mixed up with. Alexander's was non-committal, and I finally had to go to
the Special Branch. I shan't be able to show my face there for weeks.
Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a,
er"--she wrinkled her nose--"it's a famous disorderly house in Sav' La
Mar."

Bond laughed out loud at her discomfiture. He teased her with malicious
but gentle sadism. "You mean it's a whorehouse?"

"James! For heaven's sake! Must you be so crude?"




CHAPTER 5. NO. 3 1/2 LOVE LANE


The south coast of Jamaica is not as beautiful as the north, and it is a
long hundred-and-twenty-mile hack over very mixed road surfaces from
Kingston to Savannah La Mar. Mary Goodnight had insisted on coming
along, "to navigate and help with the punctures." Bond had not demurred.

Spanish Town, May Pen, Alligator Pond, Black River, Whitehouse Inn,
where they had luncheon--the miles unrolled under the fierce sun until,
late in the afternoon, a stretch of good straight road brought them
among the spruce little villas, each with its patch of brownish lawn,
its bougainvillaea, and its single bed of canna lilies and crotons,
which make up the "smart" suburbs of the modest little coastal township
that is, in the vernacular, Sav' La Mar.

Except for the old quarter on the waterfront, it is not a typically
Jamaican town, or a very attractive one. The villas, built for the
senior staff of the Frome sugar estates, are drably respectable, and the
small straight streets smack of a most un-Jamaican bout of town planning
around the 1920s. Bond stopped at the first garage, took in petrol, and
put Mary Goodnight into a hired car for the return trip. He had told her
nothing of his assignment, and she had asked no questions when Bond told
her vaguely that it was "something to do with Cuba." Bond said he would
keep in touch when he could, and get back to her when his job was done,
and then, businesslike, she was off back down the dusty road and Bond
drove slowly down to the waterfront. He identified Love Lane, a narrow
street of brokendown shops and houses that meandered back into the town
from the jetty. He circled the area to get the neighbouring geography
clear in his mind and parked the car in a deserted area near the spit of
sand on which fishing canoes were drawn up on raised stilts. He locked
the car and sauntered back and into Love Lane. There were a few people
about, poor people of the fisherman class. Bond bought a packet of Royal
Blend at a small general store that smelled of spices. He asked where
Number 3 1/2 was and got a look of polite curiosity. "Further up de street.
Mebbe a chain. Big house on de right." Bond moved over to the shady side
and strolled on. He slit open the packet with his thumbnail and lit a
cigarette to help the picture of an idle tourist examining a corner of
old Jamaica. There was only one big house on the right. He took some
time lighting the cigarette while he examined it.

It must once have had importance, perhaps as the private house of a
merchant. It was of two storeys with balconies running all the way round
and it was wooden built with silvering shingles, but the gingerbread
tracery beneath the eaves was broken in many places and there was hardly
a scrap of paint left on the jalousies that closed off all the upstairs
windows and most of those below. The patch of "yard" bordering the
street was inhabited by a clutch of vulturine-necked chickens that
pecked at nothing and three skeletal Jamaican black-and-tan mongrels.
They gazed lazily across the street at Bond and scratched and bit at
invisible flies. But in the background, there was one very beautiful
_lignum vitae_ tree in full blue blossom. Bond guessed that it was as
old as the house--perhaps fifty years. It certainly owned the property
by right of strength and adornment. In its delicious black shade a girl
in a rocking chair sat reading a magazine. At the range of about thirty
yards she looked tidy and pretty. Bond strolled up the opposite side of
the street until a corner of the house hid the girl. Then he stopped and
examined the house more closely.

Wooden steps ran up to an open front door, over whose lintel, whereas
few of the other buildings in the street bore numbers, a big enamelled
metal sign announced "3 1/2" in white on dark blue. Of the two broad
windows that bracketed the door, the left-hand one was shuttered, but
the right-hand one was a single broad sheet of rather dusty glass
through which tables and chairs and a serving counter could be seen.
Over the door a swinging sign said DREAMLAND CAF in sun-bleached
letters, and round this window were advertisements for Red Stripe beer,
Royal Blend, Four Aces cigarettes, and Coca-Cola. A hand-painted sign
said SNAX and, underneath, HOT COCK SOUP FRESH DAILY.

Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead
curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and
was inspecting its contents--a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile
of packeted banana crisps, and some jars--when he heard quick steps
outside. The girl from the garden came in. The beads clashed softly
behind her. She was an octoroon, pretty, as in Bond's imagination the
word octoroon suggested. She had bold, brown eyes, slightly uptilted at
the corners, beneath a fringe of silken black hair. (Bond reflected that
there would be Chinese blood somewhere in her heredity.) She was dressed
in a short frock of shocking pink which went well with the coffee and
cream of her skin. Her wrists and ankles were tiny. She smiled politely.
The eyes flirted. "Evenin'."

"Good evening. Could I have a Red Stripe?"

"Sure." She went behind the counter. She gave him a quick glimpse of
fine bosoms as she bent to the door of the icebox--a glimpse not
dictated by the geography of the place. She nudged the door shut with a
knee, deftly uncapped the bottle, and put it on the counter beside an
almost clean glass. "That'll be one and six."

Bond paid. She rang the money into the cash register. Bond drew up a
stool to the counter and sat down. She rested her arms on the wooden top
and looked across at him. "Passing through?"

"More or less. I saw this place was for sale in yesterday's _Gleaner_. I
thought I'd take a look at it. Nice big house. Does it belong to you?"

She laughed. It was a pity, because she was a pretty girl, but the teeth
had been sharpened by munching raw sugar cane. "What a hope! I'm sort
of, well sort of manager. There's the caf"--she pronounced it
caif--"and mebbe you heard we got other attractions."

Bond looked puzzled. "What sort?"

"Girls. Six bedrooms upstairs. Very clean. It only cost a pound. There's
Sarah up there now. Care to meet up with her?"

"Not today, thanks. It's too hot. But do you only have one at a time?"

"There's Lindy, but she's engaged. She's a big girl. If you like them
big, she'll be free in half an hour." She glanced at a kitchen clock on
the wall behind her. "Around six o'clock. It'll be cooler then."

"I prefer girls like you. What's your name?"

She giggled. "I only do it for love. I told you I just manage the place.
They call me Tiffy."

"That's an unusual name. How did you come by it?"

"My momma had six girls. Called them all after flowers. Violet, Rose,
Cherry, Pansy, and Lily. Then when I came, she couldn't think of any
more flower names so she called me 'Artificial.'" Tiffy waited for him
to laugh. When he didn't, she went on. "When I went to school they all
said it was a wrong name and laughed at me and shortened it to Tiffy and
that's how I've stayed."

"Well, I think it's a very pretty name. My name's Mark."

She flirted. "You a saint too?"

"No one's ever accused me of it. I've been up at Frome doing a job. I
like this part of the island and it crossed my mind to find some place
to rent. But I want to be closer to the sea than this. I'll have to look
around a bit more. Do you rent rooms by the night?"

She reflected. "Sure. Why not. But you may find it a bit noisy. There's
sometimes a customer who's taken some drinks too many. And there's not
too much plumbing." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "But I
wouldn't have advised you to rent the place. The shingles are in bad
shape. Cost you mebbe five hunnerd, mebbe a thousand, to get the roof
done."

"It's nice of you to tell me that. But why's the place being sold?
Trouble with the police?"

"Not so much. We operate a respectable place. But in the _Gleaner_,
after Mr. Brown, that's my boss, you read that _et ux_?"

"Yes."

"Well, seems that means 'and his wife.' And Mistress Brown, Mistress
Agatha Brown, she was Church of England, but she just done gone to the
Catholics. And it seems they don't hold with places like
three-and-a-half, not even when they're decently run. And their church
here, just up the street, seems that needs a new roof like here. So
Mistress Brown figures to kill two birds with the same stone and she
goes on at Mr. Brown to close the place down and sell it and with her
portion she goin' fix the roof for the Catholics."

"That's a shame. It seems a nice quiet place. What's going to happen to
you?"

"Guess I'll move to Kingston. Live with one of my sisters and mebbe work
in one of the big stores--Issa's mebbe, or Nathan's. Sav' La Mar is sort
of quiet." The brown eyes became introspective. "But I'll sure miss the
place. Folks have fun here and Love Lane's a pretty street. We're all
friends up and down the Lane. It's got sort of, sort of...."

"Atmosphere."

"Right. That's what it's got. Like sort of old Jamaica. Like it must
have been in the old days. Everyone's friends with each other. Help each
other when they have trouble. You'd be surprised how often the girls do
it for free if the man's a good feller, regular customer sort of, and
he's short." The brown eyes gazed inquiringly at Bond to see if he
understood the strength of the evidence.

"That's nice of them. But it can't be good for business."

She laughed. "This ain't no business, Mister Mark. Not while I'm running
it. This is a public service, like water and electricity and health and
education and...." She broke off and glanced over her shoulder at the
clock which said 5:45. "Hell! You get me talking so much I've forgot Joe
and May. It's their supper." She went to the caf window and wound it
down. At once, from the direction of the _lignum vitae_ tree, two large
black birds, slightly smaller than ravens, whirled in, circled the
interior of the caf amidst a metallic clangour of song unlike the song
of any other bird in the world, and untidily landed on the counter
within reach of Bond's hand. They strutted up and down imperiously,
eyeing Bond without fear from bold, golden eyes and went through a
piercing repertoire of tinny whistles and trills, some of which required
them to ruffle themselves up to almost twice their normal size.

Tiffy went back behind the bar, took two pennies out of her purse, rang
them up on the register, and took two ginger cakes out of the flyblown
display case. She broke off bits and fed the two birds, always the
smaller of the two, the female, first, and they greedily seized the
pieces from her fingers and, holding the scraps to the wooden counter
with a claw, tore them into smaller fragments and devoured them. When it
was all over, and Tiffy had chided them both for pecking her fingers,
they made small, neat white messes on the counter and looked pleased
with themselves. Tiffy took a cloth and cleaned up the messes. She said,
"We call them kling-klings but learned folk call them Jamaican grackles.
They're very friendly folk. The doctorbird, the humming bird with the
streamer tail, is the Jamaican national bird, but I like these best.
They're not so beautiful, but they're the friendliest birds and they're
funny besides. They seem to know it. They're like naughty black
thieves."

The kling-klings eyed the cake stand and complained stridently that
their supper was over. James Bond produced twopence and handed it over.
"They're wonderful. Like mechanical toys. Give them a second course from
me."

Tiffy rang up the money and took out two more cakes. "Now listen, Joe
and May. This nice gemmun's been nice to Tiffy and he's now being nice
to you. So don't you peck my fingers and make messes or mebbe he won't
visit us again." She was halfway through feeding the birds when she
cocked an ear. There was the noise of creaking boards somewhere overhead
and then the sound of quiet footsteps treading stairs. All of a sudden
Tiffy's animated face became quiet and tense. She whispered to Bond:
"That's Lindy's man. Important man. He's a good customer here. But he
don't like me because I won't go with him. So he can talk rough
sometimes. And he don't like Joe and May because he reckons they make
too much noise." She shooed the birds in the direction of the open
window, but they saw there was half their cake to come and they just
fluttered into the air and then down to the counter again. Tiffy
appealed to Bond. "Be a good friend and just sit quiet whatever he says.
He likes to get people mad. And then...." She stopped. "Will you have
another Red Stripe, mister?"

Bead curtains swished in the shadowy back of the room.

Bond had been sitting with his chin propped on his right hand. He now
dropped the hand to the counter and sat back. The Walther PPK inside the
waistband of his trousers to the left of his flat stomach signalled its
presence to his skin. The fingers of his right hand curled slightly,
ready to receive its butt. He moved his left foot off the rail of the
stool onto the floor. He said, "That'd be fine." He unbuttoned his coat
with his left hand and then, with the same hand, took out his
handkerchief and wiped his face with it. "It always gets extra hot
around six before the Undertaker's Wind has started to blow."

"Mister, the undertaker's right here. You care to feel his wind?"

James Bond turned his head slowly. Dusk had crept into the big room and
all he could see was a pale, tall outline. The man was carrying a
suitcase. He put it down on the floor and came forward. He must have
been wearing rubber-soled shoes for his feet made no sound. Tiffy moved
nervously behind the counter and a switch clicked. Half a dozen
low-voltage bulbs came to life in rusty brackets around the walls.

Bond said easily, "You made me jump."

Scaramanga came up and leant against the counter. The description in
Records was exact, but it had not caught the catlike menace of the big
man, the extreme breadth of the shoulders, and the narrow waist, or the
cold immobility of the eyes that now examined Bond with an expression of
aloof disinterest. He was wearing a well-cut, single-breasted tan suit
and co-respondent shoes in brown and white. Instead of a tie, he wore a
high stock in white silk secured by a gold pin the shape of a miniature
pistol. There should have been something theatrical about the getup but,
perhaps because of the man's fine figure, there wasn't.

He said, "I sometimes make 'em dance. Then I shoot their feet off."
There was no trace of a foreign accent underneath the American.

Bond said, "That sounds rather drastic. What do you do it for?"

"The last time it was five thousand dollars. Seems like you don't know
who I am. Didn't the cool cat tell you?"

Bond glanced at Tiffy. She was standing very still, her hands by her
sides. The knuckles were white.

Bond said, "Why should she? Why would I want to know?"

There was a quick flash of gold. The small black hole looked directly at
Bond's navel. "Because of this. What are you doing here, stranger? Kind
of a coincidence finding a city slicker at three-and-a-half. Or at Sav'
La Mar for the matter of that. Not by any chance from the police? Or any
of their friends?"

"Kamerad!" Bond raised his hands in mock surrender. He lowered them and
turned to Tiffy. "Who is this man? A one-man takeover bid for Jamaica?
Or a refugee from a circus? Ask him what he'd like to drink. Whoever he
is, it was a good act." James Bond knew that he had very nearly pulled
the trigger of the gun. Hit a gunman in his vanity.... He had a quick
vision of himself writhing on the floor, his right hand without the
power to reach for his own weapon. Tiffy's pretty face was no longer
pretty. It was a taut skull. She stared at James Bond. Her mouth opened
but no sound came from the gaping lips. She liked him and she knew he
was dead. The kling-klings, Joe and May, smelled the same electricity.
With a tremendous din of metallic squawks, they fled for the open
window, like black thieves escaping into the night.

The explosions from the Colt .45 were deafening. The two birds
disintegrated against the violet backdrop of the dusk, the scraps of
feathers and pink flesh blasting out of the yellow light of the caf
into the limbo of the deserted street like shrapnel.

There was a moment of deafening silence. James Bond didn't move. He sat
where he was, waiting for the tension of the deed to relax. It didn't.
With an inarticulate scream that was half a filthy word, Tiffy took
James Bond's bottle of Red Stripe off the counter and clumsily flung it.
There came a distant crash of glass from the back of the room. Then,
having made her puny gesture, Tiffy fell to her knees behind the counter
and went into sobbing hysterics.

James Bond drank down the rest of his beer and got slowly to his feet.
He walked towards Scaramanga and was about to pass him when the man
reached out a languid left arm and caught him at the biceps. He held the
snout of his gun to his nose, sniffing delicately. The expression in the
dead brown eyes was faraway. He said, "Mister, there's something quite
extra about the smell of death. Care to try it?" He held out the
glittering gun as if he was offering James Bond a rose.

Bond stood quite still. He said, "Mind your manners. Take your hand off
me."

Scaramanga raised his eyebrows. The flat, leaden gaze seemed to take in
Bond for the first time.

He released his grip.

James Bond went on round the edge of the counter. When he came opposite
the other man, he found the eyes were now looking at him with faint,
scornful curiosity. Bond stopped. The sobbing of the girl was the crying
of a small dog. Somewhere down the street a sound system--a loudspeaker
record player--began braying calypso.

Bond looked the man in the eye. He said, "Thanks. I've tried it. I
recommend the Berlin vintage nineteen forty-five." He smiled a friendly,
only slightly ironical smile. "But I expect you were too young to be at
that tasting."




CHAPTER 6. THE EASY GRAND


Bond knelt down beside Tiffy and gave her a couple of sharp slaps on the
right cheek. Then on the left. The wet eyes came back into focus. She
put her hand up to her face and looked at Bond with surprise. Bond got
to his feet. He took a cloth and wetted it at the tap, then leant down
and put his arm round her and wiped the cloth gently over her face. Then
he lifted her up and handed her her bag that was on a shelf behind the
counter. He said, "Come on, Tiffy. Make up that pretty face again.
Business'll be warming up soon. The leading lady's got to look her
best."

Tiffy took the bag and opened it. She looked past Bond and saw
Scaramanga for the first time since the shooting. The pretty lips drew
back in a snarl. She whispered fiercely so that only Bond could hear,
"I'm goin' fix that man, but good. There's Mother Edna up Orange Hill
way. She's an obeah top woman. I'll go up there tomorrow. Come a few
days, he won't know what hit him." She took out a mirror and began doing
up her face. Bond reached into his hip pocket and counted out five
one-pound notes. He stuffed them into her open bag.

"You forget all about it. This'll buy you a nice canary in a cage to
keep you company. Anyway, another pair of klings'll come along if you
put some food out." He patted her shoulder and moved away. When he came
up with Scaramanga he stopped and said, "That may have been a good
circus act"--he used the word again on purpose--"but it was rough on the
girl. Give her some money."

Scaramanga said "Shove it" out of the corner of his mouth. He said
suspiciously, "And what's all this yack about circuses?" He turned to
face Bond. "Just stop where you are, mister, and answer a few questions.
Like I said, are you from the police? You've sure got the smell of cops
around you. If not, what are you doing here-abouts?"

Bond said, "People don't tell me what to do. I tell them." He walked on
into the middle of the room and sat down at a table. He said, "Come and
sit down and stop trying to lean on me. I'm unleanable-on."

Scaramanga shrugged. He took two long strides, picked up one of the
metal chairs, twirled it round and thrust it between his legs, and sat
ass-backwards, his left arm lying along the back of the chair. His right
arm rested on his thigh, inches from the pistol butt that showed above
the waistband of his trousers. Bond recognized that it was a good
working position for a gunman, the metal back of the chair acting as a
shield for most of the body. This was certainly a most careful and
professional man.

Bond, both hands in full view on the tabletop, said cheerfully, "No. I'm
not from the police. My name's Mark Hazard. I'm from a company called
Transworld Consortium. I've been doing a job up at Frome, the WISCO
sugar place. Know it?"

"Sure I know it. What you been doing there?"

"Not so fast, my friend. First of all, who are you and what's your
business?"

"Scaramanga. Francisco Scaramanga. Labour relations. Ever heard of me?"

Bond frowned. "Can't say I have. Should I have?"

"Some people who hadn't are dead."

"A lot of people who haven't heard of me are dead." Bond leaned back. He
crossed one leg over the other, above the knee, and grasped the ankle in
a clubman pose. "I do wish you'd stop talking in heroics. For instance,
seven hundred million Chinese have certainly heard of neither of us. You
must be a frog in a very small pool."

Scaramanga did not rise to the jibe. He said reflectively, "Yeah. I
guess you could call the Caribbean a pretty small pool. But there's good
pickin's to be had from it. The Man with the Golden Gun. That's what
they call me in these parts."

"It's a handy tool for solving labour problems. We could do with you up
at Frome."

"Been having trouble up there?" Scaramanga looked bored.

"Too many cane fires."

"Was that your business?"

"Sort of. One of the jobs of my company is insurance investigation."

"Security work. I've come across guys like you before. Thought I could
smell the cop-smell." Scaramanga looked satisfied that his guess had
been right. "Did you get anywhere?"

"Picked up a few Rastafari. I'd have liked to get rid of the lot of
them. But they went crying to their union that they were being
discriminated against because of their religion, so we had to call a
halt. So the fires'll begin again soon. That's why I say we could do
with a good enforcer up there." Bond added blandly, "I take it that's
another name for your profession?"

Again Scaramanga dodged the sneer. He said, "You carry a gun?"

"Of course. You don't go after the Rastas without one."

"What kind of a gun?"

"Walther PPK. Seven sixty-five millimetre."

"Yes, that's a stopper all right." Scaramanga turned towards the
counter. "Hey, cool cat. Couple of Red Stripes, if you're in business
again." He turned back and the blank eyes looked hard at Bond. "What's
your next job?"

"Don't know. I'll have to contact London and find out if they've got any
other problems in the area. But I'm in no hurry. I work for them more or
less on a free-lance basis. Why? Any suggestions?"

