The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  He reloaded. Was the damn thing vulnerable from the rear? Should he dash out into the lake and try and board it? He took a step forward through the bushes. Then he froze, incapable of movement.

  Suddenly, from the dribbling snout, a yellow-tipped bolt of blue flame had howled out towards Quarrel’s hiding place. There was a single puff of orange and red flame from the bushes to Bond’s right and one unearthly scream, immediately choked. Satisfied, the searing tongue of fire licked back into the snout. The thing turned on its axis and stopped dead. Now the blue hole of its mouth aimed straight at Bond.

  Bond stood and waited for his unspeakable end. He looked into the blue jaws of death and saw the glowing red filament of the firer deep inside the big tube. He thought of Quarrel’s body—there was no time to think of Quarrel—and imagined the blackened, smoking figure lying in the melted sand. Soon he, too, would flame like a torch. The single scream would be wrung from him and his limbs would jerk into the dancing pose of burned bodies. Then it would be Honey’s turn. Christ, what had he led them into! Why had he been so insane as to take on this man with his devastating armoury. Why hadn’t he been warned by the long finger that had pointed at him in Jamaica? Bond set his teeth. Hurry up, you bastards. Get it over.

  There came the twang of a loud-hailer. A voice howled metallically, “Come on out, Limey. And the doll. Quick, or you’ll fry in hell like your pal.” To rub in the command, the bolt of flame spat briefly towards him. Bond stepped back from the searing heat. He felt the girl’s body against his back. She said hysterically, “I had to come. I had to come.”

  Bond said, “It’s all right, Honey. Keep behind me.”

  He had made up his mind. There was no alternative. Even if death was to come later it couldn’t be worse than this kind of death. Bond reached for the girl’s hand and drew her after him out on to the sand.

  The voice howled. “Stop there. Good boy. And drop the pea-shooter. No tricks or the crabs’ll be getting a cooked breakfast.”

  Bond dropped his gun. So much for the Smith & Wesson. The Beretta would have been just as good against this thing. The girl whimpered. Bond squeezed her hand. “Stick it, Honey,” he said. “We’ll get out of this somehow.” Bond sneered at himself for the lie.

  There was the clang of an iron door being opened. From the back of the dome a man dropped into the water and walked towards them. There was a gun in his hand. He kept out of the line of fire of the flame-thrower. The fluttering blue flame lit up his sweating face. He was a Chinese Negro, a big man, clad only in trousers. Something dangled from his left hand. When he came closer, Bond saw it was handcuffs.

  The man stopped a few yards away. He said, “Hold out your hands. Wrists together. Then walk towards me. You first, Limey. Slowly or you get an extra navel.”

  Bond did as he was told. When he was within sweat-smell of the man, the man put his gun between his teeth and reached out and snapped the handcuffs on Bond’s wrists. Bond looked into the face, gumnetal-coloured from the blue flames. It was a brutal, squinting face. It sneered at him. “Dumb bastard,” said the man.

  Bond turned his back on the man and started walking away. He was going to see Quarrel’s body. He had to say goodbye to it. There was the roar of a gun. A bullet kicked up sand close to his feet. Bond stopped and turned slowly round. “Don’t be nervous,” he said. “I’m going to take a look at the man you’ve just murdered. I’ll be back.”

  The man lowered his gun. He laughed harshly. “Okay. Enjoy yourself. Sorry we ain’t got a wreath. Come back quick or we give the doll a toastin.’ Two minutes.”

  Bond walked on towards the smoking clump of bushes. He got there and looked down. His eyes and mouth winced. Yes, it had been just as he had visualized. Worse. He said softly, “I’m sorry, Quarrel.” He kicked into the ground and scooped up a handful of cool sand between his manacled hands and poured it over the remains of the eyes. Then he walked slowly back and stood beside the girl.

  The man waved them forward with his gun. They walked round the back of the machine. There was a small square door. A voice from inside said, “Get in and sit on the floor. Don’t touch anything or you get your fingers broke.”

