[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
//-->Tomy gentle ReaderWilliam PlomerPART ONE: HAPPENSTANCECHAPTER ONEREFLECTIONS IN A DOUBLE BOURBONJAMES BOND, with two double bourbons inside him, sat in the final departure loungeof Miami Airport and thought about life and death.It was part of his profession to kill people. He had never liked doing it and when he hadto kill he did it as well as he knew how and forgot about it. As a secret agent who held therare double-O prefix - the licence to kill in the Secret Service - it was his duty to be as coolabout death as a surgeon. If it happened, it happened. Regret was unprofessional - worse,it was death-watch beetle in the soul.And yet there had been something curiously impressive about the death of the Mexican.It wasn't that he hadn't deserved to die. He was an evil man, a man they call in Mexico acapungo.A capungo is a bandit who will kill for as little as forty pesos, which is abouttwenty-five shillings -though probably he had been paid more to attempt the killing ofBond - and, from the look of him, he had been an instrument of pain and misery all hislife. Yes, it had certainly been time for him to die; but when Bond had killed him, lessthan twenty-four hours before, life had gone out of the body so quickly, so utterly, thatBond had almost seen it come out of his mouth as it does, in the shape of a bird, in Haitianprimitives.What an extraordinary difference there was between a body full of person and a bodythat was empty! Now there is someone, now there is no one. This had been a Mexicanwith a name and an address, an employment card and perhaps a driving licence. Thensomething had gone out of him, out of the envelope of flesh and cheap clothes, and hadleft him an empty paper bag waiting for the dustcart. And the difference, the thing that hadgone out of the stinking Mexican bandit, was greater than all Mexico.Bond looked down at the weapon that had done it. The cutting edge of his right hand wasred and swollen. It would soon show a bruise. Bond flexed the hand, kneading it with hisleft. He had been doing the same thing at intervals through the quick plane trip that hadgot him away. It was a painful process, but if he kept the circulation moving the handwould heal more quickly. One couldn't tell how soon the weapon would be needed again.Cynicism gathered at the corners of Bond's mouth.'National Airlines, "Airline of the Stars", announces the departure of their flight NA 106to La Guardia Field, New York. Will all passengers please proceed to gate number seven.All aboard, please.'The Tannoy switched off with an echoing click. Bond glanced at his watch. At leastanother ten minutes before Transamerica would be called. He signalled to a waitress andordered another double bourbon on the rocks. When the wide, chunky glass came, heswirled the liquor round for the ice to blunt it down and swallowed half of it. He stubbedout the butt of his cigarette and sat, his chin resting on his left hand, and gazed moodilyacross the twinkling tarmac to where the last half of the sun was slipping gloriously into2the Gulf.The death of the Mexican had been the finishing touch to a bad assignment, one of theworst - squalid, dangerous and without any redeeming feature except that it had got himaway from headquarters.A big man in Mexico had some poppy fields. The flowers were not for decoration. Theywere broken down for opium which was sold quickly and comparatively cheaply by thewaiters at a small cafe in Mexico City called the 'Madre de Cacao'. The Madre de Cacaohad plenty of protection. If you needed opium you walked in and ordered what you wantedwith your drink. You paid for your drink at the caisse and the man at the caisse told youhow many noughts to add to your bill. It was an orderly commerce of no concern toanyone outside Mexico. Then, far away in England, the Government, urged on by theUnited Nations' drive against drug smuggling, announced that heroin would be banned inBritain. There was alarm in Soho and also among respectable doctors who wanted to savetheir patients agony. Prohibition is the trigger of crime. Very soon the routine smugglingchannels from China, Turkey and Italy were ran almost dry by the illicit stock-piling inEngland. In Mexico City, a pleasant-spoken Import and Export merchant called Black-well had a sister in England who was a heroin addict. He loved her and was sorry for herand, when she wrote that she would die if someone didn't help, he believed that she wrotethe truth and set about investigating the illicit dope traffic in Mexico. In due course,through friends and friends of friends, he got to the Madre de Cacao and on from there tothe big Mexican grower. In the process, he came to know about the economics of thetrade, and he decided that if he could make a fortune and at the same time help sufferinghumanity he had found the Secret of Life. Blackwell's business was in fertilizers. He had awarehouse and a small plant and a staff of three for soil testing and plant research. It waseasy to persuade the big Mexican that, behind this respectable front, Blackwell's teamcould busy itself extracting heroin from opium. Carriage to England was swiftly arrangedby the Mexican. For the equivalent of a thousand pounds a trip, every month one of thediplomatic couriers of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs carried an extra suitcase to London.The price was reasonable. The contents of the suitcase, after the Mexican had deposited itat the Victoria Station left-luggage office and had mailed the ticket to a man calledSchwab, c/o Boox-an-Pix, Ltd, WC1, were worth twenty thousand pounds.Unfortunately Schwab was a bad man, unconcerned