The other man sat quiet while Tiffy came out from behind the counter.
She came over to the table and placed the tin tray with the bottles and
glasses in front of Bond. She didn't look at Scaramanga. Scaramanga
uttered a harsh bark of laughter. He reached inside his coat and took
out an alligator-skin billfold. He extracted a hundred-dollar bill and
threw it on the table. "No hard feelings, cool cat. You'd be okay if you
didn't always keep your legs together. Go buy yourself some more birds
with that. I like to have smiling people around me."

Tiffy picked up the bill. She said, "Thanks, mister. You'd be surprised
what I'm going to spend your money on." She gave him a long, hard look
and turned on her heel.

Scaramanga shrugged. He reached for a bottle of beer and a glass, and
both men poured and drank. Scaramanga took out an expensive cigar case,
selected a pencil-thin cheroot and lit it with a match. He let the smoke
dribble out between his lips and inhaled the thin stream up his
nostrils. He did this several times with the same mouthful of smoke
until the smoke was dissipated. All the while he stared across the table
at Bond, seeming to weigh up something in his mind. He said, "Care to
earn yourself a grand--a thousand bucks?"

Bond said, "Possibly." He paused and added, "Probably." What he meant
was, "Of course! If it means staying close to you, my friend."

Scaramanga smoked awhile in silence. A car stopped outside and two
laughing men came quickly up the steps. When they came through the bead
curtains, working-class Jamaicans, they stopped laughing and went
quietly over to the counter and began whispering to Tiffy. Then they
both slapped a pound note on the counter and, making a wide detour away
from the white men, disappeared through the curtains at the back of the
room. Their laughter began again as Bond heard their footsteps on the
stairs.

Scaramanga hadn't taken his eyes from Bond's face. Now he said, keeping
his voice low, "I got myself a problem. Some partners of mine, they've
taken an interest in this Negril development. Far end of the property.
Place called Bloody Bay. Know it?"

"I've seen it on the map. Just short of Green Island Harbour."

"Right. So I've got some shares in the business. So we start building
the Thunderbird Hotel and get the first storey finished and the main
living rooms and restaurant and so on. So then the tourist boom slackens
off--Americans get frightened of being so close to Cuba or some such
crap. And the banks get difficult and money begins to run short. Follow
me?"

"So you're a stale bull of the place?"

"Right. So I'm opening the hotel for a few days because I got a
half-dozen of the main stockholders to fly in for a meeting on the spot.
Sort of look the place over and get our heads together and figure what
to do next. Now, I want to give these guys a good time, so I'm getting a
smart combo over from Kingston, calypso singers, limbo dancers, plenty
of girls--all the jazz. And there's swimming, and one of the features of
the place is a small-scale railway that used to handle the sugar cane.
Runs to Green Island Harbour, where I've got a forty-foot Chris-Craft
Roamer. Deep-sea fishing. That'll be another outing. Get me? Give the
guys a real good time."

"So that they'll get all enthusiastic and buy out your share of the
stock?"

Scaramanga frowned angrily. "I'm not paying you a grand to get the wrong
ideas. Or any ideas for that matter."

"What for then?"

For a moment or two Scaramanga went through his smoking routine, the
little pillars of smoke vanishing again and again into the black
nostrils. It seemed to calm him. His forehead cleared. He said, "Some of
these men are kind of rough. We're all stockholders, of course, but that
don't necessarily mean we're friends. Understand? I'll be wanting to
hold some meetings, private meetings, with maybe only two or three guys
at a time, sort of sounding out the different interests. Could be that
some of the other guys, the ones not invited to a particular meeting,
might get it into their heads to bug a meeting or try and get wise to
what goes on in one way or another. So it just occurs to me that you
being live to security and such, that you could act as a kind of guard
at these meetings, clean the room for mikes, stay outside the door and
see that no one comes nosing around, see that when I want to be private
I git private. D'you get the picture?"

Bond had to laugh. He said, "So you want to hire me as a kind of
personal bodyguard. Is that it?"

The frown was back. "And what's so funny about that, mister? It's good
money, ain't it? Three maybe four days in a luxury joint like the
Thunderbird. A thousand bucks at the end of it? What's so screwy about
that proposition, eh?" Scaramanga mashed out the butt of his cigar
against the underside of the table. A shower of sparks fell. He let them
lie.

Bond scratched the back of his head as if reflecting. Which he
was--furiously. He knew that he hadn't heard the full story. He also
knew that it was odd, to say the least of it, for this man to hire a
complete stranger to do this job for him. The job itself stood up, but
only just. It made sense that Scaramanga would not want to hire a local
man, an ex-policeman for instance, even if one could be found. Such a
man might have friends in the hotel business who would be interested in
the speculative side of the Negril development. And, of course, on the
plus side, Bond would be achieving what he had never thought
possible--he would have got right inside Scaramanga's guard. Or would
he? There was the strong smell of a trap. But, assuming that Bond had
not, by some obscure bit of ill luck, been blown, he couldn't for the
life of him see what the trap could be. Well, clearly, he must make the
gamble. In so many respects it was a chance in a million.

Bond lit a cigarette. He said, "I was only laughing at the idea of a man
of your particular skills wanting protection. But it all sounds great
fun. Of course I'll come along. When do we start? I've got a car at the
bottom of the road."

Scaramanga thrust out an inside wrist and looked at a thin gold watch on
a two-coloured gold bracelet. He said, "Six thirty-two. My car'll be
outside." He got up. "Let's go. But don't forget one thing, mister
whoosis. I rile mighty easy. Get me?"

Bond said easily, "I saw how annoyed you got with those inoffensive
birds." He stood up. "I don't see any reason why either of us should get
riled."

Scaramanga said indifferently, "Okay, then." He walked to the back of
the room and picked up his suitcase, new-looking but cheap, strode to
the exit, and clashed through the bead curtains and down the steps.

Bond went quickly over to the counter. "Goodbye, Tiffy. Hope I'll be
coming by again one day. If anyone should ask after me, say I'm at the
Thunderbird Hotel at Bloody Bay."

Tiffy reached out a hand and timidly touched his sleeve. "Go careful
over there, Mister Mark. There's gangster money in that place. And watch
out for yourself." She jerked her head towards the exit: "That's the
worstest man I ever heard tell of."

Then she leaned forward and whispered, "That's a thousand pounds' worth
of ganja he's got in the bag. A Rasta left it for him this morning. So I
smelled the bag." She drew quickly back.

Bond said, "Thanks, Tiffy. See Mother Edna puts a good hex on him. I'll
tell you why someday. I hope. 'Bye!" He went quickly out and down into
the street, where a red Thunderbird convertible was waiting, its exhaust
making a noise like an expensive motorboat. The chauffeur was a
Jamaican, smartly dressed, with a peaked cap. A red pennant on the
wireless aerial said THUNDERBIRD HOTEL in gold. Scaramanga was sitting
beside the chauffeur. He said impatiently, "Get in the back and we'll
give you a lift down to your car. Then follow along. It gets a good road
after a while."

James Bond got into the car behind Scaramanga and wondered whether to
shoot the man now, in the back of the head--the old Gestapo-K.G.B. point
of puncture. A mixture of reasons prevented him--the itch of curiosity,
an inbuilt dislike of cold murder, the feeling that this was not the
predestined moment, the likelihood that he would have to murder the
chauffeur also--these, combined with the softness of the night and the
fact that the sound system was now playing a good recording of one of
his favourites, "After You've Gone," and that cicadas were singing from
the _lignum vitae_ tree, said no. But at that moment, as the car coasted
down Love Lane towards the bright mercury of the sea, James Bond knew
that he was not only disobeying orders, or at best dodging them, but
also being a bloody fool.




CHAPTER 7. UN-REAL ESTATE


When he arrives at a place on a dark night, particularly in an alien
land which he has never seen before--a strange house, perhaps, or an
hotel--even the most alert man is assailed by the confused sensations of
the meanest tourist.

James Bond more or less knew the map of Jamaica. He knew that the sea
had always been close to him on his left and, as he followed the twin
red glares of the leading car through an impressive entrance gate of
wrought iron and up an avenue of young royal palms, he heard the waves
scrolling into a beach very close to his car. The fields of sugar cane
would, he guessed from the approach, come close up against the new high
wall that surrounded the Thunderbird property, and there was a slight
smell of mangrove swamp coming down from below the high hills whose
silhouette he had occasionally glimpsed under a scudding three-quarter
moon on his right. But otherwise he had no clue to exactly where he was
or what sort of a place he was now approaching and, particularly for
him, the sensation was an uncomfortable one.

The first law for a secret agent is to get his geography right, his
means of access and exit, and assure his communications with the outside
world. James Bond was uncomfortably aware that for the past hour he had
been driving into limbo, and that his nearest contact was a girl in a
brothel thirty miles away. The situation was not reassuring.

Half a mile ahead, someone must have seen the approaching lights of the
leading car and pressed switches, for there was a sudden blaze of
brilliant yellow illumination through the trees and a final sweep of the
drive revealed the hotel. With the theatrical lighting and the
surrounding blackness to conceal any evidence of halted construction
work, the place made a brave show. A vast pale-pink-and-white pillared
portico gave the hotel an aristocratic frontage, and when Bond drew up
behind the other car at the entrance, he could see through the tall
Regency windows a vista of black-and-white marble flooring beneath
blazing chandeliers. A bell captain and his Jamaican staff in red
jackets and black trousers hurried down the steps, and after showing
great deference to Scaramanga, took his suitcase and Bond's. Then the
small cavalcade moved into the entrance hall, where Bond wrote Mark
Hazard and the Kensington address of Transworld Consortium in the
register.

Scaramanga had been talking to a man who appeared to be the manager, a
young American with a neat face and a neat suit. He turned to Bond.
"You're in Number twenty-four in the west wing. I'm close by in Number
twenty. Order what you want from room service. See you about ten in the
morning. The guys'll be coming in from Kingston around midday. Okay?"
The cold eyes in the gaunt face didn't mind whether it was or not. Bond
said it was. He followed one of the bellboys with his suitcase across
the slippery marble floor and was led into a long white corridor with a
close-fitted carpet in royal-blue Wilton. There was a smell of new paint
and Jamaican cedar. The numbered doors and the light fittings were in
good taste. Bond's room was almost at the end on the left. Number 20 was
opposite. The bellhop unlocked Number 24 and held the door for Bond.
Air-conditioned air gushed out. It was a pleasant modern double bedroom
and bath in grey and white. When he was alone, Bond went to the
air-conditioning control and turned it to zero. Then he drew back the
curtains and wound down the two broad windows to let in real air.
Outside, the sea whispered softly on an invisible beach and the
moonlight splashed the black shadows of palms across trim lawns. To his
left, where the yellow light of the entrance showed a corner of the
gravel sweep, Bond heard his car being started up and driven away,
presumably to a parking lot, which would, he guessed, be at the rear so
as not to spoil the impact of the faade. He turned back into his room
and inspected it minutely. The only objects of suspicion were a large
picture on the wall above the two beds and the telephone. The picture
was a Jamaican market scene painted locally. Bond lifted it off its
nail, but the wall behind was innocent. He then took out a pocketknife,
laid the telephone carefully, so as not to shift the receiver, upside
down on a bed, and very quietly and carefully unscrewed the bottom
plate. He smiled his satisfaction. Behind the plate was a small
microphone joined by leads to the main cable inside the cradle. He
screwed back the plate with the same care and put the telephone quietly
back on the night table. He knew the gadget. It would be transistorized
and of sufficient power to pick up a conversation in normal tones
anywhere in the room. It crossed his mind to say very devout prayers out
loud before he went to bed. That would be a fitting prologue for the
central recording device!

James Bond unpacked his few belongings and called room service. A
Jamaican voice answered. Bond ordered a bottle of Walker's deluxe
bourbon, three glasses, ice, and, for nine o'clock, eggs Benedict. The
voice said, "Sure, sir." Bond then took off his clothes, put his gun and
holster under a pillow, rang for the valet, and had his suit taken away
to be pressed. By the time he had taken a hot shower followed by an
ice-cold one and pulled on a fresh pair of sea island cotton underpants,
the bourbon had arrived.

The best drink in the day is just before the first one (the Red Stripe
didn't count). James Bond put ice in the glass and three fingers of the
bourbon and swilled it round the glass to cool it and break it down with
the ice. He pulled a chair up to the window, put a low table beside it,
took _Profiles in Courage_ by Jack Kennedy out of his suitcase, happened
to open it at Edmund G. Ross ("I... looked down into my open grave"),
then went and sat down, letting the scented air, a compound of sea and
trees, breathe over his body, naked save for the underpants. He drank
the bourbon down in two long draughts and felt its friendly bite at the
back of his throat and in his stomach. He filled up his glass again,
this time with more ice to make it a weaker drink, and sat back and
thought about Scaramanga.

What was the man doing now? Talking long-distance with Havana or the
States? Organizing things for tomorrow? It would be interesting to see
these fat, frightened stockholders! If Bond knew anything, they would be
a choice bunch of hoods, the type that had owned the Havana hotels and
casinos in the old Batista days, the men that held the stock in Las
Vegas, that looked after the action in Miami. And whose money was
Scaramanga representing? There was so much hot money drifting around the
Caribbean that it might be any of the syndicates, any of the banana
dictators from the islands or the mainland. And the man himself? It had
been damned fine shooting that had killed the two birds swerving through
the window of 3 1/2. How in hell was Bond going to take him? On an impulse,
Bond went over to his bed and took the Walther from under the pillow. He
slipped out the magazine and pumped the single round onto the
counterpane. He tested the spring of the magazine and of the breech and
drew a quick bead on various objects round the room. He found he was
aiming an inch or so high. But that would be because the gun was lighter
without its loaded magazine. He snapped the magazine back and tried
again. Yes, that was better. He pumped a round into the breech, put up
the safety, and replaced the gun under the pillow. Then he went back to
his drink and picked up the book and forgot his worries in the high
endeavours of great men.

The eggs came and were good. The _mousseline_ sauce might have been
mixed at Maxim's. Bond had the tray removed, poured himself a last drink
and prepared for bed. Scaramanga would certainly have a master key.
Tomorrow, Bond would whittle himself a wedge to jam the door. For
tonight, he upended his suitcase just inside the door and balanced the
three glasses on top of it. It was a simple booby trap, but it would
give him all the warning he needed. Then he took off his shorts and got
into bed and slept.

A nightmare woke him, sweating, around two in the morning. He had been
defending a fort. There were other defenders with him, but they seemed
to be wandering around aimlessly, ineffectively, and when Bond shouted
to rally them, they seemed not to hear him. Out on the plain, Scaramanga
sat ass-backwards on the caf chair beside a huge golden cannon. Every
now and then, he put his long cigar to the touchhole, and there came a
tremendous flash of soundless flame. A black cannonball, as big as a
football, lobbed up high in the air and crashed down into the fort with
a shattering noise of breaking timber. Bond was armed with nothing but a
longbow, but even this he could not fire because every time he tried to
fit the notch of the arrow into the gut the arrow slipped out of his
fingers to the ground. He cursed his clumsiness. Any moment now and a
huge cannonball would land on the small open space where he was
standing! Out on the plain, Scaramanga reached his cigar to the
touchhole. The black ball soared up. It was coming straight for Bond! It
landed just in front of him and came rolling very slowly towards him,
getting bigger and bigger, smoke and sparks coming from its shortening
fuse. Bond threw up an arm to protect himself. Painfully, the arm
crashed into the side of the night table, and Bond woke up.

Bond got out of bed, gave himself a cold shower, and drank a glass of
water. By the time he was back in bed, he had forgotten the nightmare
and he went quickly to sleep and slept dreamlessly until 7:30 in the
morning. He put on swimming trunks, removed the barricade from in front
of the door, and went out into the passage. To his left, a door into the
garden was open and sun streamed in. He went out and was walking over
the dewy grass towards the beach when he heard a curious thumping noise
from among the palms to his right. He walked over. It was Scaramanga, in
trunks, attended by a good-looking young Negro holding a flame-coloured
terrycloth robe, doing exercises on a trampoline. Scaramanga's body
gleamed with sweat in the sunshine as he hurled himself high in the air
from the stretched canvas and bounded back, sometimes from his knees or
his buttocks and sometimes even from his head. It was an impressive
exercise in gymnastics. The prominent third nipple over the heart made
an obvious target! Bond walked thoughtfully down to the beautiful
crescent of white sand fringed with gently clashing palm trees. He dived
in, and because of the other man's example, swam twice as far as he had
intended.

James Bond had a quick and small breakfast in his room, dressed,
reluctantly because of the heat, in his dark blue suit, armed himself,
and went for a walk round the property. He quickly got the picture. The
night, and the lighted faade, had covered up a half-project. The east
wing on the other side of the lobby was still lath and plaster. The body
of the hotel--the restaurant, nightclub, and living rooms that were the
tail of the T-shaped structure--were mockups, stages for a dress
rehearsal, hastily assembled with the essential props, carpets, light
fixtures, and a scattering of furniture, but stinking of fresh paint and
wood shavings. Perhaps fifty men and women were at work, tacking up
curtains, vacuuming carpets, fixing the electricity, but no one was
employed on the essentials--the big cement mixers, the drills, the
ironwork that lay about behind the hotel like the abandoned toys of a
giant. At a guess, the place would need another year and another few
million pounds to become what the plans had said it was to be. Bond saw
Scaramanga's problem. Someone was going to complain about this. Others
would want to get out. But then again, others would want to buy in, but
cheaply, and use it as a tax loss to set against more profitable
enterprises elsewhere. Better to have a capital asset, with the big tax
concessions that Jamaica gave, than pay the money to Uncle Sam, Uncle
Fidel, Uncle Leoni of Venezuela. So Scaramanga's job would be to blind
his guests with pleasure, send them back half-drunk to their syndicates.
Would it work? Bond knew such people and he doubted it. They might go to
bed drunk with a pretty coloured girl but they would awake sober. Or
else they wouldn't have their jobs, they wouldn't be coming here with
their discreet briefcases.

He walked farther back on the property. He wanted to locate his car. He
found it on a deserted lot behind the west wing. The sun would get at it
where it was, so he drove it forward and into the shade of a giant ficus
tree. He checked the petrol and pocketed the ignition key. There were
not too many small precautions he could take.

On the parking lot the smell of the swamps was very strong. While it was
still comparatively cool, he decided to walk farther. He soon came to
the end of the young shrubs and guinea grass the landscaper had laid on.
Behind these was desolation--a great area of sluggish streams and
swampland from which the hotel land had been recovered. Egrets, shrikes,
and Louisiana herons rose and settled lazily, and there were strange
insect noises and the call of frogs and gekkos. On what would probably
be the border of the property, a biggish stream meandered towards the
sea, its muddy banks pitted with the holes of land crabs and water rats.
As Bond approached, there was a heavy splash and a man-sized alligator
left the bank and showed its snout before submerging. Bond smiled to
himself. No doubt, if the hotel got off the ground, all this area would
be turned into an asset. There would be native boatmen, suitably attired
as Arawak Indians, a landing stage, and comfortable boats with fringed
shades from which the guests could view the "tropical jungle" for an
extra ten dollars on the bill.

Bond glanced at his watch. He strolled back. To the left, not yet
screened by the young oleanders and crotons that had been planted for
this eventual purpose, were the kitchens and laundry and staff quarters,
the usual back quarters of a luxury hotel; and music, the heartbeat
thump of Jamaican calypso, came from their direction--presumably the
Kingston combo rehearsing. Bond walked round and under the portico into
the main lobby. Scaramanga was at the desk talking to the manager. When
he heard Bond's footsteps on the marble, he turned and looked, and gave
Bond a curt nod. He was dressed as on the previous day, and the high
white cravat suited the elegance of the hall. He said "Okay, then" to
the manager and, to Bond, "Let's go take a look at the conference room."

Bond followed him through the restaurant door and then through another
door to the right that opened into a lobby, one of whose walls was taken
up with the glasses and plates of a buffet. Beyond this was another
door. Scaramanga led the way through into what would one day perhaps be
a card room or writing room. Now there was nothing but a round table in
the centre of a wine-red carpet and seven white leatherette armchairs
with scratchpads and pencils in front of them. The chair facing the
door, presumably Scaramanga's, had a white telephone in front of it.

Bond went round the room and examined the windows and the curtains and
glanced at the wall brackets of the lighting. He said, "The brackets
could be bugged. And of course there's the telephone. Like me to go over
it?"

Scaramanga looked at Bond stonily. He said, "No need to. It's bugged all
right. By me. Got to have a record of what's said."

Bond said, "All right, then. Where do you want me to be?"