  They scrambled into the iron box. It stank of sweat and oil. There was just room for them to sit with their knees hunched up. The man with the gun followed them in and banged the door. He switched on a light and sat down on an iron tractor seat beside the driver. He said, “Okay, Sam. Let’s get goin.’ You can put out the fire. It’s light enough to steer by.”

  There was a row of dials and switches on the instrument panel. The driver reached forward and pulled down a couple of the switches. He put the machine into gear and peered out through a narrow slit in the iron wall in front of him. Bond felt the machine turn. There came a faster beat from the engine and they moved off.

  The girl’s shoulder pressed against his. “Where are they taking us?” The whisper trembled.

  Bond turned his head and looked at her. It was the first time he had been able to see her hair when it was dry. Now it was disarrayed by sleep, but it was no longer a bunch of rats’ tails. It hung heavily straight down to her shoulders, where it curled softly inwards. It was of the palest ash blonde and shone almost silver under the electric light. She looked up at him. The skin round her eyes and at the corners of her mouth was white with fear.

  Bond shrugged with an indifference he didn’t feel. He whispered, “Oh, I expect we’re going to see Doctor No. Don’t worry too much, Honey. These men are just little gangsters. It’ll be different with him. When we get to him don’t you say anything, I’ll talk for both of us.” He pressed her shoulder. “I like the way you do your hair. I’m glad you don’t cut it too short.”

  Some of the tension went out of her face. “How can you think of things like that?” She half smiled at him. “But I’m glad you like it. I wash it in coconut oil once a week.” At the memory of her other life her eyes grew bright with tears. She bent her head down to her manacled hands to hide her tears. She whispered almost to herself, “I’ll try to be brave. It’ll be all right as long as you’re there.”

  Bond shifted so that he was right up against her. He brought his handcuffed hands close up to his eyes and examined them. They were the American police model. He contracted his left hand, the thinner of the two, and tried to pull it through the squat ring of steel. Even the sweat on his skin was no help. It was hopeless.

  The two men sat on their iron seats with their backs to them, indifferent. They knew they had total command. There wasn’t room for Bond to give any trouble. Bond couldn’t stand up or get enough momentum into his hands to do any damage to the backs of their heads with his handcuffs. If Bond somehow managed to open the hatch and drop into the water, where would that get him? They would at once feel the fresh air on their backs and stop the machine, and either burn him in the water or pick him up. It annoyed Bond that they didn’t worry about him, that they knew he was utterly in their power. He also didn’t like the idea that these men were intelligent enough to know that he presented no threat. Stupider men would have sat over him with a gun out, would have trussed him and the girl with inexpert thoroughness, might even have knocked them unconscious. These two knew their business. They were professionals, or had been trained to be professionals.

  The two men didn’t talk to each other. There was no nervous chatter about how clever they had been, about their destination, about how tired they were. They just drove the machine quietly, efficiently along, finishing their competent job.

  Bond still had no idea what this contraption was. Under the black and gold paint and the rest of the fancy dress it was some sort of a tractor, but of a kind he had never seen or heard of. The wheels, with their vast smooth rubber tyres, were nearly twice as tall as himself. He had seen no trade name on the tyres, it had been too dark, but they were certainly either solid or filled with porous rubber. At the rear there had been a small trailing wheel for stability. An iron fin, painted black and gold, had been added to help
the dragon effect. The high mudguards had been extended into short backswept wings. A long metal dragon’s head had been added to the front of the radiator and the headlamps had been given black centres to make ‘eyes.’ That was all there was to it, except that the cabin had been covered with an armoured dome and the flame-thrower added. It was, as Bond had thought, a tractor dressed up to frighten and burn—though why it had a flame-thrower instead of a machine gun he couldn’t imagine. It was clearly the only sort of vehicle that could travel the island. Its huge wide wheels would ride over mangrove and swamp and across the shallow lake. It would negotiate the rough coral uplands and, since its threat would be at night, the heat in the iron cabin would remain at least tolerable.