with suffering humanity. He had theidea that if American juvenile delinquents could consume millions of dollars' worth ofheroin every year, so could their Teddy boy and girl cousins. In two rooms in Pimlico, hisstaff watered the heroin with stomach powder and sent it on its way to the dance halls andamusement arcades.Schwab had already made a fortune when the CID Ghost Squad got on to him. ScotlandYard decided to let him make a little more money while they investigated the source of hissupply. They put a close tail on Schwab and in due course were led to Victoria Station andthence to the Mexican courier. At that stage, since a foreign country was concerned, theSecret Service had had to be called in and Bond was ordered to find out where the couriergot his supplies and to destroy the channel at source.Bond did as he was told. He flew to Mexico City and quickly got to the Madre de Cacao.Thence, posing as a buyer for the London traffic, he got back to the big Mexican. TheMexican received him amiably and referred him to Blackwell. Bond had rather taken toBlackwell, He knew nothing about Blackwell's sister, but the man was obviously anamateur and his bitterness about the heroin ban in England rang true. Bond broke into his23warehouse one night and left a thermite bomb. He then went and sat in a cafe a mile awayand watched the flames leap above the horizon of rooftops and listened to the silvercascade of the fire-brigade bells. The next morning he telephoned Blackwell. He stretcheda handkerchief across the mouthpiece and spoke through it.'Sorry you lost your business last night. I'm afraid your insurance won't cover thosestocks of soil you were researching.''Who's that? Who's speaking?''I'm from England. That stuff of yours has killed quite a lot of young people over there.Damaged a lot of others. Santos won't be coming to England any more with his diplomaticbag. Schwab will be in jail by tonight. That fellow Bond you've been seeing, he won't getout of the net either. The police are after him now.'Frightened words came back down the line.'All right, but just don't do it again. Stick to fertilizers.'Bond hung up.Blackwell wouldn't have had the wits. It was obviously the big Mexican who had seenthrough the false trail. Bond had taken the precaution to move his hotel, but that night, ashe walked home after a last drink at the Copacabana, a man suddenly stood in his way.The man wore a dirty white linen suit and a chauffeur's white cap that was too big for hishead. There were deep blue shadows under Aztec cheek-bones. In one corner of the slashof a mouth there was a toothpick and in the other a cigarette. The eyes were brightpinpricks of marihuana.'You like woman? Make jigajig?''No.''Coloured girl? Fine jungle tail?''No.''Mebbe pictures?'The gesture of the hand slipping into the coat was so well known to Bond, so full of olddangers that when the hand flashed out and the long silver finger went for his throat, Bondwas on balance and ready for it.Almost automatically, Bond went into the 'Parry Defence against Underhand Thrust' outof the book. His right arm cut across, his body swivelling with it. The two forearms metmid-way between the two bodies, banging the Mexican's knife arm off target and openinghis guard for a crashing short-arm chin jab with Bond's left. Bond's stiff, locked wrist hadnot travelled far, perhaps two feet, but the heel of his palm, with ringers spread forrigidity, had come up and under the man's chin with terrific force. The blow almost liftedthe man off the sidewalk. Perhaps it had been that blow that had killed the Mexican,broken his neck, but as he staggered back on his way to the ground, Bond had drawn backhis right hand and slashed sideways at the taut, offered throat. It was the deadly hand-edgeblow to the Adam's apple, delivered with the fingers locked into a blade, that had been thestandby of the Commandos. If the Mexican was still alive, he was certainly dead before hehit the ground.Bond stood for a moment, his chest heaving, and looked at the crumpled pile of cheapclothes flung down in the dust. He glanced up and down the street. There was no one.Some cars passed. Others had perhaps passed during the fight, but it had been in theshadows. Bond knelt down beside the body. There was no pulse. Already the eyes that hadbeen so bright with marihuana were glazing. The house in which the Mexican had livedwas empty. The tenant had left.34Bond picked up the body and laid it against a wall in deeper shadow. He brushed hishands down his clothes, felt to see if his tie was straight and went on to his hotel.At dawn Bond had got up and shaved and driven to the airport where he took the firstplane out of Mexico. It happened to be going to Caracas. Bond flew to Caracas and hungabout in the transit lounge until there was a plane for Miami, a Transamerica Constellationthat would take him on that same evening to New York.Again the Tannoy buzzed and echoed. 