"Outside the door. Sitting reading a magazine or something. There'll be
the general meeting this afternoon around four. Tomorrow there'll maybe
be one or two smaller meetings, maybe just me and one of the guys. I
don't want any of these meetings to be disturbed. Got it?"

"Seems simple enough. Now, isn't it about time you told me the names of
these men and more or less who they represent and which ones, if any,
you're expecting trouble from?"

Scaramanga said, "Take a chair and a paper and pencil." He strolled up
and down the room. "First there's Mr. Hendriks. Dutchman. Represents the
European money, mostly Swiss. You needn't bother with him. He's not the
arguing type. Then there's Sam Binion from Detroit."

"The Purple Gang?"

Scaramanga stopped in his stride and looked hard at Bond. "These are all
respectable guys, mister whoosis."

"Hazard is the name."

"All right. Hazard, then. But respectable, you understand. Don't go
getting the notion that this is another Appalachia. These are all solid
businessmen. Get me? This Sam Binion, for instance. He's in real estate.
He and his friends are worth maybe twenty million bucks. See what I
mean? Then there's Leroy Gengerella. Miami. Owns Gengerella Enterprises.
Big shot in the entertainment world. He may cut up rough. Guys in that
line of business like quick profits and a quick turnover. And Ruby
Rotkopf, the hotel man from Vegas. He'll ask the difficult questions
because he'll already know most of the answers from experience. Hal
Garfinkel from Chicago. He's in labour relations, like me. Represents a
lot of Teamster Union funds. He shouldn't be any trouble. Those unions
have got so much money they don't know where to put it. That makes five.
Last comes Louie Paradise from Phoenix, Arizona. Owns Paradise Slots,
the biggest people in the one-armed bandit business. Got casino
interests too. I can't figure which way he'll bet. That's the lot."

"And who do you represent, Mr. Scaramanga?"

"Caribbean money."

"Cuban?"

"I said Caribbean. Cuba's in the Caribbean, isn't it?"

"Castro or Batista?"

The frown was back. Scaramanga's right hand balled into a fist. "I told
you not to rile me, mister. So don't go prying into my affairs or you'll
get hurt. And that's for sure." As if he could hardly control himself
longer, the big man turned on his heel and strode brusquely out of the
room.

James Bond smiled. He turned back to the list in front of him. A strong
reek of high gangsterdom rose from the paper. But the name he was most
interested in was Mr. Hendriks, who represented "European money." If
that was his real name, and he was a Dutchman, so, James Bond reflected,
was he.

He tore off three sheets of paper to efface the impression of his pencil
and walked out and along into the lobby. A bulky man was approaching the
desk from the entrance. He was sweating mightily in his unseasonable
wooden-looking suit. He might have been anybody--an Antwerp diamond
merchant, a German dentist, a Swiss bank manager. The pale,
square-jowled face was totally anonymous. He put a heavy briefcase on
the desk and said in a thick Central European accent, "I am Mr.
Hendriks. I think it is that you have a room for me, isn't it?"




CHAPTER 8. PASS THE CANAPS!


The cars began rolling up. Scaramanga was in evidence. He switched a
careful smile of welcome on and off. No hands were shaken. The host was
greeted either as "Pistols" or "Mr. S." except by Mr. Hendriks, who
called him nothing.

Bond stood within earshot of the desk and fitted the names to the men.
In general appearance they were all much of a muchness. Dark-faced,
clean-shaven, around five feet six, hard-eyed above thinly smiling
mouths, curt of speech to the manager. They all held firmly on to their
briefcases when the bellboys tried to add them to the luggage on the
rubber-tyred barrows. They dispersed to their rooms along the west wing.
Bond took out his list and added hatcheck notations to each one except
Hendriks, who was clearly etched in Bond's memory. Gengerella became
"Italian origin, mean, pursed mouth"; Rotkopf, "Thick neck, totally
bald, Jew"; Binion, "bat ears, scar down left cheek, limp"; Garfinkel,
"the toughest, bad teeth, gun under right armpit"; and, finally,
Paradise, "Showman type, cocky, false smile, diamond ring."

Scaramanga came up. "What's that you're writing?"

"Just notes to remember them by."

"Let's see it." Scaramanga held out a demanding hand.

Bond gave him the list.

Scaramanga ran his eyes down it. He handed it back. "Fair enough. But
you needn't have mentioned the only gun you noticed. They'll all be
protected. These kinda guys are nervous when they move abroad."

"What of?"

Scaramanga shrugged. "Maybe the natives."

"The last people who worried about the natives were the redcoats,
perhaps a hundred and fifty years ago."

"Who cares? See you in the bar around twelve. I'll be introducing you as
my personal assistant."

"That'll be fine."

Scaramanga's brows came together. Bond strolled off in the direction of
his bedroom. He proposed to needle this man, and go on needling until it
came to a fight. For the time being, the other man would probably take
it because it seemed he needed Bond. But there would come a moment,
probably on an occasion when there were witnesses, when his vanity would
be so sharply pricked that he would draw. Then Bond would have a small
edge, for it would be he who had thrown down the glove. The tactic was a
crude one, but Bond could think of no other.

Bond verified that his room had been searched at some time during the
morning--and by an expert. He always used a Hoffritz safety razor
patterned on the old-fashioned heavy-toothed Gillette type. His American
friend Felix Leiter had once bought him one in New York to prove that
they were the best, and Bond had stayed with them. The handle of a
safety razor is a reasonably sophisticated hideout for the minor tools
of espionage--codes, microdot developers, cyanide, and other pills. That
morning Bond had set a minute nick on the screw base of the handle in
line with the "Z" of the maker's name engraved on the shaft. The nick
was now a millimetre to the right of the "Z." None of his other little
traps--handkerchiefs with indelible dots in particular places arranged
in a certain order, the angle of his suitcase with the wall of the
wardrobe, the semi-extracted lining of the breast pocket of his spare
suit, the particular symmetry of certain dents in his tube of Macleans
toothpaste--had been bungled or disturbed. They all might have been by a
meticulous servant, a trained valet. But Jamaican servants, for all
their charm and willingness, are not of this calibre. No. Between nine
and ten, when Bond was doing his rounds and was well away from the
hotel, his room had received a thorough going-over by someone who knew
his business.

Bond was pleased. It was good to know that the fight was well and truly
joined. If he found a chance of making a foray into Number 20, he hoped
that he would do better. He took a shower. Afterwards, as he brushed his
hair, he looked at himself in the mirror with inquiry. He was feeling a
hundred percent fit, but he remembered the dull, lacklustre eyes that
had looked back at him when he shaved after first entering The Park--the
tense, preoccupied expression on his face. Now the grey-blue eyes looked
back at him from the tanned face with the brilliant glint of suppressed
excitement and accurate focus of the old days. He smiled ironically back
at the introspective scrutiny that so many people make of themselves
before a race, a contest of wits, a trial of some sort. He had no
excuses. He was ready to go.

The bar was through a brass-studded leather door opposite the lobby to
the conference room. It was--in the fashion--a mock-English public-house
saloon bar with luxury accessories. The scrubbed wooden chairs and
benches had foam-rubber squabs in red leather. Behind the bar, the
tankards were of silver, or simulated silver, instead of pewter. The
hunting prints, copper and brass hunting horns, muskets and powder
horns, on the walls could have come from the Parker Galleries in London.
Instead of tankards of beer, bottles of champagne in antique coolers
stood on the tables and, instead of yokels, the hoods stood around in
what looked like Brooks Brothers "tropical" attire and carefully sipped
their drinks while "Mine Host" leant against the polished mahogany bar
and twirled his golden gun round and round on the first finger of his
right hand like the snide poker cheat out of an old Western.

As the door closed behind Bond with a pressurized sigh, the golden gun
halted in midwhirl and sighted on Bond's stomach. "Fellows," said
Scaramanga, mock boisterous, "meet my personal assistant, Mr. Mark
Hazard, from London, England. He's come along to make things run
smoothly over this weekend. Mark, come over and meet the gang and pass
round the canaps." He lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband.

James Bond stitched a personal assistant smile on his face and walked up
to the bar. Perhaps because he was an Englishman, there was a round of
handshaking. The red-coated barman asked him what he would have, and he
said, "Some pink gin. Plenty of bitters. Beefeater's." There was
desultory talk about the relative merits of gins. Everyone else seemed
to be drinking champagne except Mr. Hendriks, who stood away from the
group and nursed a Schweppes Bitter Lemon. Bond moved among the men. He
made small talk about their flight, the weather in the States, the
beauties of Jamaica. He wanted to fit the voices to the names. He
gravitated towards Mr. Hendriks. "Seems we're the only two Europeans
here. Gather you're from Holland. Often passed through. Never stayed
there long. Beautiful country."

The very pale blue eyes regarded Bond unenthusiastically. "Sank you."

"What part do you come from?"

"Den Haag."

"Have you lived there long?"

"Many, many years."

"Beautiful town."

"Sank you."

"Is this your first visit to Jamaica?"

"No."

"How do you like it?"

"It is a beautiful place."

Bond nearly said "Sank you." He smiled encouragingly at Mr. Hendriks as
much as to say, "I've made all the running so far. Now you say
something."

Mr. Hendriks looked past Bond's right ear at nothing. The pressure of
the silence built up. Mr. Hendriks shifted his weight from one foot to
the other and finally broke down. His eyes shifted and looked
thoughtfully at Bond. "And you. You are from London, isn't it?"

"Yes. Do you know it?"

"I have been there, yes."

"Where do you usually stay?"

There was hesitation. "With friends."

"That must be convenient."

"Pliss?"

"I mean it's pleasant to have friends in a foreign town. Hotels are so
much alike."

"I have not found this. Excuse pliss." With a Germanic bob of the head,
Mr. Hendriks moved decisively away from Bond and went up to Scaramanga,
who was still lounging in solitary splendour at the bar. Mr. Hendriks
said something. His words acted like a command on the other man.
Scaramanga straightened himself and followed Mr. Hendriks into a far
corner of the room. He stood and listened with deference as Mr. Hendriks
talked rapidly in a low tone.

Bond, joining the other men, was interested. It was his guess that no
other man in the room could have button-holed Scaramanga with so much
authority. He noticed that many fleeting glances were cast in the
direction of the couple apart. For Bond's money, this was either the
Mafia or K.G.B. Probably even the other five wouldn't know which, but
they would certainly recognize the secret smell of The Machine, which
Mr. Hendriks exuded so strongly.

Luncheon was announced. The Jamaican headwaiter hovered between two
richly prepared tables. There were place cards. Bond found that, while
Scaramanga was host at one of them, he himself was at the head of the
other table between Mr. Paradise and Mr. Rotkopf. As he expected, Mr.
Paradise was the better value of the two, and as they went through the
conventional shrimp cocktail, steak, fruit salad of the Americanized
hotel abroad, Bond cheerfully got himself involved in an argument about
the odds at roulette when there are one zero or two. Mr. Rotkopf's only
contribution was to say, through a mouthful of steak and French fries,
that he had once tried three zeros at the Black Cat Casino in Miami but
that the experiment had failed. Mr. Paradise said that so it should
have. "You got to let the suckers win sometimes, Ruby, or they won't
come back. Sure, you can squeeze the juice out of them, but you oughta
leave them the pips. Like with my slots. I tell the customers, don't be
too greedy. Don't set 'em at thirty percent for the house. Set 'em at
twenty. You ever heard of Mr. J. P. Morgan turning down a net profit of
twenty percent? Hell, no! So why try and be smarter than guys like
that?"

Mr. Rotkopf said sourly, "You got to make big profits to put against a
bum steer like this." He waved a hand. "If you ask me"--he held up a bit
of steak on his fork--"you're eating the only money you're going to see
out of this dump at this minute."

Mr. Paradise leaned across the table and said softly, "You know
something?"

Mr. Rotkopf said, "I always told my money that the bindweed would get
this place. The damn fools wouldn't listen. And look where we are in
three years! Second mortgage nearly run out, and we've only got one
storey up. What I say is...."

The argument went off into the realms of high finance. At the next-door
table there was not even this amount of animation. Scaramanga was a man
of few words. There were clearly none available for social occasions.
Opposite him, Mr. Hendriks exuded a silence as thick as Gouda cheese.
The three hoods addressed an occasional glum sentence to anyone who
would listen. James Bond wondered how Scaramanga was going to electrify
this unpromising company into "having a good time."

Luncheon broke up, and the company dispersed to their rooms. James Bond
wandered round to the back of the hotel and found a discarded shingle on
a rubbish dump. It was blazing hot under the afternoon sun, but the
Doctor's Wind was blowing in from the sea. For all its air-conditioning,
there was something grim about the impersonal grey and white of Bond's
bedroom. Bond walked along the shore, took off his coat and tie, and sat
in the shade of a bush of sea grapes and watched the fiddler crabs about
their minuscule business in the sand while he whittled two chunky wedges
out of the Jamaican cedar. Then he closed his eyes and thought about
Mary Goodnight. She would now be having her siesta in some villa on the
outskirts of Kingston. It would probably be high up in the Blue
Mountains for the coolness. In Bond's imagination, she would be lying on
her bed under a mosquito net. Because of the heat, she would have
nothing on, and one could see only an ivory-and-gold shape through the
fabric of the net. But one would know that there were small beads of
sweat on her upper lip and between her breasts, and the fringes of the
golden hair would be damp. Bond took off his clothes and lifted up the
corner of the mosquito net, not wanting to wake her until he had fitted
himself against her thighs. But she turned, in half-sleep, towards him
and held out her arms. "James...."

Under the sea-grape bush, a hundred and twenty miles away from the scene
of the dream, James Bond's head came up with a jerk. He looked quickly,
guiltily, at his watch. Three-thirty. He went off to his room and had a
cold shower, verified that his cedar wedges would do what they were
meant to do, and strolled down the corridor to the lobby.

The manager with the neat suit and neat face came out from behind his
desk. "Er, Mr. Hazard."

"Yes."

"I don't think you've met my assistant, Mr. Travis."

"No, I don't think I have."

"Would you care to step into the office for a moment and shake him by
the hand?"

"Later perhaps. We've got this conference on in a few minutes."

The neat man came a step closer. He said quietly, "He particularly wants
to meet you, Mr.--er--Bond."

Bond cursed himself. This was always happening in his particular trade.
You were looking in the dark for a beetle with red wings. Your eyes were
focused for that particular pattern on the bark of the tree. You didn't
notice the moth with cryptic colouring that crouched quietly nearby,
itself like a piece of the bark, itself just as important to the
collector. The focus of your eyes was too narrow. Your mind was too
concentrated. You were using 1 by 100 magnification, and your 1 by 10
was not in focus. Bond looked at the man with the recognition that
exists between crooks, between homosexuals, between secret agents. It is
the look common to men bound by secrecy--by common trouble. "Better make
it quick."

The neat man stepped behind his desk and opened a door. Bond went in,
and the neat man closed the door behind them. A tall, slim man was
standing at a filing cabinet. He turned. He had a lean, bronzed Texan
face under an unruly mop of straight, fair hair, and, instead of a right
hand, a bright steel hook. Bond stopped in his tracks. His face split
into a smile broader than he had smiled for what? Was it three years or
four? He said, "You goddamned lousy crook. What in hell are you doing
here?" He went up to the man and hit him hard on the biceps of the left
arm.

The grin was slightly more creased than Bond remembered, but it was just
as friendly and ironical. "Mr. Travis" said, "The name is Leiter, Mr.
Felix Leiter. Temporary accountant on loan from Morgan Guaranty Trust to
the Thunderbird Hotel. We're just checking up on your credit rating, Mr.
Hazard. Would you kindly, in your royal parlance, extract your finger,
and give me some evidence that you are who you claim to be?"




CHAPTER 9. MINUTES OF THE MEETING


James Bond, almost lightheaded with pleasure, picked up a handful of
travel literature from the front desk, said "Hi!" to Mr. Gengerella, who
didn't reply, and followed him into the conference room lobby. They were
the last to show. Scaramanga, beside the open door to the conference
room, looked pointedly at his watch and said to Bond, "Okay, feller.
Lock the door when we're all settled, and don't let anyone in even if
the hotel catches fire." He turned to the barman behind the buffet. "Get
lost, Joe. I'll call for you later." He said to the room, "Right. We're
all set. Let's go." He led the way into the conference room and the six
men followed. Bond stood by the door and noted the seating order round
the table. He closed the door and locked it and quickly also locked the
exit from the lobby. Then he picked up a champagne glass from the
buffet, pulled over a chair, and sited the chair very close to the door
of the conference room. He placed the bowl of the champagne glass as
near as possible to a hinge of the door, and holding the glass by the
stem, put his left ear up against its base. Through the crude amplifier,
what had been the rumble of a voice became Mr. Hendriks speaking,
"...and so it is that I will now report from my superiors in Europe...."
The voice paused and Bond heard another noise, the creak of a chair.
Like lightning he pulled his chair back a few feet, opened one of the
travel folders on his lap, and raised the glass to his lips. The door
jerked open and Scaramanga stood in the opening, twirling his passkey on
a chain. He examined the innocent figure on the chair. He said, "Okay,
feller. Just checking," and kicked the door shut.

Bond noisily locked it and took up his place again. Mr. Hendriks said,
"I have one most important message for our chairman. It is from a sure
source. There is a man that is called James Bond that is looking for him
in this territory. This is a man who is from the British Secret Service.
I have no informations or descriptions of this man, but it seems that he
is highly rated by my superiors. Mr. Scaramanga, have you heard of this
man?"

Scaramanga snorted. "Hell, no! And should I care? I eat one of their
famous secret agents for breakfast from time to time. Only ten days ago,
I disposed of one of them who came nosing after me. Man called Ross. His
body is now very slowly sinking to the bottom of a pitch lake in Eastern
Trinidad--place called La Brea. The oil company, the Trinidad Lake
Asphalt people, will obtain an interesting barrel of crude one of these
days. Next question, please, Mr. Hendriks."

"Next I am wishing to know what is the policy of The Group in the matter
of cane sabotage. At our meeting six months ago in Havana, against my
minority vote, it was decided, in exchange for certain favours, to come
to the aid of Fidel Castro and assist in maintaining and indeed
increasing the world price of sugar to offset the damage caused by
Hurricane Flora. Since this time there have been very numerous fires in
the cane fields of Jamaica and Trinidad. In this connection, it has come
to the ears of my superiors that individual members of The Group,
notably"--there was the rustle of paper--"Messrs. Gengerella, Rotkopf,
and Binion, in addition to our chairman, have engaged in extensive
purchasing of July sugar futures for the benefit of private gain...."

There came an angry murmur from round the table. "Why shouldn't we...
? Why shouldn't they...?" The voice of Gengerella dominated the
others. He shouted, "Who in hell said we weren't to make money? Isn't
that one of the objects of The Group? I ask you again, Mr. Hendriks, as
I asked you six months ago, who in hell is it among your so-called
superiors who wants to keep the price of raw sugar down? For my money,
the most interested party in such a gambit would be Soviet Russia.
They're selling goods to Cuba, including, let me say, the recently
abortive shipment of missiles to fire against my country, in exchange
for raw sugar. They're sharp traders, the Reds. In their doubledealing
way, even from a friend and ally, they would want more sugar for fewer
goods. Yes? I suppose," the voice sneered, "one of your superiors, Mr.
Hendriks, would not by any chance be in the Kremlin?"

The voice of Scaramanga cut through the ensuing hubbub. "Hey you guys,
cut it out!" A reluctant silence fell. "When we formed this cooperative,
it was agreed that the first object was to cooperate with one another.
Okay, then. Mr. Hendriks. Let me put you more fully in the picture. So
far as the total finances of The Group are concerned, we have a fine
situation coming up. As an investment group, we have good bets and bad
bets. Sugar is a good bet, and we should ride that bet even though
certain members of The Group have chosen not to be on the horse. Get me?
Now hear me through. There are six ships controlled by The Group at this
moment riding at anchor outside New York and other U.S. harbours. These
ships are loaded with raw sugar. These ships, Mr. Hendriks, will not
dock and unload until sugar futures, July futures, have risen another
ten cents. In Washington, the Department of Agriculture and the sugar
lobby know this. They know that we have them by the balls. Meantimes the
liquor lobby is leaning on them--let alone Russia. The price of molasses
is going up with sugar, and the rum barons are kicking up hell and want
our ships let in before there's a real shortage and the price goes
through the roof. But there's another side to it. We're having to pay
our crews and our charter bills and so on, and squatting ships are dead
ships, dead losses. So something's going to give. In the business, the
situation we've developed is called the floating crop game--our ships
lying offshore, lined up against the Government of the United States.
All right. So now four of us stand to win or lose ten million bucks or
so--us and our backers. And we've got this little business of the
Thunderbird on the red side of the sheet. So what do you think, Mr.
Hendriks? Of course we burn the crops where we can get away with it. I
got a good in with the Rastafaris--that's a beat sect here that grows
beards and smokes ganja and mostly lives on a bit of land outside
Kingston called the Dungle, the Dunghill, and believes it owes
allegiance to the King of Ethiopia, this King Zog or what-have-you, and
that that's their rightful home. So I've got a man in there, a man who
wants the ganja for them, and I keep him supplied in exchange for plenty
fires and troubles on the cane lands. So all right, Mr. Hendriks. You
just tell your superiors that what goes up must come down, and that
applies to the price of sugar like anything else. Okay?"

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will pass on your saying, Mr. Scaramanga. It will
not cause pleasure. Now there is this business of the hotel. How is she
standing, if you pliss? I think we are all wishing to know the true
situation, isn't it?"

There was a growl of assent.

Scaramanga went off into a long dissertation which was only of passing
interest to Bond. Felix Leiter would in any case be getting it all on
the tape in a drawer of his filing cabinet. He had reassured Bond on
this score. The neat American, Leiter had explained, filling him in with
the essentials, was in fact a certain Mr. Nick Nicholson of the C.I.A.
His particular concern was Mr. Hendriks, who, as Bond had suspected, was
a top man of the K.G.B. The K.G.B. favours oblique control--a man in
Geneva being the Resident Director for Italy, for instance--and Mr.
Hendriks at The Hague was in fact Resident Director for the Caribbean
and in charge of the Havana centre. Leiter was still working for
Pinkerton's, but was also on the reserve of the C.I.A., who had drafted
him for this particular assignment because of his knowledge, gained in
the past mostly with James Bond, of Jamaica. His job was to get a
breakdown of The Group and find out what they were up to. They were all
well-known hoods who would normally have been the concern of the F.B.I.,
but Gengerella was a _capo Mafioso_ and this was the first time the
Mafia had been found consorting with the K.G.B.--a most disturbing
partnership which must at all costs be quickly broken up, by physical
elimination if need be. Nick Nicholson, whose "front" name was Stanley
Jones, was an electronics expert. He had traced the main lead to
Scaramanga's recording device under the floor of the central switch room
and had bled off the microphone cable to his own tape recorder in the
filing cabinet. So Bond had not much to worry about. He was listening to
satisfy his own curiosity and to fill in on anything that might
transpire in the lobby or out of range of the bug in the telephone on
the conference room table. Bond had explained his own presence. Leiter
had given a long low whistle of respectful apprehension. Bond had agreed
to keep well clear of the other two men and to paddle his own canoe, but
they had arranged an emergency meeting place and a postal "drop" in the
uncompleted and OUT OF ORDER men's room off the lobby. Nicholson had
given him a passkey for this place and all other rooms, and then Bond
had had to hurry off to his meeting. James Bond was immensely reassured
by finding these unexpected reinforcements. He had worked with Leiter on
some of his most hazardous assignments. There was no man like him when
the chips were down. Although Leiter had only a steel hook instead of a
right arm--a memento of one of those assignments--he was one of the
finest left-handed one-armed shots in the States and the hook itself
could be a devastating weapon at close quarters.

Scaramanga was finishing his exposition. "So the net of it is,
gentlemen, that we need to find ten million bucks. The interests I
represent, which are the majority interests, suggest that this sum
should be provided by a note issue, bearing interest at ten percent and
repayable in ten years, such an issue to have priority over all other
loans."

The voice of Mr. Rotkopf broke in angrily. "The hell it will! Not on
your life, mister. What about the seven percent second mortgage put up
by me and my friends only a year back? What do you think I'd get if I
went back to Vegas with that kind of parley? The old heave-ho! And at
that I'm being optimistic."

"Beggars can't be choosers, Ruby. It's that or close. What have you
other fellows got to say?"

Hendriks said, "Ten percent on a first charge is good pizzness. My
friends and I will take one million dollars. On the understanding, it is
natural, that the conditions of the issue are, how shall I say, more
substantial, less open to misunderstandings, than the second mortgage of
Mr. Rotkopf and his friends."

"Of course. And I and my friends will also take a million. Sam?"

Mr. Binion said reluctantly, "Okay, okay. Count us in for the same. But
by golly this has got to be the last touch."

"Mr. Gengerella?"

"It sounds a good bet. I'll take the rest."

The voices of Mr. Garfinkel and Mr. Paradise broke in excitedly,
Garfinkel in the lead. "Like hell you will! I'm taking a million."

"And so am I," shouted Mr. Paradise. "Cut the cake equally. But dammit.
Let's be fair to Ruby. Ruby, you oughta have first pick. How much do you
want? You can have it off the top."

"I don't want a damned cent of your phoney notes. As soon as I get back,
I'm going to reach for the best damned lawyers in the States--all of
them. You think you can scrub a mortgage just by saying so, you've all
got another think coming."

There was silence. The voice of Scaramanga was soft and deadly. "You're
making a big mistake, Ruby. You've just got yourself a nice fat tax loss
to put against your Vegas interests. And don't forget that when we
formed this Group, we all took an oath. None of us was to operate
against the interests of the others. Is that your last word?"

"It damn well is."

"Would this help you change your mind? They've got a slogan for it in
Cuba--_Rapido! Seguro! Economico!_ This is how the system operates."

The scream of terror and the explosion were simultaneous. A chair
crashed to the floor and there was a moment's silence. Then someone
coughed nervously. Mr. Gengerella said calmly, "I think that was the
correct solution of an embarrassing conflict of interests. Ruby's
friends in Vegas like a quiet life. I doubt if they will even complain.
It is better to be a live owner of some finely engraved paper than to be
a dead holder of a second mortgage. Put them in for a million, Pistol. I
think you behaved with speed and correctness. Now then, can you clean
this up?"

"Sure, sure." Scaramanga's voice was relaxed, happy. "Ruby's left here
to go back to Vegas. Never heard of again. We don't know nuthin'. I've
got some hungry crocs out back there in the river. They'll give him free
transportation to where he's going--and his baggage if it's good
leather. I shall need some help tonight. What about you, Sam? And you,
Louie?"

The voice of Mr. Paradise pleaded. "Count me out, Pistol. I'm a good
Catholic."

Mr. Hendriks said, "I will take his place. I am not a Catholic person."

"So it be then. Well, fellers, any other business? If not, we'll break
up the meeting and have a drink."

Hal Garfinkel said nervously, "Just a minute, Pistol. What about that
guy outside the door? That limey feller? What's he going to say about
the fireworks and all?"

Scaramanga's chuckle was like the dry chuckle of a gekko. "Just don't
you worry your tiny head about the limey, Hal. He'll be looked after
when the weekend's over. Picked him up in a bordello in a village
nearby. Place where I go get my weed and a bit of local tail. Got only
temporary staff here to see you fellers have a good time over the
weekend. He's the temporariest of the lot. Those crocs have a big
appetite. Ruby'll be the main dish, but they'll need a dessert. Just you
leave him to me. For all I know he may be this James Bond man Mr.
Hendriks has told us about. I should worry. I don't like limeys. Like
some good Yankee once said, 'For every Britisher that dies, there's a
song in my heart.' Remember the guy? Around the time of the Israeli war
against them. I dig that viewpoint. Stuck-up bastards. Stuffed shirts.
When the time comes, I'm going to let the stuffing out of this one. Just
you leave him to me. Or let's just say leave him to this."

Bond smiled a thin smile. He could imagine the golden gun being produced
and twirled round the finger and stuck back in the waistband. He got up
and moved his chair away from the door and poured champagne into the
useful glass and leant against the buffet and studied the latest handout
from the Jamaica Tourist Board.

The click of Scaramanga's passkey sounded in the lock. Scaramanga looked
at Bond from the doorway. He ran a finger along the small moustache.
"Okay, fellow. I guess that's enough of the house champagne. Cut along
to the manager and tell him Mr. Ruby Rotkopf'll be checking out tonight.
I'll fix the details. And say a major fuse blew during the meeting and
I'm going to seal off this room and find out why we're having so much
bad workmanship around the place. Okay? Then drinks and dinner and bring
on the dancing girls. Got the picture?"

James Bond said that he had. He weaved slightly as he went to the lobby
door and unlocked it. E. & O.E. (errors and omissions excepted), as the
financial prospectuses say, he thought that he had indeed now "got the
picture." And it was an exceptionally clear print in black and white
without fuzz.




CHAPTER 10. BELLY-LICK, ETC.


In the back office, James Bond went quickly over the highlights of the
meeting. Nick Nicholson and Felix Leiter agreed they had enough on the
tape, supported by Bond, to send Scaramanga to the chair. That night,
one of them would do some snooping while the body of Rotkopf was being
disposed of and try and get enough evidence to have Garfinkel and,
better still, Hendriks indicted as accessories. But they didn't at all
like the outlook for James Bond. Felix commanded him, "Now don't you
move an inch without that old equalizer of yours. We don't want to have
to read that obituary of yours in _The Times_ all over again. All that
crap about what a great guy you are nearly made me throw up when I saw
it picked up in our papers. I damn nearly fired off a piece to the
_Trib_ putting the record straight."

Bond laughed. He said, "You're a fine friend, Felix. When I think of all
the trouble I've been to to set you a good example all these years." He
went off to his room, swallowed two heavy slugs of bourbon, had a cold
shower, and lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling until it was 8:30
and time for dinner. The meal was less stuffy than luncheon. Everyone
seemed satisfied with the way the business of the day had gone, and all
except Scaramanga and Mr. Hendriks had obviously had plenty to drink.
Bond found himself excluded from the happy talk. Eyes avoided his and
replies to his attempts at conversation were monosyllabic. He was bad
news. He had been dealt the death card by the boss. He was certainly not
a man to be pally with.

Dinner--the conventional "expensive" dinner of a cruise ship--was as
predictable as such things usually are. The waiters brought on the
desiccated smoked salmon with a thimbleful of small-grained black
caviar, fillets of some unnamed native fish (possibly silk fish) in a
cream sauce, a "_poulet suprme_" (a badly roasted broiler with a thick
gravy), and the _bombe surprise_. And while the meal moved sluggishly
on, the dining-room was being turned into a "tropical jungle" with the
help of potted plants, piles of oranges and coconuts, and an occasional
stem of bananas--this was a backdrop for the calypso band, which, in
wine-red and gold-frilled shirts, assembled in due course and began
playing "Linstead Market" too loud. The tune closed. An acceptable but
heavily clad girl appeared and began singing "Belly-Lick" with the
printable words. She wore a false pineapple as a headdress. Bond saw a
"cruise ship" evening stretching ahead. He decided that he was either
too old or too young for the worst torture of all, boredom, and got up
and went to the head of the table. He said to Scaramanga, "I've got a
headache. I'm going to bed."

Scaramanga looked up at him under lizard eyelids. "No. If you figure the
evening's not going so good, make it go better. That's what you're being
paid for. You act as if you know Jamaica. Okay. Get these people off the
pad."

It was many years since James Bond had accepted a dare. He felt the eyes
of The Group on him. What he had drunk had made him careless--perhaps
wanting to show off, like the man at the party who insists on playing
the drums. Stupidly, he wanted to assert his personality over this bunch
of tough guys who rated him insignificant. He didn't stop to think that
it was bad tactics, that he would be better off being the ineffectual
limey. He said, "All right, Mr. Scaramanga. Give me a hundred dollar
bill and your gun."

Scaramanga didn't move. He looked up at Bond with surprise and
controlled uncertainty. Louie Paradise shouted thickly, "C'mon, Pistols!
Let's see some action! Maybe the guy can produce."

Scaramanga reached for his hip pocket, took out his billfold, and
thumbed out a bill. Next he slowly reached to his waistband and took out
his gun. The subdued light from the spot on the girl glowed on its gold.
He laid the two objects on the table side by side. James Bond, his back
to the cabaret, picked up the gun and hefted it. He thumbed back the
hammer and twirled the cylinder with a flash of his hands to verify that
it was loaded. Then he suddenly whirled, dropped on his knee so that his
aim would be above the shadowy musicians in the background, and, his arm
at full length, let fly. The explosion was deafening in the confined
space. The music died. There was a tense silence. The remains of the
false pineapple hit something in the dark background with a soft thud.
The girl stood under the spot and put her hands up to her face and
slowly folded to the dance floor like something graceful out of _Swan
Lake_. The matre d'htel came running from among the shadows.

As chatter broke out among The Group, James Bond picked up the hundred
dollar bill and walked out into the spotlight. He bent down and lifted
the girl up by her arm. He pushed the bill down into her cleavage. He
said, "That was a fine act we did together, sweetheart. Don't worry. You
were in no danger. I aimed for the top half of the pineapple. Now run
off and get ready for your next turn." He turned her round and gave her
a sharp pat on the behind. She gave him a horrified glance and scurried
off into the shadows.

Bond strolled on and came up with the band. "Who's in charge here? Who's
in command of the show?"

The guitarist, a tall, gaunt Negro, got slowly to his feet. The whites
of his eyes showed. He squinted at the golden gun in Bond's hand. He
said uncertainly, as if signing his own death warrant, "Me, sah."

"What's your name?"

"King Tiger, sah."

"All right then, King. Now listen to me. This isn't a Salvation Army
fork supper. Mr. Scaramanga's friends want some action. And they want it
hot. I'll be sending plenty of rum over to loosen things up. Smoke weed
if you like. We're private here. No one's going to tell on you. And get
that pretty girl back, but with only half the clothes on, and tell her
to come up close and sing "Belly-Lick" very clearly with the blue words.
And, by the end of the show, she and the other girls have got to end up
stripped. Understand? Now get cracking, or the evening'll fold and
there'll be no tips at the end. Okay? Then let's go."

There was nervous laughter and whispered exhortation to King Tiger from
the six-piece combo. King Tiger grinned broadly. "Okay, captain, sah. We
was just holding off until the party got warmed up a little." He turned
to his men. "Give 'em 'Iron Bar,' but hot. And I'll go get some steam up
with Daisy and her friends." He strode to the service exit and the band
crashed into its stride.

Bond walked back and laid the pistol down in front of Scaramanga, who
gave Bond a long, inquisitive look and slid it back into his waistband.
He said flatly, "We must have a shooting match one of these days,
mister. How about it? Twenty paces and no wounding?"

"Thanks," said Bond, "but my mother wouldn't approve. Would you have
some rum sent over to the band? These people can't play dry." He went
back to his seat. He was hardly noticed. The five men, or rather four of
them, because Hendriks sat impassively through the whole evening, were
straining their ears to catch the lewd words of the Fanny Hill version
of "Iron Bar" that were coming across clearly from the soloist. Four
girls, plump, busty little animals wearing nothing but white sequined
G-strings, ran out onto the floor, and advancing towards the audience,
did an enthusiastic belly dance that brought sweat to the temples of
Louie Paradise and Hal Garfinkel. The number ended amidst applause, the
girls ran off, and the lights were dowsed, leaving only the circular
spot in the middle of the floor.

The drummer, on his calypso box, began a hasty beat like a quickened
pulse. The service door opened and shut, and a curious object was
wheeled into the circle of light. It was a huge hand, perhaps six feet
tall at its highest point, upholstered in black leather. It stood, half
open on its broad base, with the thumb and fingers outstretched as if
ready to catch something. The drummer hastened his beat. The service
door sighed. A glistening figure slipped through, and after pausing in
the darkness, moved into the pool of light round the hand with a
strutting jerk of belly and limbs. There was Chinese blood in her, and
her body, totally naked and shining with palm oil, was almost white
against the black hand. As she jerked round the hand she caressed its
outstretched fingers with her hands and arms and then, with well-acted
swooning motions, climbed into the palm of the hand and proceeded to
perform languorous, but explicit and ingenious, acts of passion with
each of the fingers in turn. The scene, the black hand, now shining with
her oil and seeming to clutch at the squirming white body, was of an
incredible lewdness, and Bond, himself aroused, noticed that even
Scaramanga was watching with rapt attention, his eyes narrow slits. The
drummer had now worked up to his crescendo. The girl, in well-simulated
ecstasy, mounted the thumb, slowly expired upon it, and then, with a
last grind of her rump, slid down it and vanished through the exit. The
act was over. The lights came on and everyone, including the band,
applauded loudly. The men came out of their separate animal trances.
Scaramanga clapped his hand for the bandleader, took a note out of his
case, and said something to him under his breath. The chieftain, Bond
suspected, had chosen his bride for the night!

After this inspired piece of sexual dumb crambo, the rest of the
carbaret was an anticlimax. One of the girls, only after her G-string
had been slashed off with a cutlass by the bandleader, was able to
squirm under a bamboo pole balanced just eighteen inches off the floor
on the top of two beer bottles. The first girl, the one who had acted as
an unwitting pineapple tree to Bond's William Tell act, came on and
combined an acceptable strip-tease with a rendering of "Belly-Lick" that
got the audience straining its ears again, and then the whole team, less
the Chinese beauty, came up to the audience and invited them to dance.
Scaramanga and Hendriks refused with adequate politeness and Bond stood
the two left-out girls glasses of champagne and learned that their names
were Mabel and Pearl while he watched the four others being almost bent
in half by the bearlike embraces of the four sweating hoods as they
clumsily cha-cha'd round the room to the now riotous music of the
half-drunk band. The climax to what could certainly class as an orgy was
clearly in sight. Bond told his two girls that he must go to the men's
room and slipped away when Scaramanga was looking elsewhere, but, as he
went, he noted that Hendriks' gaze, as cool as if he had been watching
an indifferent film, was firmly on him as he made his escape.

When Bond got to his room, it was midnight. His windows had been closed
and the air-conditioning turned on. He switched it off and opened the
windows halfway and then, with heartfelt relief, took a shower and went
to bed. He worried for a while about having shown off with the gun, but
it was an act of folly which he couldn't undo, and he soon went to sleep
to dream of three black-cloaked men dragging a shapeless bundle through
dappled moonlight towards dark waters that were dotted with glinting red
eyes. The gnashing white teeth and the crackling bones resolved
themselves into a persistent scrabbling noise that brought him suddenly
awake. He looked at the luminous dial of his watch. It said 3:30. The
scrabbling became a quiet tapping from behind the curtains. James Bond
slid quietly out of bed, took his gun from under his pillow, and crept
softly along the wall to the edge of the curtains. He pulled them aside
with one swift motion. The golden hair shone almost silver in the
moonlight. Mary Goodnight whispered urgently, "Quick, James! Help me
in!"

Bond cursed softly to himself. What the hell? He laid his gun down on
the carpet and reached for her outstretched hands and half-dragged,
half-pulled her over the sill. At the last moment, her heel caught in
the frame and the window banged shut with a noise like a pistol shot.
Bond cursed again, softly and fluently, under his breath. Mary Goodnight
whispered penitently, "I'm terribly sorry, James."

Bond shushed her. He picked up his gun and put it back under his pillow
and led her across the room and into the bathroom. He turned on the
light and, as a precaution, the shower, and, simultaneously with her
gasp, remembered he was naked. He said, "Sorry, Goodnight," and reached
for a towel and wound it round his waist and sat down on the edge of the
bath. He gestured to the girl to sit down on the lavatory seat and said,
with icy control, "What in hell are you doing here, Mary?"

Her voice was desperate. "I had to come. I had to find you somehow. I
got on to you through the girl at that, er, dreadful place. I left the
car in the trees down the drive and just sniffed about. There were
lights on in some of the rooms and I listened and, er"--she blushed
crimson--"I gathered you couldn't be in any of them and then I saw the
open window, and I just somehow knew you would be the only one to sleep
with his window open. So I just had to take the chance."

"Well, we've got to get you out of here as quick as we can. Anyway,
what's the trouble?"

"A Most Immediate in Triple-X came over this evening. I mean yesterday
evening. It was to be passed to you at all costs. H.Q. thinks you're in
Havana. It said that one of the K.G.B. top men who goes under the name
of Hendriks is in the area and that he's known to be visiting this
hotel. You're to keep away from him. They know from A Delicate But Sure
Source"--Bond smiled at the old euphemism for cypher-breaking--"that
among his other jobs is to find you and, er, well, kill you. So I put
two and two together, and, what with you being in this corner of the
island and the questions you asked me, I guessed that you might be
already on his track but that you might be walking into an ambush, sort
of. Not knowing, I mean, that while you were after him, he was after
you."