'Transamerica regrets to announce a delay on theirflight TR 618 to New York due to a mechanical defect. The new departure time will be ateight am. Will all passengers please report to theTransamerica ticket counter where arrangements for their overnight accommodation willbe made. Thank you.'So! That too! Should he transfer to another flight or spend the night in Miami? Bond hadforgotten his drink. He picked it up and, tilting his head back, swallowed the bourbon tothe last drop. The ice tinkled cheerfully against his teeth. That was it. That was an idea. Hewould spend the night in Miami and get drunk, stinking drunk so that he would have to becarried to bed by whatever tart he had picked up. He hadn't been drunk for years. It washigh time. This extra night, thrown at him out of the blue, was a spare night, a gone night.He would put it to good purpose. It was time he let himself go. He was too tense, toointrospective. What the hell was he doing, glooming about this Mexican, this capungowho had been sent to kill him? It had been kill or get killed. Anyway, people were killingother people all the time, all over the world. People were using their motor cars to killwith. They were carrying infectious diseases around, blowing microbes in other people'sfaces, leaving gasjets turned on in kitchens, pumping out carbon monoxide in closedgarages. How many people, for instance, were involved in manufacturing H-bombs, fromthe miners who mined the uranium to the shareholders who owned the mining shares?Was there any person in the world who wasn't somehow, perhaps only statistically,involved in killing his neighbour?The last light of the day had gone. Below the indigo sky the flare paths twinkled greenand yellow and threw tiny reflections off the oily skin of the tarmac. With a shattering roara DC 7 hurtled down the main green lane. The windows in the transit lounge rattled softly.People got up to watch. Bond tried to read their expressions. Did they hope the planewould crash - give them something to watch, something to talk about, something to filltheir empty lives? Or did they wish it well? Which way were they willing the sixtypassengers? To live or to die?Bond's lips turned down. Cut it out. Stop being so damned morbid. All this is justreaction from a dirty assignment. You're stale, tired of having to be tough. You want achange. You've seen too much death. You want a slice of life - easy, soft, high.Bond was conscious of steps approaching. They stopped at his side. Bond looked up. Itwas a clean, rich-looking, middleaged man. His expression was embarrassed, deprecating.'Pardon me, but surely it's Mr Bond… Mr - er - James Bond?'CHAPTER TWOLIVING IT UPBOND LIKED anonymity. His 'Yes, it is' was discouraging.'Well, that's a mighty rare coincidence.' The man held out his hand. Bond rose slowly,45took the hand and released it. The hand was pulpy and unarticulated - like a hand-shapedmud pack, or an inflated rubber glove. 'My name is Du Pont. Junius Du Pont. I guess youwon't remember me, but we've met before. Mind if I sit down?'The face, the name? Yes, therewassomething familiar. Long ago. Not in America. Bondsearched the files while he summed the man up. Mr Du Pont was about fifty - pink, clean-shaven and dressed in the conventional disguise with which Brooks Brothers cover theshame of American millionaires. He wore a single-breasted dark tan tropical suit and awhite silk shirt with a shallow collar. The rolled ends of the collar were joined by a goldsafety pin beneath the knot of a narrow dark red and blue striped tie that fractionallywasn't the Brigade of Guards'. The cuffs of the shirt protruded half an inch below the cuffsof the coat and showed cabochon crystal links containing miniature trout flies. The sockswere charcoal-grey silk and the shoes were old and polished mahogany and hinted Peal.The man carried a dark, narrow-brimmed straw Homburg with a wide claret ribbon.Mr Du Pont sat down opposite Bond and produced cigarettes and a plain gold Zippolighter. Bond noticed that he was sweating slightly. He decided that Mr Du Pont was whathe appeared to be, a very rich American, mildly embarrassed. He knew he had seen himbefore, but he had no idea where or when.'Smoke?''Thank you.' It was a Parliament. Bond affected not to notice the offered lighter. Hedisliked held-out lighters. He picked up his own and lit the cigarette.Trance, '51, Royale les Eaux.' Mr Du Pont looked eagerly at Bond. 'That Casino. Ethel,that's Mrs Du Pont, and me were next to you at the table the night you had the big gamewith the Frenchman.'Bond's memory raced back. Yes, of course. The Du Ponts had been Nos 4 and 5 at thebaccarat table. Bond had been 6. They had seemed harmless people. He had been glad tohave such a solid bulwark on his left .on that fantastic night when he had broken LeChiffre. Now Bond saw it all again - the bright pool of light on the green baize, the pinkcrab hands across the table scuttling out for the cards. He smelled the smoke and the harshtang of his own sweat. That had been a night! Bond looked across at Mr Du Pont andsmiled at the memory. 'Yes, of course I remember. Sorry I was slow. But that was quite anight. I wasn't thinking of much except my cards.'Mr Du Pont grinned back, happy and relieved. 'Why, gosh, Mr Bond. Of course Iunderstand. And I do hope you'll pardon me for butting in. You see…' He snapped hisringers for a waitress. 'But we must have a drink to celebrate. What'll you have?''Thanks. Bourbon on the rocks.''And dimple Haig and water.' The waitress went away.Mr Du Pont leant forward, beaming. A whiff of soap or after-shave lotion came acrossthe table. Lentheric? 'I knew it was you. As soon as I saw you sitting there. But I thoughtto myself, Junius, you don't often make an error over a face, but let's just go make sure.Well, I was flying Transamerican tonight and, when they announced the delay, I watchedyour expression and, if you'll pardon me, Mr Bond, it was pretty clear from the look onyour face that you had been flying Transamerican too.' He waited for Bond to nod. Hehurried on. 'So I ran down to the ticket counter and had me a look at the passenger list.Sure enough, there it was, "J. Bond".'Mr Du Pont sat back, pleased with his cleverness. The drinks came. He raised his glass.'Your very good health, sir. This sure is my lucky day.'Bond smiled non-committally and drank.5 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]