She put out a tentative hand, as if for reassurance that she had done
the right thing. Bond took it and patted it absent-mindedly while his
mind chewed on this new complication. He said, "The man's here all
right. So's a gunman called Scaramanga. You might as well know, Mary,
that Scaramanga killed Ross. In Trinidad." She put her hand up to her
mouth. "You can report it as a fact, from me. If I can get you out of
here, that is. As for Hendriks, he's here all right, but he doesn't seem
to have identified me for certain. Did H.Q. say whether he was given a
description of me?"

"You were simply described as 'the notorious secret agent, James Bond.'
But this doesn't seem to have meant much to Hendriks because he asked
for particulars. That was two days ago. He may get them cabled or
telephoned here at any minute. You do see why I had to come, James?"

"Yes, of course. And thanks, Mary. Now, I've got to get you out of that
window, and then you must just make your own way. Don't worry about me.
I think I can handle the situation all right. Besides, I've got help."
He told her about Felix Leiter and Nicholson. "You just tell H.Q. you've
delivered the message and that I'm here and about the two C.I.A. men.
H.Q. can get the C.I.A. angles from Washington direct. Okay?" He got to
his feet.

She stood up beside him and looked up at him. "But you will take care?"

"Sure, sure." He patted her shoulder. He turned off the shower and
opened the bathroom door. "Now, come on. We must pray for a stroke of
luck."

A silken voice from the darkness at the end of the bed said, "Well, the
Holy Man just ain't running for you today, mister. Step forward, both of
you. Hands clasped behind the neck."




CHAPTER 11. BALLCOCK, AND OTHER, TROUBLE


Scaramanga walked to the door and turned the lights on. He was naked
save for his shorts and the holster below his left arm. The golden gun
remained trained on Bond as he moved.

Bond looked at him incredulously, then to the carpet inside the door.
The wedges were still there, undisturbed. He could not possibly have got
through the window unaided. Then he saw that his clothes cupboard stood
open and that light showed through into the next room. It was the
simplest of secret doors--just the whole of the back of the cupboard,
impossible to detect from Bond's side of the wall and, on the other,
probably, in appearance, a locked communicating door.

Scaramanga came back into the centre of the room and stood looking at
them both. His mouth and eyes sneered. He said, "I didn't see this piece
of tail in the lineup. Where you been keeping it, buster? And why d'you
have to hide it away in the bathroom? Like doing it under the shower?"

Bond said, "We're engaged to be married. She works in the British High
Commissioner's Office in Kingston. Cypher clerk. She found out where I
was staying from that place you and I met. She came out to tell me that
my mother's in the hospital in London. Had a bad fall. Her name's Mary
Goodnight. What's wrong with that? And what do you mean coming busting
into my room in the middle of the night waving a gun about? And kindly
keep your foul tongue to yourself."

Bond was pleased with his bluster and decided to take the next step
towards Mary Goodnight's freedom. He dropped his hands to his sides and
turned to the girl. "Put your hands down, Mary. Mr. Scaramanga must have
thought there were burglars about when he heard that window bang. Now,
I'll get some clothes on and take you out to your car. You've got a long
drive back to Kingston. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here for
the rest of the night? I'm sure Mr. Scaramanga could find us a spare
room." He turned back to Scaramanga. "It's all right, Mr. Scaramanga,
I'll pay for it."

Mary Goodnight chipped in. She had dropped her hands. She picked up her
small bag from the bed where she had thrown it, opened it and began
busying herself with her hair in a fussy, feminine way. She chattered,
falling in well with Bond's bland piece of very British
"Now-look-here-my-man-manship."

"No, honestly, darling, I really think I'd better go. I'd be in terrible
trouble if I was late at the office, and the Prime Minister, Sir
Alexander Bustamante, you know will have his eightieth birthday, well
he's coming to lunch, and you know His Excellency always likes me to do
the flowers and arrange the place cards and as a matter of fact"--she
turned charmingly towards Mr. Scaramanga--"it's quite a day for me. The
party was going to make up thirteen, so His Excellency has asked me to
be the fourteenth. Isn't that marvellous? But heaven knows what I'm
going to look like after tonight. The roads really are terrible in
parts, aren't they, Mr.--er--Scramble. But there it is. And I do
apologize for causing all this disturbance and keeping you from your
beauty sleep."

She went towards him like the Queen Mother opening a bazaar, her hand
outstretched. "Now you run along off back to bed again, and my fianc"
(Thank God she hadn't said James! The girl was inspired!) "will see me
safely off the premises. Goodbye, Mr., er...."

James Bond was proud of her. It was almost pure Joyce Grenfell. But
Scaramanga wasn't going to be taken in by any doubletalk, limey or
otherwise. She almost had Bond covered from Scaramanga. He moved swiftly
aside. He said, "Hold it, lady. And you, mister, stand where you are."
Mary Goodnight let her hand drop to her side. She looked inquiringly at
Scaramanga as if he had just rejected the cucumber sandwiches. Really!
These Americans! The Golden Gun didn't go for polite conversation. It
held dead steady between the two of them. Scaramanga said to Bond,
"Okay, I'll buy it. Put her through the window again. Then I've got
something to say to you." He waved his gun at the girl. "Okay, bimbo.
Get going. And don't come trespassing on other people's lands again.
Right? And you can tell His friggin' Excellency where to shove his place
cards. His writ don't run over the Thunderbird. Mine does. Got the
picture? Okay. Don't bust your stays getting through the window."

Mary Goodnight said icily, "Very good, Mr.... er... I will deliver
your message. I'm sure the High Commissioner will take more careful note
than he has done of your presence on the island. And the Jamaican
government also."

Bond reached out and took her arm. She was on the edge of overplaying
her role. He said, "Come on, Mary. And please tell Mother that I'll be
through here in a day or two, and I'll be telephoning her from
Kingston." He led her to the window and helped, or rather bundled, her
out. She gave a brief wave and ran off across the lawn. Bond came away
from the window with considerable relief. He hadn't expected the ghastly
mess to sort itself out so painlessly.

He went and sat down on his bed. He sat on the pillow. He was reassured
to feel the hard shape of his gun against his thighs. He looked across
at Scaramanga. The man had put his gun back in his shoulder holster. He
leant up against the clothes cupboard and ran his finger reflectively
along the black line of his moustache. He said, "High Commissioner's
Office. That also houses the local representative of your famous Secret
Service. I suppose, Mister Hazard, that your real name wouldn't be James
Bond? You showed quite a turn of speed with the gun tonight. I seem to
have read somewhere that this man Bond fancies himself with the
hardware. I also have information to the effect that he's somewhere in
the Caribbean and that he's looking for me. Funny coincidence
department, eh?"

Bond laughed easily. "I thought the Secret Service packed up at the end
of the war. Anyway, I'm afraid I can't change my identity to suit your
book. All you've got to do in the morning is ring up Frome and ask for
Mr. Tony Hugill, the boss up there, and check on my story. And can you
explain how this Bond chap could possibly have tracked you down to a
brothel in Sav' La Mar? And what does he want from you anyway?"

Scaramanga contemplated him silently for a while. Then he said, "Guess
he may be lookin' for a shootin' lesson. Be glad to oblige him. But
you've got something about Number three-and-a-half. That's what I
figgered when I hired you. But coincidence doesn't come in that size.
Mebbe I should have thought again. I said from the first I smelled cops.
That girl may be your fiance or she may not--but that play with the
shower bath. That's an old hood's trick. Probably a Secret Service one
too. Unless, that is, you were screwin' her." He raised one eyebrow.

"I was. Anything wrong with that? What have you been doing with the
Chinese girl? Playing mah-jongg?" Bond got to his feet. He stitched
impatience and outrage on his face in equal quantities. "Now look here,
Mr. Scaramanga. I've had just about enough of this. Just stop leaning on
me. You go around waving that damned gun of yours and acting like God
Almighty and insinuating a lot of tommyrot about the Secret Service, and
you expect me to kneel down and lick your boots. Well, my friend, you've
come to the wrong address. If you're dissatisfied with the job I'm
doing, just hand over the thousand dollars and I'll be on my way. Who in
hell d'you think you are anyway?"

Scaramanga smiled his thin, cruel smile. "You may be getting wise to
that sooner than you think, shamus." He shrugged. "Okay, okay. But just
you remember this, mister. If it turns out you're not who you say you
are, I'll blow you to bits. Get me? And I'll start with the little bits
and go on to the bigger ones. Just so it lasts a heck of a long time.
Right? Now you'd better get some shuteye. I've got a meeting with Mr.
Hendriks at ten in the conference room. And I don't want to be
disturbed. After that the whole party goes on an excursion on the
railroad I was tellin' you about. It'll be your job to see that that
gets properly organized. Talk to the manager first thing. Right? Okay,
then. Be seeing ya." Scaramanga walked into the clothes cupboard,
brushed Bond's suit aside, and disappeared. There came a decisive click
from the next room. Bond got to his feet. He said "phew!" at the top of
his voice and walked off into the bathroom to wash the last two hours
away in the shower.

He awoke at 6:30, by arrangement with that curious extrasensory alarm
clock that some people keep in their heads that always seems to know the
exact time. He put on his bathing trunks and went out to the beach and
did his long swim again. When at 7:15 he saw Scaramanga come out of the
west wing, followed by the boy carrying his towel, he made for the
shore. He listened for the twanging thump of the trampoline and then,
keeping well out of sight of it, entered the hotel by the main entrance,
and moved quickly down the corridor to his room. He listened at his
window to make sure the man was still exercising, then he took the
master key Nick Nicholson had given him and slipped across the corridor
to Number 20 and was quickly inside. He left the door on the latch. Yes,
there was his target, lying on the dressing table. He strode across the
room, picked up the gun, and slipped out the round in the cylinder that
would next come up for firing. He put the gun down exactly as he had
found it, got back to the door, listened, and then was out and across
the corridor and into his own room. He went back to the window and
listened. Yes. Scaramanga was still at it. It was an amateurish ploy
that Bond had executed, but it might gain him just that fraction of a
second that--he felt it in his bones--was going to be life or death for
him in the next twenty-four hours. In his mind, he smelled that slight
whiff of smoke that indicated that his cover was smouldering at the
edges. At any moment Mark Hazard of the Transworld Consortium might go
up in flames, like some clumsy effigy on Guy Fawkes Night, and James
Bond would stand there, revealed, with nothing between him and a
possible force of six other gunmen but his own quick hand and the
Walther PPK. So every shade of odds that he could shift to his side of
the board would be worthwhile. Undismayed by the prospect, in fact
rather excited by it, he ordered a large breakfast, consumed it with
relish, and after pulling the connecting pin out of the ballcock in his
lavatory, went along to the manager's office.

Felix Leiter was on duty. He gave a thin managerial smile and said,
"Good morning, Mr. Hazard. Can I help you?" Leiter's eyes were looking
beyond Bond, over his right shoulder. Mr. Hendriks materialized at the
desk before Bond could answer.

Bond said, "Good morning."

Mr. Hendriks replied with his little Germanic bow. He said to Leiter,
"The telephone operator is saying that there is a long-distance call
from my office in Havana. Where is the most private place to take it,
pliss?"

"Not in your bedroom, sir?"

"Is not sufficiently private."

Bond guessed that he too had bowled out the microphone.

Leiter looked helpful. He came out from behind his desk. "Just over
here, sir. The lobby telephone. The box is soundproof."

Mr. Hendriks looked stonily at him. "And the machine. That also is
soundproof?"

Leiter looked politely puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir. It
is connected directly with the operator."

"Is no matter. Show me, pliss." Mr. Hendriks followed Leiter to the far
corner of the lobby and was shown into the booth. He carefully closed
the leather-padded door and picked up the receiver and talked into it.
Then he stood waiting, watching Leiter come back across the marble floor
and speak deferentially to Bond. "You were saying, sir?"

"It's my lavatory. Something wrong with the ballcock. Is there anywhere
else?"

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'll have the house engineer look at it at once.
Yes, certainly. There's the lobby toilet. The decoration isn't completed
and it's not officially in use, but it's in perfectly good working
order." He lowered his voice. "And there's a connecting door with my
office. Leave it for ten minutes while I run back the tape of what this
bastard's saying. I heard the call was coming through. Don't like the
sound of it. May be your worry." He gave a little bow and waved Bond
towards the central table with magazines on it. "If you'll just take a
seat for a few moments, sir, and then I'll take care of you."

Bond nodded his thanks and turned away. In the booth, Hendriks was
talking. His eyes were fixed on Bond with a terrible intensity. Bond
felt the skin crawl at the base of his stomach. This was it all right!
He sat down and picked up an old _Wall Street Journal_. Surreptitiously
he tore a small piece out of the centre of page one. It could have been
a tear at the crossfold. He held the paper up at page two and watched
Hendriks through the little hole.

Hendriks watched the back of the paper and talked and listened. He
suddenly put down the receiver and came out of the booth. His face
gleamed with sweat. He took out a clean white handkerchief and ran it
over his face and neck and walked rapidly off down the corridor.

Nick Nicholson, as neat as a pin, came across the lobby and, with a
courtly smile and a bow for Bond, took up his place behind the desk. It
was 8:30. Five minutes later, Felix Leiter came out from the inner
office. He said something to Nicholson and came over to Bond. There was
a pale, pinched look round his mouth. He said, "And now, if you'll
follow me, sir." He led the way across the lobby, unlocked the men's
room door, followed Bond in, and locked the door behind him. They stood
among the carpentry work by the washbasins. Leiter said tensely, "I
guess you've had it, James. They were talking Russian, but your name and
number kept on cropping up. Guess you'd better get out of here just as
quickly as that old jalopy of yours'll carry you."

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 halfway
through a Royal Blend and then absent-mindedly stubbing it out in the
bed-table ashtray. No observer could have guessed what Bond was thinking
about--or how intently he was concentrating. There were some signs of
tension--the pulse in his left temple was beating a little fast, the
lips were slightly pursed--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.




CHAPTER 12. IN A GLASS, VERY DARKLY


The setup 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 ashtrays 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 Ruby Rotkopf must have sat in 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, rumbling 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
that you are then carrying him efen into the centre of The Group? The
details, pliss, Mister S. 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' voice was flat and uninterested. He had carried out his
orders, and action was about to follow, definitive 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-to-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
sixteen pounds 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. I am
under the impression that 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 percent 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 is 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 boys lost out. 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, onto 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 percent--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 picture? 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 Seven? 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."

"It'll almost certainly lead to trouble. The locals'll want to
play--they're terrific gamblers here. There'll be incidents. The natives
will be turned away from the doors for one reason or another. Then the
opposition party'll get hold of that and raise hell about colour bars
and so on. With all the money flying about, the unions'll push wages
through the roof. It can all add up to a fine stink. The atmosphere's
too damn peaceful around here. This'll be a cheap way of raising plenty
of hell. That's what your people want, isn't it? Give the islands the
hot foot one after another?"

There was another brief silence. Mr. Hendriks obviously didn't like the
idea. He said so, but obliquely: "What you are saying, Mister S., is
very interesting. But is it not that these troubles you envisage will
endanger our monies? However, I will report your inquiry and inform you
at once. It is possible that my superiors will be sympathetic. Who can
be telling? Now there is this question of a new Number Seven. Are you
having anyone in mind?"

"I think we want a good man from South America. We need a guy to oversee
our operations in British Guiana. We oughta get smartened up in
Venezuela. How come we never got further with that great scheme for
blocking the Maracaibo strait? Like robbing a blind man, given a
suitable block ship. Just the threat of it would make the oil companies
shell out--that's a joke by the way--and go on shelling by way of
protection. Then, if this narcotics spiel is going to be important, we
can't do without Mexico. How about Mr. Arosio of Mexico City?"

"I am not knowing this gentleman."

"Rosy? Oh, he's a great guy. Runs the Green Light Transportation System.
Drugs and girls into L.A. Never been caught yet. Reliable operator. Got
no affiliates. Your people'll know about him. Why not check with them,
and then we'll put it up to the others. They'll go along with our
say-so."

"Is good. And now, Mister S. Have you anything to report about your own
employer? On his recent visit to Moscow, I understand that he expressed
satisfaction with your efforts in this area. It is a matter for
gratification that there should be such close cooperation between his
subversive efforts and our own. Both our chiefs are expecting much in
the future from our union with the Mafia. Myself I am doubting. Mr.
Gengerella is undoubtedly a valuable link, but it is my impression that
these people are only being activated by money. What is it that you are
thinking?"

"You've said it, Mr. Hendriks. In the opinion of my chief, the Mafia's
first and only consideration is the Mafia. It has always been so and it
always will be so. My Mister C. is not expecting great results in the
States. Even the Mafia can't buck the anti-Cuban feeling there. But he
thinks we can achieve plenty in the Caribbean by giving them odd jobs to
do. They can be very effective. It would certainly oil the wheels if
your people would use the Mafia as a pipeline for this narcotics
business. They'll turn your million-dollar investment into ten. They'll
grab the nine out of it, of course. But that's not peanuts, and it'll
tie them in to you. Think you could arrange that? It'll give Leroy G.
some good news to report when he gets home. As for Mister C., he seems
to be going along all right. Flora was a body-blow, but, largely thanks
to the Americans leaning on Cuba the way they do, he's kept the country
together. If the Americans once let up on their propaganda and needling
and so forth, perhaps even make a friendly gesture or two, all the
steam'll go out of the little man. I don't often see him. He leaves me
alone. Likes to keep his nose clean, I guess. But I get all the
cooperation I need from the D.S.S. Okay? Well let's go see if the folks
are ready to move. It's eleven-thirty and the Belle of Bloody Bay is due
to be on her way at twelve. Guess it's going to be quite a fun day. Pity
our chiefs aren't going to be along to see the limey eye get his chips."

"Ha!" said Mr. Hendriks noncommittally.

James Bond moved away from the door. He heard Scaramanga's passkey in
the lock. He looked up and yawned.

Scaramanga and Mr. Hendriks looked down at him. Their expressions were
vaguely interested and reflective. It was as if he were a bit of steak
and they were wondering whether to have it done rare or medium rare.




CHAPTER 13. HEAR THE TRAIN BLOW!


At twelve o'clock they all assembled in the lobby. Scaramanga had added
a broad-brimmed white Stetson to his immaculate tropical attire. He
looked like the smartest plantation owner in the South. Mr. Hendriks
wore his usual stuffy suit, now topped with a grey Homburg. Bond thought
that he should have grey suede gloves and an umbrella. The four hoods
were wearing calypso shirts outside their slacks. Bond was pleased. If
they were carrying guns in their waistbands, the shirts would hinder the
draw. Cars were drawn up outside, with Scaramanga's Thunderbird in the
lead. Scaramanga walked up to the desk. Nick Nicholson was standing
washing his hands in invisible soap and looking helpful. "All set?
Everything loaded on the train? Green Island been told? Okay, then.
Where's that sidekick of yours, that man Travis? Haven't seen him around
today."

Nick Nicholson looked serious. "He got an abscess in his tooth, sir.
Real bad. Had to send him in to Sav' La Mar to have it out. He'll be
okay by this afternoon."

"Too bad. Dock him half a day's pay. No room for sleepers on this
outfit. We're shorthanded as it is. Should have had his choppers
attended to before he took the job on. Okay?"

"Very good, Mr. Scaramanga. I'll tell him."

Scaramanga turned to the waiting group. "Okay, fellows, here's the
picture. We drive a mile down the road to the station. We get aboard
this little train. Quite an outfit, that. Fellow by the name of Lucius
Beebe had it copied for the Thunderbird company from the engine and
rolling stock on the little old Denver, South Park and Pacific line.
Okay. So we steam along this old canefield line about twenty miles to
Green Island Harbour. Plenty birds, bush rats, crocs in the rivers.
Maybe we get a little hunting. Have some fun with the hardware. All you
guys got your guns with you? Fine, fine. Champagne lunch at Green Island
and the girls and the music'll be there to keep us happy. After lunch we
get aboard the _Thunder Bird_, big Chris-Craft, and take a cruise along
to Lucea, that's a little township up the coast, and see if we can catch
our dinner. Those that don't want to fish can play stud. Right? Then
back here for drinks. Okay? Everyone satisfied? Any suggestions? Then
let's go."

Bond was told to get in the back of the car. They set off. Once again
that offered neck! Crazy not to take him now! But it was open country
with no cover and there were five guns riding behind. The odds simply
weren't good enough. What was the plan for his removal? During the
"hunting" presumably. James Bond smiled grimly to himself. He was
feeling happy. He wouldn't have been able to explain the emotion. It was
a feeling of being keyed up, wound taut. It was the moment, after twenty
passes, when you got a hand you could bet on--not necessarily win, but
bet on. He had been after this man for over six weeks. Today, this
morning perhaps, was to come the payoff he had been ordered to bring
about. It was win or lose. The odds? Foreknowledge was playing for him.
He was more heavily forearmed than the enemy knew. But the enemy had the
big battalions on their side. There were more of them. And, taking only
Scaramanga, perhaps more talent. Weapons? Again leaving out the others,
Scaramanga had the advantage. The long-barrelled Colt .45 would be a
fraction slower on the draw, but its length of barrel would give it more
accuracy than the Walther automatic. Rate of fire? The Walther should
have the edge--and the first empty chamber of Scaramanga's gun, if it
hadn't been discovered, would be an additional bonus. The steady hand?
The cool brain? The sharpness of the lust to kill? How did they weigh
up? Probably nothing to choose on the first two. Bond might be a shade
trigger-happy--of necessity. That he must watch. He must damp down the
fire in his belly. Get ice-cold. In the lust to kill, perhaps he was the
strongest. Of course. He was fighting for his life. The other man was
just amusing himself--providing sport for his friends, displaying his
potency, showing off. That was good! That might be decisive! Bond said
to himself that he must increase the other man's unawareness, his casual
certitude, his lack of caution. He must be the P. G. Wodehouse
Englishman, the limey of the cartoons. He must play easy to take. The
adrenalin coursed into James Bond's bloodstream. His pulse rate began to
run a fraction high. He felt it on his wrist. He breathed deeply and
slowly to bring it down. He found that he was sitting forward, tensed.
He sat back and tried to relax. All of his body relaxed except his right
hand. This was in the control of someone else. Resting on his right
thigh, it still twitched slightly from time to time like the paw of a
sleeping dog chasing rabbits.

He put it into his coat pocket and watched a turkey buzzard a thousand
feet up, circling. He put himself into the mind of the John Crow,
watching out for a squashed toad or a dead bush rat. The circling
buzzard had found its offal. It came lower and lower. Bond wished it
_bon apptit_. The predator in him wished the scavenger a good meal. He
smiled at the comparison between them. They were both following a scent.
The main difference was that the John Crow was a protected bird. No one
would shoot back at it when it made its final dive. Amused by his
thoughts, Bond's right hand came out of his pocket and lit a cigarette
for him, quietly and obediently. It had stopped going off chasing
rabbits on its own.

The station was a brilliant mockup from the Colorado narrow-gauge era--a
low building in faded clapboard ornamented with gingerbread along its
eaves. Its name, Thunderbird Halt, was in old-style ornamental type,
heavily seriffed. Advertisements proclaimed CHEW ROSELEAF FINE CUT
WARRANTED FINEST VIRGINIA LEAF, TRAINS STOP FOR ALL MEALS, NO CHECKS
ACCEPTED. The engine, gleaming in black and yellow varnish and polished
brass, was a gem. It stood, panting quietly in the sunshine, a wisp of
black smoke curling up from the tall stack behind the big brass
headlight. The engine's name, The Belle, was on a proud brass plate on
the gleaming black barrel, and its number, No. 1, on a similar plate
below the headlight. There was one carriage, an open affair with padded
foam-rubber seats and a surrey roof of daffodil-yellow fringed canvas to
keep off the sun, and then the brake van, also in black and yellow, with
a resplendent gilt-armed chair behind the conventional wheel of the
brake. It was a wonderful toy, even down to the old-fashioned whistle
which now gave a sharp admonitory blast.

Scaramanga was in ebullient form. "Hear the train blow, folks! All
aboard!" There was an anticlimax. To Bond's dismay he took out his
golden pistol, pointed it at the sky, and pressed the trigger. He
hesitated only momentarily and fired again. The deep boom echoed back
from the wall of the station, and the stationmaster, resplendent in
old-fashioned uniform, looked nervous. He pocketed the big silver turnip
watch he had been holding and stood back obsequiously, the green flag
now drooping at his side. Scaramanga checked his gun. He looked
thoughtfully at Bond and said, "All right, my friend. Now then, you get
up front with the driver."

Bond smiled happily. "Thanks. I've always wanted to do that since I was
a child. What fun!"

"You said it," said Scaramanga. He turned to the others. "And you, Mr.
Hendriks. In the first seat behind the coal-tender, please. Then Sam and
Leroy. Then Hal and Louie. I'll be up back in the brake van. Good place
to watch out for game. Okay?"

Everybody took their seats. The stationmaster had recovered his nerve
and went through his ploy with the watch and the flag. The engine gave a
triumphant hoot and with a series of diminishing puffs got under way,
and they bowled off along the three-foot gauge line that disappeared, as
straight as an arrow, into a dancing shimmer of silver.

Bond read the speed gauge. It said twenty. For the first time he paid
attention to the driver. He was a villainous-looking Rastafari in dirty
khaki overalls with a sweat rag round his forehead. A cigarette drooped
from between the thin moustache and the straggling beard. He smelled
quite horrible. Bond said, "My name's Mark Hazard. What's yours?"

"Rass, man! Ah doan talk wid buckra."

The expression "rass" is Jamaican for "shove it." "Buckra" is a tough
colloquialism for "white man."

Bond said equably, "I thought part of your religion was to love thy
neighbour."

The Rasta gave the whistle lanyard a long pull. When the shriek had died
away, he simply said "Sheeit," kicked the furnace door open, and began
shovelling coal.

Bond looked surreptitiously round the cabin. Yes. There it was! The long
Jamaican cutlass, this one filed to an inch blade with a deadly point.
It was on a rack by the man's hand. Was this the way he was supposed to
go? Bond doubted it. Scaramanga would do the deed in a suitably dramatic
fashion and one that would give him an alibi. Second executioner would
be Hendriks. Bond looked back over the low coal-tender. Hendriks' eyes,
bland and indifferent, met his. Bond shouted above the iron clang of the
engine, "Great fun, what?" Hendriks' eyes looked away and back again.
Bond stooped so that he could see under the surrey roof. All the other
four men were sitting motionless, their eyes also fixed on Bond. Bond
waved a cheerful hand. There was no response. So they had been told!
Bond was a spy in their midst, and this was his last ride. In mobese, he
was "going to be hit." It was an uncomfortable feeling having those ten
enemy eyes watching him like ten gun barrels. Bond straightened himself.
Now the top half of his body, like the iron "man" in a pistol range, was
above the roof of the surrey, and he was looking straight down the flat
yellow surface to where Scaramanga sat on his solitary throne, perhaps
twenty feet away, with all his body in full view. He also was looking
down the little train at Bond--the last mourner in the funeral cortege
behind the cadaver that was James Bond. Bond waved a cheery hand and
turned back. He opened his coat and got a moment's reassurance from the
cool butt of his gun. He felt in his trouser pocket. Three spare
magazines. Ah well! He'd take as many of them as he could with him. He
flipped down the codriver's seat and sat on it. No point in offering a
target until he had to. The Rasta flicked his cigarette over the side
and lit another. The engine was driving herself. He leant against the
cabin wall and looked at nothing.

Bond had done his homework on the 1:50,000 Overseas Survey map that Mary
had provided, and he knew exactly the route the little cane line took.
First there would be five miles of the cane fields, between whose high
green walls they were now travelling. Then came Middle River, followed
by the vast expanse of swamplands, now being slowly reclaimed but still
shown on the map as THE GREAT MORASS. Then would come Orange River
leading into Orange Bay, and then more sugar and mixed forest and
agricultural smallholdings until they came to the little hamlet of Green
Island at the head of the excellent anchorage of Green Island Harbour.

A hundred yards ahead, a turkey buzzard rose from beside the line, and
after a few heavy flaps, caught the inshore breeze and soared up and
away. There came the boom of Scaramanga's gun. A feather drifted down
from the great right-hand wing of the big bird. The turkey buzzard
swerved and soared higher. A second shot rang out. The bird gave a jerk
and began to tumble untidily down out of the sky. It jerked again as a
third bullet hit it before it crashed into the cane. There was applause
from under the yellow roof. Bond leant out and called to Scaramanga,
"That'll cost you five pounds unless you've squared the Rasta. That's
the fine for killing a John Crow."

A shot whistled past Bond's head. Scaramanga laughed. "Sorry. Thought I
saw a rat." And then, "Come on, Mr. Hazard. Let's see some gun play from
you. There's some cattle grazing by the line up there. See if you can
hit a cow at ten paces."

The hoods guffawed. Bond put his head out again. Scaramanga's gun was on
his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Mr. Hendriks, perhaps
ten feet behind him, had his right hand in his coat pocket. Bond called,
"I never shoot game that I don't eat. If you'll eat the whole cow, I'll
shoot it for you."

The gun flashed and boomed as Bond jerked his head under cover of the
coal-tender. Scaramanga laughed harshly. "Watch your lip, limey, or
you'll end up without it." The hoods hawhawed.

Beside Bond, the Rasta gave a curse. He pulled hard on the whistle
lanyard. Bond looked down the line. Far ahead, across the rails,
something pink showed. Without releasing the whistle, the driver pulled
on a lever. Steam belched from the train's exhaust, and the engine began
to slow. Two shots rang out, and the bullets clanged against the iron
roof over his head. Scaramanga shouted angrily, "Keep steam up, damn you
to hell!"

The Rasta quickly pushed up the lever, and the speed of the train
gathered back to twenty miles an hour. He shrugged. He glanced at Bond.
He licked his lips wetly. "Dere's white trash across de line. Guess
mebbe it's some frien' of de boss."

Bond strained his eyes. Yes! It was a naked pink body with golden blonde
hair! A girl's body!

Scaramanga's voice boomed against the wind. "Folks. Just a little
surprise for you all. Something from the good old Western movies.
There's a girl on the line ahead. Tied across it. Take a look. And you
know what? It's the girl friend of a certain man we've been hearing of
called James Bond. Would you believe it? And her name's Goodnight, Mary
Goodnight. It sure is good night for her. If only that fellow Bond was
aboard now, I guess we'd be hearing him holler for mercy."




CHAPTER 14. THE GREAT MORASS


James Bond leaped for the accelerator lever and tore it downwards. The
engine lost a head of steam, but there was only a hundred yards to go.
Now the only thing that could save the girl were the brakes under
Scaramanga's control in the brake van. The Rasta already had his cutlass
in his hand. The flames from the furnace glinted on the blade. He stood
back like a cornered animal, his eyes red with ganja and fear of the gun
in Bond's hand. Nothing could save the girl now! Bond, knowing that
Scaramanga would expect him from the right side of the tender, leaped to
the left. Hendriks had his gun out. Before it could swivel, Bond put a
bullet between the man's cold eyes. The head jerked back. For an
instant, steel-capped back teeth showed in the gaping mouth. Then the
grey Homburg fell off and the dead head slumped. The golden gun boomed
twice. A bullet whanged round the cabin. The Rasta screamed and fell to
the ground, clutching at his throat. His hand was still clenched round
the whistle lanyard, and the little train kept up its mournful howl of
warning. Fifty yards to go! The golden hair hung forlornly forward,
obscuring the face. The ropes on the wrists and ankles showed clearly.
The breasts offered themselves to the screaming engine. Bond ground his
teeth and shut his mind to the dreadful impact that would come any
minute now. He leaped to the left again and got off three shots. He
thought two of them had hit, but then something slammed a great blow
into the muscle of his left shoulder and he spun across the cab and
crashed to the iron floor, his face over the edge of the footplate. And
it was from there, only inches away, that he saw the front wheels
scrunch through the body on the line, saw the blonde head severed from
the body, saw the china-blue eyes give him a last blank stare, saw the
fragments of the showroom dummy disintegrate with a sharp crackling of
plastic and the pink splinters shower down the embankment.

James Bond choked back the sickness that rose from his stomach into the
back of his throat. He staggered to his feet, keeping low. He reached up
for the accelerator lever and pushed it upwards. A pitched battle with
the train at a standstill would put the odds even more against him. He
hardly felt the pain in his shoulder. He edged round the right-hand side
of the tender. Four guns boomed. He flung his head back under cover. Now
the hoods were shooting, but wildly because of the interference of the
surrey top. But Bond had had time to see one glorious sight. In the
brake van, Scaramanga had slid from his throne and was down on his
knees, his head moving to and fro like a wounded animal. Where in hell
had Bond hit him? And now what? How was he going to deal with the four
hoods, just as badly obscured from him as he was from them?

Then a voice from the back of the train--it could only be from the brake
van--Felix Leiter's voice--called out above the shriek of the engine's
whistle, "Okay, you four guys. Toss your guns over the side. Now!
Quick!" There came the crack of a shot. "I said quick. There's Mr.
Gengerella gone to meet his maker. Okay, then. And now hands behind your
heads. That's better. Right. Okay, James. The battle's over. Are you
okay? If so, show yourself. There's still the final curtain, and we've
got to move quick."

Bond rose carefully. He could hardly believe it! Leiter must have been
riding on the buffers behind the brake van. He wouldn't have been able
to show himself earlier for fear of Bond's gunfire. Yes! There he was!
His fair hair tousled by the wind, a long-barrelled pistol using his
upraised steel hook as a rest, standing astride the now supine body of
Scaramanga beside the brake wheel. Bond's shoulder had begun to hurt
like hell. He shouted, with the anger of tremendous relief, "Goddamn
you, Leiter. Why in hell didn't you show up before? I might have got
hurt."

Leiter laughed. "That'll be the day! Now listen, shamus. Get ready to
jump. The longer you wait, the farther you've got to walk home. I'm
going to stay with these guys for a while and hand them over to the law
in Green Island." He shook his head to show this was a lie. "Now get
goin'. It's The Morass. The landing'll be soft. Stinks a bit, but we'll
give you an eau-de-cologne spray when you get home. Right?"

The train ran over a small culvert, and the song of the wheels changed
to a deep boom. Bond looked ahead. In the distance was the spidery
ironwork of the Orange River bridge. The still shrieking train was
losing steam. The gauge said nineteen miles per hour. Bond looked down
at the dead Rasta. In death, his face was as horrible as it had been in
life. The bad teeth, sharpened from eating sugar cane from childhood,
were bared in a frozen snarl. Bond took a quick glance under the surrey
roof. Hendriks' slumped body lolled with the movement of the train. The
sweat of the day still shone on the doughy cheeks. Even as a corpse he
didn't ask for sympathy. In the seat behind him, Leiter's bullet had
torn through the back of Gengerella's head and removed most of his face.
The three gangsters now gazed up at James Bond with whipped eyes. They
hadn't expected all this. This was to have been a holiday. The calypso
shirts said so. Pistols Scaramanga, the undefeated, the undefeatable,
had said so. Until minutes before, his golden gun had backed up his
word. Now, suddenly, everything was different. As the Arabs say when a
great sheikh has gone, has removed his protection, "Now there is no more
shade!" They were covered with guns from the front and the rear. The
train stretched out its iron stride towards nowhere they had ever heard
of before. The whistle moaned. The sun beat down. The dreadful stink of
The Great Morass assailed their nostrils. This was abroad. This was bad
news, really bad. The Tour Director had left them to fend for
themselves. Two of them had been killed. Even their guns were gone. The
tough faces, as white moons, gazed in supplication up at Bond. Louie
Paradise's voice was cracked and dry with terror. "A million bucks,
mister, if you get us out of this. Swear on my mother. A million."

The faces of Sam Binion and Hal Garfinkel lit up. Here was hope!

"And a million."

"And another! On my baby son's head!"

The voice of Felix Leiter bellowed angrily. There was a note of panic in
it. "Jump. Damn you, James! Jump!"

James Bond stood up in the cabin, not listening to the voices
supplicating from under the yellow surrey roof. These men had wanted to
watch him being murdered. They had been prepared to murder him
themselves. How many dead men had each one of them got on his tally
sheet? Bond got down on the step of the cabin, chose his moment, and
threw himself clear of the clinker track and into the soft embraces of a
stinking mangrove pool.

His explosion into the mud released the stench of hell. Great bubbles of
marsh gas wobbled up to the surface and burst glutinously. A bird
screeched and clattered off through the foliage. James Bond waded out
onto the edge of the embankment. Now his shoulder was really hurting. He
knelt down and was as sick as a cat.

When he raised his head, it was to see Leiter hurl himself off the brake
van, now a good two hundred yards away. He seemed to land clumsily. He
didn't get up. And now, within yards of the long iron bridge over the
sluggish river, another figure leaped from the train into a clump of
mangrove. It was a tall, chocolate-clad figure. There was no doubt about
it! It was Scaramanga! Bond cursed feebly. Why in hell hadn't Leiter put
a finishing bullet through the man's head? Now there was unfinished
business. The cards had only been reshuffled. The end game had still to
be played!

The screaming progress of the driverless train changed to a roar as the
track took to the trestles of the long bridge. Bond watched it vaguely,
wondering when it would run out of steam. What would the three gangsters
do now? Take to the hills? Get the train under control and go on to
Green Harbour and try and take the _Thunder Bird_ across to Cuba?
Immediately the answer came! Halfway across the bridge, the engine
suddenly reared up like a bucking stallion. At the same time there came
a crash of thunder and a vast sheet of flame, and the bridge buckled
downwards in the centre like a bent leg. Chunks of torn iron sprayed
upwards and sideways, and there was a splintering crash as the main
stanchions gave and slowly bowed down towards the water. Through the
jagged gap, the beautiful Belle, a smashed toy, folded upon itself and,
with a giant splintering of iron and woodwork and a volcano of spray and
steam, thundered into the river.

A deafening silence fell. Somewhere behind Bond, a wakened tree frog
tinkled uncertainly. Four white egrets flew down and over the wreck,
their necks outstretched inquisitively. In the distance, black dots
materialized high up in the sky and circled lazily closer. The sixth
sense of the turkey buzzards had told them that the distant explosion
was disaster--something that might yield a meal. The sun hammered down
on the silver rails, and a few yards away from where Bond lay, a group
of yellow butterflies danced in the shimmer. Bond got slowly to his
feet, and parting the butterflies, began walking slowly but purposefully
up the line towards the bridge. First Felix Leiter, and then after the
big one that had got away.

Leiter lay in the stinking mud. His left leg was at a hideous angle.
Bond went down to him, his finger to his lips. He knelt beside him and
said softly, "Nothing much I can do for now, pal. I'll give you a bullet
to bite on and get you into some shade. There'll be people coming before
long. Got to get on after that bastard. He's somewhere up there by the
bridge. What made you think he was dead?"

Leiter groaned, more in anger with himself than from the pain. "There
was blood all over the place." The voice was a halting whisper between
clenched teeth. "His shirt was soaked in it. Eyes closed. Thought if he
wasn't cold he'd go with the others on the bridge." He smiled faintly.
"How did you dig the River Kwai stunt? Go off all right?"

Bond raised a thumb. "Fourth of July. The crocs'll be sitting down to
table right now. But that damned dummy! Gave me a nasty turn. Did you
put her there?"

"Sure. Sorry, boy. Mr. S. told me to. Made an excuse to spike the bridge
this morning. No idea your girl friend was a blonde or that you'd fall
for the spiel."

"Bloody silly of me, I suppose. Thought he'd got hold of her last night.
Anyway, come on. Here's your bullet. Bite the lead. The story books say
it helps. This is going to hurt, but I must haul you under cover and out
of the sun." Bond got his hands under Leiter's armpits and, as gently as
he could, dragged him to a dry patch under a big mangrove bush above
swamp level. The sweat of pain poured down Leiter's face. Bond propped
him up against the roots. Leiter gave a groan and his head fell back.
Bond looked thoughtfully down at him. A faint was probably the best
thing that could have happened. He took Leiter's gun out of his
waistband and put it beside his left, and only, hand. Bond still might
get into much trouble. If he did, Scaramanga would come after Felix.

Bond crept off along the line of mangroves towards the bridge. For the
time being, he would have to keep more or less in the open. He prayed
that, nearer the river, the swamp would yield to drier land so that he
could work down towards the sea and then cut back towards the river and
hope to pick up the man's tracks.

It was one o'clock and the sun was high. James Bond was tired and very
thirsty, and his shoulder wound throbbed with his pulse. The wound was
beginning to give him a fever. One dreams all day as well as all night,
and now, as he stalked his prey, he found, quizzically, that much of his
mind was taken up with visualizing the champagne buffet waiting for them
all, the living and the dead, at Green Island. For the moment, he
indulged himself. The buffet would be laid out under the trees, as he
saw it, adjoining the terminal station, which would probably be on the
same lines as Thunderbird Halt. There would be long trestle tables,
spotless tablecloths, rows of glasses and plates and cutlery, and great
dishes of cold lobster salad, cold meat cuts. And mounds of
fruit--pineapple and such--to make the dcor look Jamaican and exotic.
There might be a hot dish, he thought. Something like roast stuffed
sucking-pig with rice and peas--too hot for the day, decided Bond, but a
feast for most of Green Island when the rich "tourists" had departed.
And there would be drink! Champagne in frosted silver coolers, rum
punches, Tom Collinses, whisky sours, and, of course, great beakers of
iced water that would only have been poured when the train whistled its
approach to the gay little station. Bond could see it all. Every detail
of it under the shade of the great ficus trees. The white-gloved,
uniformed coloured waiters enticing him to take more and more; beyond,
the dancing waters of the harbour; in the background the hypnotic throb
of the calypso band, the soft, enticing eyes of the girls. And, ruling,
ordering all, the tall, fine figure of the gracious host, a thin cigar
between his teeth, the wide white Stetson tilted low over his brow,
offering Bond just one more goblet of iced champagne.

James Bond stumbled over a mangrove root, threw out his right hand for
support from the bush, missed, tripped again, and fell heavily. He lay
for a moment, measuring the noise he must have made. It wouldn't have
been much. The inshore wind from the sea was feathering the swamp. A
hundred yards away the river added its undertone of sluggish turbulence.
There were cricket and bird noises. Bond got to his knees and then to
his feet. What in hell had he been thinking of? Come on, you bloody
fool! There's work to be done! He shook his head to clear it. Gracious
host! Goddamn it! He was on his way to kill the gracious host! Goblets
of iced champagne? That'd be the day! He shook his head angrily. He took
several very deep slow breaths. He knew the symptoms. This was nothing
worse than acute nervous exhaustion with--he gave himself that amount of
grace--a small fever added. All he had to do was to keep his mind and
his eyes in focus. For God's sake, no more daydreaming! With a new,
sharpened resolve he kicked the mirages out of his mind and looked to
his geography.

There were perhaps a hundred yards to go to the bridge. On Bond's left,
the mangroves were sparser and the black mud was dry and cracked. But
there were still soft patches. Bond put up the collar of his coat to
hide the white shirt. He covered another twenty yards beside the rail
and then struck off left into the mangroves. He found that if he kept
close to the roots of the mangroves the going wasn't too bad. At least
there were no dry twigs or leaves to crack and rustle. He tried to keep
as nearly as possible parallel with the river, but thick patches of
bushes made him make small detours and he had to estimate his direction
by the dryness of the mud and the slight rise of the land towards the
riverbank. His ears were pricked like an animal's for the smallest
sound. His eyes strained into the greenery ahead. Now the mud was pitted
with the burrows of land crabs, and there were occasional remnants of
their shells, victims of big birds or mongoose. For the first time,
mosquitoes and sandflies began to attack him. Fearing the noise, he
dared only to dab at them softly with his handkerchief that was soon
soaked with the blood they had sucked from him and wringing with the
white man's sweat that attracted them.

Bond estimated that he had penetrated two hundred yards into the swamp
when he heard the single, controlled cough.




CHAPTER 15. CRAB-MEAT


The cough sounded about twenty yards away, towards the river. Bond
dropped to one knee, his senses questing like the antennae of an insect.
He waited five minutes. When the cough was not repeated, he crept
forwards on hands and knees, his gun gripped between his teeth.

In a small clearing of dried, cracked black mud, he saw the man. He
stopped in his tracks, trying to calm his breathing.

Scaramanga was lying stretched out, his back supported by a clump of
sprawling mangrove roots. His hat and his high stock had gone, and the
whole of the right-hand side of his suit was black with blood upon which
insects crawled and feasted. But the eyes in the controlled face were
still very much alive. They swept the clearing at regular intervals,
questing. Scaramanga's hands rested on the roots beside him. There was
no sign of a gun.

Scaramanga's face suddenly pointed, like a retriever's, and the roving
scrutiny held steady. Bond could not see what had caught his attention,
but then a patch of the dappled shadow at the edge of the clearing moved
and a large snake, beautifully diamonded in dark and pale brown,
zigzagged purposefully across the black mud towards the man.

Bond watched, fascinated. He guessed it was a boa of the Epicrates
family, attracted by the smell of blood. It was perhaps five feet long
and quite harmless to man. Bond wondered if Scaramanga would know this.
He was immediately put out of his doubt. Scaramanga's expression had not
changed, but his right hand crept softly down his trouser leg, gently
pulled up the cuff, and removed a thin, stiletto-style knife from the
side of his short Texan boot. Then he waited, the knife held ready
across his stomach, not clenched in his fist, but pointed in the
flick-knife fashion. The snake paused for a moment a few yards from the
man and raised its head high to give him a final inspection. The forked
tongue licked out inquisitively, again and again, then, still with its
head held above the ground, it moved slowly forward.

Not a muscle moved in Scaramanga's face. Only the eyes were dead-steady,
watchful slits. The snake came into the shadow of his trouser leg and
moved slowly up towards the glistening shirt. Suddenly the tongue of
steel that lay across Scaramanga's stomach came to life and leaped. It
transfixed the head of the snake exactly in the centre of the brain and
pierced through it, pinning it to the ground and holding it there while
the powerful body thrashed wildly, seeking a grip on the mangrove roots,
on Scaramanga's arm. But immediately, when it had a grip, its
convulsions released its coils which flailed off in another direction.

The death struggles diminished and finally ceased altogether. The snake
lay motionless. Scaramanga was careful. He ran his hand down the full
length of the snake. Only the tip of the tail lashed briefly. Scaramanga
extracted the knife from the head of the snake, cut off its head with a
single hard stroke, and threw it, after reflection, accurately towards a
crab hole. He waited, watching, to see if a crab would come out and take
it. None did. The thud of the arrival of the snake's head would have
kept any crab underground for many minutes, however enticing the scent
of what had made the thud.

James Bond, kneeling in the bush, watched all this, every nuance of it,
with the most careful attention. Each one of Scaramanga's actions, every
fleeting expression on his face, had been an index of the man's
awareness of his aliveness. The whole episode of the snake was as
revealing as a temperature chart or a lie detector. In Bond's judgment,
Scaramanga, for all his blood-letting and internal injuries, was still
very much alive. He was still a most formidable and dangerous man.

Scaramanga, his task satisfactorily completed, minutely shifted his
position, and, once again, made his penetrating examination of the
surrounding bush.

As Scaramanga's gaze swept by him without a flicker, Bond blessed the
darkness of his suit--a black patch of shadow among so many others. In
the sharp blacks and whites from the midday sun, Bond was well
camouflaged.

Satisfied, Scaramanga picked up the limp body of the snake, laid it
across his stomach, and carefully slit it down its underside as far as
the anal vent. Then he scoured it and carefully etched the skin away
from the red-veined flesh with the precise flicks and cuts of a surgeon.
Every scrap of unwanted reptile he threw towards crab holes, and, with
each throw, a flicker of annoyance crossed the granite face that no one
would come and pick up the crumbs from the rich man's table. When the
meal was ready, he once again scanned the bush, and then, very
carefully, coughed and spat into his hand. He examined the results and
flung his hand sideways. On the black ground, the sputum made a bright
pink scrawl. The cough didn't seem to hurt him or cause him much effort.
Bond guessed that his bullet had hit Scaramanga in the right chest and
had missed a lung by a fraction. There was haemorrhage and Scaramanga
was a hospital case, but the blood-soaked shirt was not telling the
whole truth.

Satisfied with his inspection of his surroundings, Scaramanga bit into
the body of the snake and was at once, like a dog with its meal,
absorbed by his hunger and thirst for the blood and juices of the snake.

Bond had the impression that if he now came forward from his hiding
place Scaramanga, like a dog, would bare his teeth in a furious snarl.
He got quietly up from his knees, took out his gun, and, his eyes
watching Scaramanga's hands, strolled out into the centre of the little
clearing.

Bond was mistaken. Scaramanga did not snarl. He barely looked up from
the cut-off length of snake in his two hands and, his mouth full of
meat, said, "You've been a long while coming. Care to share my meal?"

"No thanks. I prefer my snake grilled with hot butter sauce. Just keep
on eating. I like to see both hands occupied."

Scaramanga sneered. He gestured at his blood-stained shirt. "Frightened
of a dying man? You limeys come pretty soft."

"The dying man handled that snake quite efficiently. Got any more
weapons on you?" Scaramanga moved to undo his coat. "Steady! No quick
movements. Just show your belt, armpits, pat the thighs inside and out.
I'd do it myself only I don't want what the snake got. And while you're
about it, just toss the knife into the trees. Toss. No throwing, if you
don't mind. My trigger finger's been getting a bit edgy today. Seems to
want to go about its business on its own. Wouldn't like it to take over.
Yet, that is."

Scaramanga, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the knife into the air.
The sliver of steel spun like a wheel in the sunshine. Bond had to step
aside. The knife pierced the mud where Bond had been standing and stood
upright. Scaramanga gave a harsh laugh. The laugh turned into a cough.
The gaunt face contorted painfully. Too painfully? Scaramanga spat red,
but not all that red. There could be only slight haemorrhage. Perhaps a
broken rib or two. Scaramanga could be out of hospital in a couple of
weeks. Scaramanga put down his piece of snake and did exactly as Bond
had told him, all the while watching Bond's face with his usual cold,
arrogant stare. He finished and picked up the piece of snake and began
gnawing it. He looked up. "Satisfied?"

"Sufficiently." Bond squatted down on his heels. He held his gun
loosely, aiming somewhere halfway between the two of them. "Now then,
let's talk. Afraid you haven't got too much time, Scaramanga. This is
the end of the road. You've killed too many of my friends. I have the
licence to kill you and I am going to kill you. But I'll make it quick.
Not like Margesson. Remember him? You put a shot through both of his
knees and both of his elbows. Then you made him crawl and kiss your
boots. You were foolish enough to boast about it to your friends in
Cuba. It got back to us. As a matter of interest, how many men have you
killed in your life?"

"With you, it'll make the round fifty." Scaramanga had gnawed the last
segment of backbone clean. He tossed it towards Bond. "Eat that, scum,
and get on with your business. You won't get any secrets out of me, if
that's the pitch. And don't forget. I've been shot at by experts and I'm
still alive. Maybe not precisely kicking, but I've never heard of a
limey who'd shoot a defenceless man who's badly wounded. They haven't
got the guts. We'll just sit here, chewing the fat, until the rescue
team comes. Then I'll be glad to go for trial. What'll they get me for,
eh?"

"Well, just for a start, there's that nice Mr. Rotkopf with one of your
famous silver bullets in his head in the river back of the hotel."

"That'll match with the nice Mr. Hendriks with one of your bullets
somewhere behind his face. Maybe we'll serve a bit of time together.
That'd be nice, wouldn't it? They say the jail at Spanish Town has all
the comforts. How about it, limey? That's where you'll be found with a
shiv in your back in the sack-sewing department. And by the same token,
how d'you know about Rotkopf?"

"Your bug was bugged. Seems you're a bit accident-prone these days,
Scaramanga. You hired the wrong security men. Both your managers were
from the C.I.A. The tape'll be on the way to Washington by now. That's
got the murder of Ross on it too. See what I mean? You've got it coming
from every which way."

"Tape isn't evidence in an American court. But I see what you mean,
shamus. Mistakes seem to have got made. So okay"--Scaramanga made an
expansive gesture of the right hand--"take a million bucks and call it
quits?"

"I was offered three million on the train."

"I'll double that."

"No. Sorry." Bond got to his feet. The left hand behind his back was
clenched with the horror of what he was about to do. He forced himself
to think of what the broken body of Margesson must have looked like, of
the others that this man had killed, of the ones he would kill afresh if
Bond weakened. This man was probably the most efficient one-man
death-dealer in the world. James Bond had him. He had been instructed to
take him. He must take him--lying down wounded or in any other position.
Bond assumed casualness, tried to make himself the enemy's cold equal.
"Any messages for anyone, Scaramanga? Any instructions? Anyone you want
looking after? I'll take care of it if it's personal. I'll keep it to
myself."

Scaramanga laughed his harsh laugh, but carefully. This time the laugh
didn't turn into the red cough. "Quite the little English gentleman!
Just like I spelled it out. S'pose you wouldn't like to hand me your gun
and leave me to myself for five minutes like in the books? Well, you're
right, boyo! I'd crawl after you and blast the back of your head off."
The eyes still bored into Bond's with the arrogant superiority, the cold
superman quality that had made him the greatest pro gunman in the
world--no drinks, no drugs--the impersonal trigger man who killed for
money and, by the way he sometimes did it, for the kicks.

Bond examined him carefully. How could Scaramanga fail to break when he
was going to die in minutes? Was there some last trick the man was going
to spring? Some hidden weapon? But the man just lay there, apparently
relaxed, propped up against the mangrove roots, his chest heaving
rhythmically, the granite of his face not crumbling even minutely in
defeat. On his forehead there was not as much sweat as there was on
Bond's. Scaramanga lay in dappled black shadow. For ten minutes James
Bond had stood in the middle of the clearing in blazing sunshine.
Suddenly he felt the vitality oozing out through his feet into the black
mud. And his resolve was going with it. He said, and he heard his voice
ring out harshly, "All right, Scaramanga, this is it." He lifted his gun
and held it in the two-handed grip of the target man. "I'm going to make
it as quick as I can."

Scaramanga held up a hand. For the first time his face showed emotion.
"Okay, fellow." The voice, amazingly, supplicated. "I'm a Catholic, see?
Just let me say my last prayer. Okay? Won't take long, then you can
blaze away. Every man's got to die sometime. You're a fine guy as guys
go. It's the luck of the game. If my bullet had been an inch, maybe two
inches, to the right, it'd be you that's dead in place of me. Right? Can
I say my prayer, mister?"

James Bond lowered his gun. He would give the man a few minutes. He knew
he couldn't give him more. Pain and heat and exhaustion and thirst. It
wouldn't be long before he lay down himself, right there on the hard
cracked mud, just to rest. If someone wanted to kill him, they could. He
said, and the words came out slowly, tiredly, "Go ahead, Scaramanga. One
minute only."

"Thanks, pal." Scaramanga's hands went up to his face and covered his
eyes. There came a drone of Latin which went on and on. Bond stood there
in the sunshine, his gun lowered, watching Scaramanga, but at the same
time not watching him, the edge of his focus dulled by the pain and the
heat and the hypnotic litany that came from behind the shuttered face
and the horror of what Bond was going to have to do--in one minute,
perhaps two.

The fingers of Scaramanga's right hand crawled imperceptibly sideways
across his face, inch by inch, centimetre by centimetre. They got to his
ear and stopped. The drone of the Latin prayer never altered its slow,
lulling tempo.

And then the hand leaped behind the head and the tiny golden Derringer
roared, and James Bond spun round as if he had taken a right to the jaw
and crashed to the ground.

At once Scaramanga was on his feet and moving forward like a swift cat.
He snatched up the discarded knife and held it forward like a tongue of
silver flame.

But James Bond twisted like a dying animal on the ground and the iron in
his hand cracked viciously again and again--five times--and then fell
out of his hand onto the black earth as his gun hand went to the right
side of his belly and stayed there, clutching at the terrible pain.

The big man stood for a moment and looked up at the deep blue sky. His
fingers opened in a spasm and let go the knife. His pierced heart
stuttered and limped and stopped. He crashed flat back and lay, his arms
flung wide, as if someone had thrown him away.

After a while, the land crabs came out of their holes and began nosing
at the scraps of the snake. The bigger offal could wait until the night.




CHAPTER 16. THE WRAPUP


The extremely smart policeman from the wrecking squad on the railway
came down the riverbank at the normal, dignified gait of a Jamaican
constable on his beat. No Jamaican policeman ever breaks into a run. He
has been taught that this lacks authority. Felix Leiter, now put under
with morphine by the doctor, had said that a good man was after a bad
man in the swamp and that there might be shooting. Felix Leiter wasn't
more explicit than that, but when he said he was from the F.B.I.--a
legitimate euphemism--in Washington, the policeman tried to get some of
the wrecking squad to come with him and when he failed, sauntered
cautiously off on his own, his baton swinging with assumed jauntiness.

The boom of the guns and the explosion of screeching marsh birds gave
him an approximate fix. He had been born not far away, at Negril, and as
a boy he had often used his gins and his slingshot in these marshes.
They held no fears for him. When he came to the approximate point on the
riverbank, he turned left into the mangrove, and conscious that his
black-and-blue uniform was desperately conspicuous, stalked cautiously
from clump to clump into the morass. He was protected by nothing but his
nightstick and the knowledge that to kill a policeman was a capital
offence without the option. He only hoped that the good man and the bad
man knew this too.

With all the birds gone, there was dead silence. The constable noticed
that the tracks of bush rats and other small animals were running past
him on a course that converged with his target area. Then he heard the
rattling scuttle of the crabs, and in a moment, from behind a thick
mangrove clump, he saw the glint of Scaramanga's shirt. He watched and
listened. There was no movement and no sound. He strolled, with dignity,
into the middle of the clearing, looked at the two bodies and the guns,
and took out his nickel police whistle and blew three long blasts. Then
he sat down in the shade of a bush, took out his report pad, licked his
pencil, and began writing in a laborious hand.



A week later, James Bond regained consciousness. He was in a
green-shaded room. He was under water. The slowly revolving fan in the
ceiling was the screw of a ship that was about to run him down. He swam
for his life. But it was no good. He was tied down, anchored to the
bottom of the sea. He screamed at the top of his lungs. To the nurse at
the end of the bed it was the whisper of a moan. At once she was beside
him. She put a cool hand on his forehead. While she took his pulse,
James Bond looked up at her with unfocused eyes. So this was what a
mermaid looked like! He muttered "You're pretty," and gratefully swam
back down into her arms.

The nurse wrote ninety-five on his sheet and telephoned down to the ward
sister. She looked in the dim mirror and tidied her hair in preparation
for the R.M.O. in charge of this apparently Very Important Patient.

The Resident Medical Officer, a young Jamaican graduate from Edinburgh,
arrived with the matron, a kindly dragon on loan from King Edward VII's.
He heard the nurse's report. He went over to the bed and gently lifted
Bond's eyelids. He slipped a thermometer under Bond's armpit and held
Bond's pulse in one hand and a pocket chronometer in the other, and
there was silence in the little room. Outside, the traffic tore up and
down a Kingston road.

The doctor released Bond's pulse and slipped the chronometer back into
the trouser pocket under the white smock. He wrote figures on the chart.
The nurse held the door open, and the three people went out into the
corridor. The doctor talked to the matron. The nurse was allowed to
listen. "He's going to be all right. Temperature well down. Pulse a
little fast, but that may have been the result of his waking. Reduce the
antibiotics. I'll talk to the floor sister about that later. Keep on
with the intravenous feeding. Dr. Macdonald will be up later to attend
to the dressings. He'll be waking again. If he asks for something to
drink, give him fruit juice. He should be on soft foods soon. Miracle
really. Missed the abdominal viscera. Didn't even shave a kidney. Muscle
only. That bullet was clipped in enough poison to kill a horse. Thank
God that man at Sav' La Mar recognized the symptoms of snake venom and
gave him those massive anti-snakebite injections. Remind me to write to
him, matron. He saved the man's life. Now then, no visitors of course,
for at least another week. You can tell the police and the High
Commissioner's Office that he's on the mend. I don't know who he is, but
apparently London keeps on worrying us about him. Something to do with
the Ministry of Defence. From now on, put them and all other inquiries
through to the High Commissioner's Office. They seem to think they're in
charge of him." He paused. "By the way, how's his friend getting on in
Number Twelve? The one the American ambassador and Washington have been
on about. He's not on my list, but he keeps on asking to see this Mr.
Bond."

"Compound fracture of the tibia," said the matron. "No complications."
She smiled. "Except that he's a bit fresh with the nurses. He should be
walking with a stick in ten days. He's already seen the police. I
suppose it's all to do with that story in the _Gleaner_ about those
American tourists being killed when the Orange River Bridge collapsed.
But the Commissioner's handling it all personally. The story in the
_Gleaner_'s very vague."

The doctor smiled. "Nobody tells me anything. Just as well. I haven't
got the time to listen to them. Well, thank you, matron. I must get
along. Multiple crash at Halfway Tree. The ambulances'll be here any
minute." He hurried away. The matron went about her business. The nurse,
excited by all this high-level talk, went softly back into the
green-shaded room, tidied the sheet over the naked right shoulder of her
patient where the doctor had pulled it down, and went back to her chair
at the end of the bed and her copy of _Ebony_.



Ten days later, the little room was crowded. James Bond, propped up
among extra pillows, was amused by the galaxy of officialdom that had
been assembled. On his left was the Commissioner of Police, resplendent
in his black uniform with silver insignia. On his right was a justice of
the Supreme Court in full regalia, accompanied by a deferential clerk. A
massive figure, to whom Felix Leiter, on crutches, was fairly
respectful, had been introduced as "Colonel Bannister" from Washington.
Head of Station C, a quiet civil servant called Alec Hill, who had been
flown out from London, stood near the door and kept his appraising eyes
unwaveringly on Bond. Mary Goodnight, who was to take notes of the
proceedings but also, on the matron's strict instructions, watch for any
sign of fatigue in James Bond and have absolute authority to close the
meeting if he showed strain, sat demurely beside the bed with a
shorthand pad on her knees. But James Bond felt no strain. He was
delighted to see all these people and know that at last he was back in
the great world again. The only matters that worried him were that he
had not been allowed to see Felix Leiter before the meeting to agree
their stories and that he had been rather curtly advised by the High
Commissioner's Office that legal representation would not be necessary.

The Police Commissioner cleared his throat. He said, "Commander Bond,
our meeting here today is largely a formality, but it is held on the
Prime Minister's instructions and with your doctor's approval. There are
many rumours running around the island and abroad, and Sir Alexander
Bustamante is most anxious to have them dispelled for the sake of
justice and of the island's good name. So this meeting is in the nature
of a judicial inquiry having Prime Ministerial status. We very much hope
that, if the conclusions of the meeting are satisfactory, there need be
no more legal proceedings whatever. You understand?"

"Yes," said Bond--who didn't.

"Now," the Commissioner spoke weightily. "The facts as ascertained are
as follows. Recently there took place at the Thunderbird Hotel in the
Parish of Westmoreland a meeting of what can only be described as
foreign gangsters of outstanding notoriety, including representatives of
the Soviet secret service, the Mafia, and the Cuban secret police. The
objects of this meeting were, _inter alia_, sabotage of Jamaican
installations in the cane industry, stimulation of illicit ganja-growing
in the island and purchase of the crop for export, the bribery of a high
Jamaican official with the object of installing gangster-run gambling in
the island, and sundry other malfeasances deleterious to law and order
in Jamaica and to her international standing. Am I correct, Commander?"

"Yes," said Bond, this time with a clear conscience.

"Now." The Commissioner spoke with even greater emphasis. "The
intentions of this subversive group became known to the Criminal
Investigation Department of the Jamaican police and the facts of the
proposed assembly were placed before the Prime Minister in person by
myself. Naturally the greatest secrecy was observed. A decision then had
to be reached as to how this meeting was to be kept under surveillance
and penetrated so that its intentions might be learned. Since friendly
nations, including Britain and the United States, were involved, secret
conversations took place with the representatives of the Ministry of
Defence in Britain and of the Central Intelligence Agency in the United
States. As a result, expert personnel in the shape of yourself, Mr.
Nicholson and Mr. Leiter were generously made available, at no cost to
the Jamaican government, to assist in unveiling these secret
machinations against Jamaica held on Jamaican soil." The Commissioner
paused and looked round the room to see if he had stated the position
correctly. Bond noticed that Felix Leiter nodded his head vigorously
with the others, but, in his case, in Bond's direction.

Bond smiled. He had at last got the message. He also nodded his
agreement.

"Accordingly," continued the Commissioner, "and working throughout under
the closest liaison and direction of the Jamaican C.I.D., Messrs. Bond,
Nicholson, and Leiter carried out their duties in exemplary fashion. The
true intentions of the gangsters were unveiled, but alas, in the
process, the identity of at least one of the Jamaica-controlled agents
was discovered and a battle royal took place. During the course of this,
thanks to the superior gunfire of Commander Bond and Mr. Leiter, the
following enemy agents--here there will be a list--were killed.
Immediately after, thanks to Mr. Leiter's ingenious use of explosive on
the Orange River Bridge, the following--another list--lost their lives.
Unfortunately, two of the Jamaica-controlled agents received severe
wounds from which they are now recovering in the Memorial Hospital. It
remains to mention the names of Constable Percival Sampson of the Negril
Constabulary, who was first on the scene of the final battlefield, and
Dr. Lister Smith of Savannah La Mar, who rendered vital first aid to
Commander Bond and Mr. Leiter. On the instructions of the Prime
Minister, Sir Alexander Bustamante, a judicial inquiry was held this day
at the bedside of Commander Bond and in the presence of Mr. Felix Leiter
to confirm the above facts. These, in the presence of Justice Morris
Cargill of the Supreme Court, are now and hereby confirmed."

The Commissioner was obviously delighted with his rendering of all this
rigmarole. He beamed at Bond. "It only remains"--he handed Bond a sealed
packet, a similar one to Felix Leiter, and one to Colonel Bannister--"to
confer on Commander Bond of Great Britain, Mr. Felix Leiter of the
United States, and, in absentia, Mr. Nicholas Nicholson of the United
States, the immediate award of the Jamaican Police Medal for gallant and
meritorious services to the Independent State of Jamaica."

There was muted applause. Mary Goodnight went on clapping after the
others had stopped. She suddenly realized the fact, blushed furiously,
and stopped.

James Bond and Felix Leiter made stammered acknowledgments. Justice
Cargill rose to his feet and, in solemn tones, asked Bond and Leiter in
turn, "Is this a true and correct account of what occurred between the
given dates?"

"Yes, indeed," said Bond.

"I'll say it is, Your Honour," said Felix Leiter fervently.

The Judge bowed. All except Bond rose and bowed. Bond just bowed. "In
that case, I declare this inquiry closed." The bewigged figure turned to
Miss Goodnight. "If you will be kind enough to obtain all the
signatures, duly witnessed, and send them round to my chambers? Thank
you so much." He paused and smiled. "And the carbon, if you don't mind?"

"Certainly, my lord." Mary Goodnight glanced at Bond. "And now, if you
will forgive me, I think the patient needs a rest. Matron was most
insistent...."

Goodbyes were said. Bond called Leiter back. Mary Goodnight smelled
private secrets. She admonished, "Now, only a minute!" and went out and
closed the door.

Leiter leant over the end of the bed. He wore his most quizzical smile.
He said, "Well, I'll be goddamned, James. That was the neatest wrapup
job I've ever lied my head off at. Everything clean as a whistle, and
we've even collected a piece of lettuce."

Talking starts with the stomach muscles. Bond's wounds were beginning to
ache. He smiled, not showing the pain. Leiter was due to leave that
afternoon. Bond didn't want to say goodbye to him. Bond treasured his
men friends and Felix Leiter was a great slice of his past. He said,
"Scaramanga was quite a guy. He should have been taken alive. Maybe
Tiffy really did put the hex on him with Mother Edna. They don't come
like that often."

Leiter was unsympathetic. "That's the way you limeys talk about Rommel
and Dnitz and Guderian. Let alone Napoleon. Once you've beaten them,
you make heroes out of them. Don't make sense to me. In my book, an
enemy's an enemy. Care to have Scaramanga back? Now, in this room, with
his famous golden gun on you--the long one or the short one? Standing
where I am? One bets you a thousand you wouldn't. Don't be a jerk,
James. You did a good job. Pest control. It's got to be done by someone.
Going back to it when you're off the orange juice?"

Felix Leiter jeered at him. "Of course you are, lame-brain. It's what
you were put into the world for. Pest control, like I said. All you got
to figure is how to control it better. The pests'll always be there. God
made dogs. He also made their fleas. Don't let it worry your tiny mind.
Right?" Leiter had seen the sweat on James Bond's forehead. He limped
towards the door and opened it. He raised a hand briefly. The two men
had never shaken hands in their lives. Leiter looked into the corridor.
He said, "Okay, Miss Goodnight. Tell matron to take him off the danger
list. And tell him to keep away from me for a week or two. Every time I
see him a piece of me gets broken off. I don't fancy myself as The
Vanishing Man." Again he raised his only hand in Bond's direction and
limped out.

Bond shouted, "Wait, you bastard!" But, by the time Leiter had limped
back into the room, Bond, no effort left in him to fire off the volley
of four-letter words that were to be his only answer to his friend, had
lapsed into unconsciousness.

Mary Goodnight shooed the remorseful Leiter out of the room and ran off
down the corridor to the floor sister.




CHAPTER 17. ENDIT


A week later, James Bond was sitting up in a chair, a towel round his
waist, reading Allen Dulles' _The Craft of Intelligence_ and cursing his
fate. The hospital had worked miracles on him, the nurses were sweet,
particularly the one he called The Mermaid, but he wanted to be off and
away. He glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. Visiting time. Mary
Goodnight would soon be here, and he would be able to let off his
pent-up steam on her. Unjust perhaps, but he had already tongue-lashed
everyone in range in the hospital, and if she got into the field of
fire, that was just too bad!

Mary Goodnight came through the door. Despite the Jamaican heat, she was
looking fresh as a rose. Damn her! She was carrying what looked like a
typewriter. Bond recognized it as the Triple-X decyphering machine. Now
what?

Bond grunted surly answers to her inquiries after his health. He said,
"What in hell's that for?"

"It's an Eyes Only. Personal from M.," she said excitedly. "About thirty
groups."

"Thirty groups! Doesn't the old bastard know I've only got one arm
that's working? Come on, Mary. You get cracking. If it sounds really
hot, I'll take over."

Mary Goodnight looked shocked. Eyes Only was a top-sacred prefix. But
Bond's jaw was jutting out dangerously. Today was not a day for
argument. She sat on the edge of the bed, opened the machine, and took a
cable form out of her bag. She laid her shorthand book beside the
machine, scratched the back of her head with her pencil to help work out
the setting for the day--a complicated sum involving the date and the
hour of dispatch of the cable--adjusted the setting on the central
cylinder and began cranking the handle. After each completed word had
appeared in the little oblong window at the base of the machine, she
recorded it in her book.

James Bond watched her expression. She was pleased. After a few minutes
she read out:

"M PERSONAL FOR OHOHSEVEN EYES ONLY STOP YOUR REPORT AND DITTO FROM TOP
FRIENDS [a euphemism for the C.I.A.] RECEIVED STOP YOU HAVE DONE
WELL AND EXECUTED AYE DIFFICULT AND HAZARDOUS OPERATION TO MY ENTIRE
REPEAT ENTIRE SATISFACTION STOP TRUST YOUR HEALTH UNIMPAIRED [Bond gave
an angry snort] STOP WHEN WILL YOU BE REPORTING FOR FURTHER DUTY QUERY."

Mary Goodnight smiled delightedly. "I've never seen him be so
complimentary! Have you, James? That repeat of _entire_! It's
tremendous!" She looked hopefully for a lifting of the black clouds from
Bond's face.

In fact, Bond was secretly delighted. He knew what Mary couldn't
know--that M. was telling him that he had won his spurs back. But he
certainly wasn't going to show his pleasure to Mary Goodnight. Today she
was one of the wardresses confining him, tying him down. He said
grudgingly, "Not bad for the old man. But all he wants is to get me back
to that bloody desk. Anyway, it's a lot of jazz so far. What comes
next?" He turned the pages of his book, pretending as the little machine
whirred and clicked not to be interested.

"Oh, James!" Mary Goodnight exploded with excitement. "Wait! I'm almost
finished. It's tremendous!"

"I know," commented Bond sourly. "Free luncheon vouchers every second
Friday. Key to M.'s personal lavatory. New suit to replace the one
that's somehow got full of holes." But he kept his eyes fixed on the
flitting fingers, infected by Mary Goodnight's excitement. What in hell
was she getting so steamed up about? And all on his behalf! He examined
her with approval. Perched there, immaculate in her white tussore shirt
and tight beige skirt, one neat foot curled round the other in
concentration, the golden face under the shortish fair hair incandescent
with pleasure, she was, thought Bond, a girl to have around always. As a
secretary? As what? Mary Goodnight turned, her eyes shining, and the
question went, as it had gone for weeks, without an answer.

"Now, just listen to this, James." She shook the notebook at him. "And
for heaven's sake, stop looking so curmudgeonly."

Bond smiled at the word. "All right, Mary. Go ahead. Empty the Christmas
stocking on the floor. Hope it's not going to bust any stitches." He put
his book down on his lap.

Mary Goodnight's face became portentous. She said seriously, "Just
listen to this!" She read very carefully:

"IN VIEW OF THE OUTSTANDING NATURE OF THE SERVICES REFERRED TO ABOVE AND
THEIR ASSISTANCE TO THE ALLIED CAUSE COMMA WHICH IS PERHAPS MORE
SIGNIFICANT THAN YOU IMAGINE COMMA THE PRIME MINISTER PROPOSES TO
RECOMMEND TO HER MAJESTY QUEEN ELIZABETH THE IMMEDIATE GRANT OF A
KNIGHTHOOD STOP THIS TO TAKE THE FORM OF THE ADDITION OF A KATIE AS
PREFIX TO YOUR CHARLIE MICHAEL GEORGE."

James Bond uttered a defensive, embarrassed laugh. "Good old cypherines.
They wouldn't think of just putting K C M G--much too easy! Go ahead,
Mary. This is good!"

"IT IS COMMON PRACTICE TO INQUIRE OF PROPOSED RECIPIENT WHETHER HE
ACCEPTS THIS HIGH HONOUR BEFORE HER MAJESTY PUTS HER SEAL UPON IT STOP
WRITTEN LETTER SHOULD FOLLOW YOUR CABLED CONFIRMATION OF ACCEPTANCE
PARAGRAPH THIS AWARD NATURALLY HAS MY SUPPORT AND ENTIRE APPROVAL AND
EYE SEND YOU MY PERSONAL CONGRATULATIONS ENDIT MAILED-FIST."

James Bond again hid himself behind the throwaway line. "Why in hell
does he always have to sign himself Mailed-fist for M.? There's a
perfectly good English word. Em. It's a measure used by printers. But of
course it's not dashing enough for the Chief. He's a romantic at heart
like all the silly bastards who get mixed up with the Service."

Mary Goodnight lowered her eyelashes. She knew that Bond's reflex
concealed his pleasure--a pleasure he wouldn't for the life of him have
displayed. Who wouldn't be pleased, proud? She put on a businesslike
expression. "Well, would you like me to draft something for you to send?
I can be back with it at six, and I know they'll let me in. I can check
up the right sort of formula with the High Commissioner's staff. I know
it begins with 'I present my humble duty to Her Majesty.' I've had to
help with the Jamaica honours at New Year and her birthday. Everyone
seems to want to know the form."

James Bond wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. Of course he was
pleased! But above all pleased with M.'s commendation. The rest, he
knew, was not in his stars. He had never been a public figure, and he
did not wish to become one. He had no prejudice against letters after
one's name, or before it. But there was one thing above all he
treasured. His privacy. His anonymity. To become a public person, a
person, in the snobbish world of England, of any country, who would be
called upon to open things, lay foundation stones, make after-dinner
speeches, brought the sweat to his armpits. "James Bond!" No middle
name. No hyphen. A quiet, dull, anonymous name. Certainly he was a
Commander in the Special Branch of the R.N.V.R., but he rarely used the
rank. His C.M.G. likewise. He wore it perhaps once a year, together with
his two rows of lettuce, because there was a dinner for the Old
Boys--the fraternity of ex-Secret Service men that went under the name
of The Twin Snakes Club. A grisly reunion held in the banqueting hall at
Blades, it gave enormous pleasure to a lot of people who had been brave
and resourceful in their day but now had old men's and old women's
diseases and talked about dusty triumphs and tragedies. Tales which,
since they would never be recorded in the history books, must be told
again that night, over the Cockburn '12, when "The Queen" had been
drunk, to some next-door neighbour such as James Bond who was only
interested in what was going to happen tomorrow. That was when he wore
his lettuce and the C.M.G. below his black tie--to give pleasure and
reassurance to the Old Children at their annual party. For the rest of
the year, until May polished them up for the occasion, the medals
gathered dust in some secret repository where May kept them.

So now James Bond said to Mary Goodnight, avoiding her eyes, "Mary, this
is an order. Take down what follows and send it tonight. Right?

"Begins: quote MAILED-FIST EYES ONLY [Bond interjected, I might have
said Promoneypenny. When did M. last touch a cypher machine?] STOP YOUR
[Put in the number, Mary] ACKNOWLEDGED AND GREATLY APPRECIATED STOP AM
INFORMED BY HOSPITAL AUTHORITIES THAT EYE SHALL BE RETURNED LONDONWARDS
DUTIABLE IN ONE MONTH STOP REFERRING YOUR REFERENCE TO AYE HIGH HONOUR
EYE BEG YOU PRESENT MY HUMBLE DUTY TO HER MAJESTY AND REQUEST THAT EYE
MAY BE PERMITTED COMMA IN ALL HUMILITY COMMA TO DECLINE THE SIGNAL
FAVOUR HER MAJESTY IS GRACIOUS ENOUGH TO PROPOSE TO CONFER UPON HER
HUMBLE AND OBEDIENT SERVANT BRACKET TO MAILED-FIST PLEASE PUT THIS IN
THE APPROPRIATE WORDS TO THE PRIME MINISTER STOP MY PRINCIPAL REASON IS
THAT EYE DONT WANT TO PAY MORE AT HOTELS AND RESTAURANTS BRACKET."

Mary Goodnight broke in, horrified. "James. The rest is your business,
but you really can't say that last bit."

Bond nodded. "I was only trying it on you, Mary. All right, let's start
again at the last stop. Write:

"EYE AM A SCOTTISH PEASANT AND EYE WILL ALWAYS FEEL AT HOME BEING A
SCOTTISH PEASANT AND EYE KNOW COMMA SIR COMMA THAT YOU WILL UNDERSTAND
MY PREFERENCE AND THAT EYE CAN COUNT ON YOUR INDULGENCE BRACKET LETTER
CONFIRMING FOLLOWS IMMEDIATELY ENDIT OHOHSEVEN."

Mary Goodnight closed her book with a snap. She shook her head. The
golden hair danced angrily. "Well really, James! Are you sure you don't
want to sleep on it? I knew you were in a bad mood today. You may have
changed your mind by tomorrow. Don't you want to go to Buckingham Palace
and see the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh and kneel and have your
shoulder touched with a sword and the Queen to say 'Arise, Sir Knight'
or whatever it is she does say?"

Bond smiled. "I'd like all those things. The romantic streak of the
S.I.S.--and of the Scot, for the matter of that. I just refuse to call
myself Sir James Bond. I'd laugh at myself every time I looked in the
mirror to shave. It's just not my line, Mary. The thought makes me
positively shudder. I know M.'ll understand. He thinks much the same way
about these things as I do. Trouble was, he had to more or less inherit
his K with the job. Anyway, there it is and I shan't change my mind, so
you can buzz that off, and I'll write M. a letter of confirmation this
evening. Any other business?"

"Well there is one thing, James." Mary Goodnight looked down her pretty
nose. "Matron says you can leave at the end of the week, but that
there's got to be another three weeks' convalescence. Had you got any
plans where to go? You have to be in reach of the hospital."

"No ideas. What do you suggest?"

"Well, er, I've got this little villa up by Mona Dam, James." Her voice
hurried. "It's got quite a nice spare room looking out over Kingston
Harbour. And it's cool up there. And if you don't mind sharing a
bathroom." She blushed. "I'm afraid there's no chaperone, but you know,
in Jamaica, people don't mind that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" said Bond, teasing her.

"Don't be silly, James. You know, unmarried couples sharing the same
house and so on."

"Oh that sort of thing! Sounds pretty dashing to me. By the way, is your
bedroom decorated in pink, with white jalousies, and do you sleep under
a mosquito net?"

She looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know?" When he didn't answer,
she hurried on. "And James, it's not far from the Liguanea Club, and you
can go there and play bridge, and golf when you get better. There'll be
plenty of people for you to talk to. And then of course I can cook and
sew buttons on for you and so on."

Of all the doom-fraught graffiti a woman can write on the wall, those
are the most insidious, the most deadly.

James Bond, in the full possession of his senses, with his eyes wide
open, his feet flat on the linoleum floor, stuck his head blithely
between the mink-lined jaws of the trap. He said, and meant it,
"Goodnight. You're an angel."

At the same time, he knew, deep down, that love from Mary Goodnight, or
from any other woman, was not enough for him. It would be like taking "a
room with a view." For James Bond, the same view would always pall.






[End of The Man with the Golden Gun, by Ian Fleming]