  Bond was impressed. He was always impressed by professionalism. Doctor No was obviously a man who took immense pains. Soon Bond would be meeting him. Soon he would be up against the secret of Doctor No. And then what? Bond smiled grimly to himself. He wouldn’t be allowed to get away with his knowledge. He would certainly be killed unless he could escape or talk his way out. And what about the girl? Could Bond prove her innocence and have her spared? Conceivably, but she would never be let off the island. She would have to stay there for the rest of her life, as the mistress or wife of one of the men, or Doctor No himself if she appealed to him.

  Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by rougher going under the wheels. They had crossed the lake and were on the track that led up the mountain to the huts. The cabin tilted and the machine began to climb. In five minutes they would be there.

  The co-driver glanced over his shoulder at Bond and the girl. Bond smiled cheerfully up at him. He said, “You’ll get a medal for this.”

  The brown and yellow eyes looked impassively into his. The purple, blubbery lips parted in a sneer in which there was slow hate: “Shut your ——ing mouth.” The man turned back.

  The girl nudged him and whispered, “Why are they so rude? Why do they hate us so much?”

  Bond grinned down at her, “I expect it’s because we made them afraid. Perhaps they’re still afraid. That’s because we don’t seem to be frightened of them. We must keep them that way.”

  The girl pressed against him. “I’ll try.”

  Now the climb was getting steeper. Grey light showed through the slots in the armour. Dawn was coming up. Outside, another day of brazen heat and ugly wind and the smell of marsh gas would be beginning. Bond thought of Quarrel, the brave giant who would not be seeing it, with whom they should now be setting off for the long trek through the mangrove swamps. He remembered the life insurance. Quarrel had smelled his death. Yet he had followed Bond unquestioningly. His faith in Bond had been stronger than his fear. And Bond had let him down. Would Bond also be the death of the girl?

  The driver reached forward to the dashboard. From the front of the machine there sounded the brief howl of a police siren. It meandered into a dying moan. After a minute the machine stopped, idling in neutral. The man pressed a switch and took a microphone off a hook beside him. He spoke into it and Bond could hear the echoing voice of the loud-hailer outside. “Okay. Got the Limey and the girl. Other man’s dead. That’s the lot. Open up.”

  Bond heard a door being pulled sideways on iron rollers. The driver put in the clutch and they rolled slowly forward a few yards and stopped. The man switched off the engine. There was a clang as the iron hatch was opened from the outside. A gush of fresh air and a flood of brighter light came into the cabin. Hands took hold of Bond and dragged him roughly out backwards on to a cement floor. Bond stood up. He felt the prod of a gun in his side. A voice said, “Stay where you are. No tricks.” Bond looked at the man. He was another Chinese Negro, from the same stable as the others. The yellow eyes examined him curiously. Bond turned away indifferently. Another man was prodding the girl with his gun. Bond said sharply, “Leave the girl alone.” He walked over and stood beside her. The two men seemed surprised. They stood, pointing their guns indecisively.

  Bond looked around him. They were in one of the Quonset huts he had seen from the river. It was a garage and workshop. The ‘dragon’ had been halted over an examination pit in the concrete. A dismantled outboard motor lay on one of the benches. Strips of white sodium lighting ran along the ceiling. There was a smell of oil and exhaust smoke. The driver and his mate were examining the machine. Now they sauntered up.

  One of the guards said, “Passed the message along. The word is to send them through. Everything go okay?”

  The co-driver, who seemed to be the senior man present, said, “Sure. Bit of gunfire. Lights gone. May be some holes in the tyres. Get the boys crackin’—full overhaul. I’ll put these two through and go get myself some shuteye.” He turned to Bond. “Okay, git moving,” he gestured down the long hut.

  Bond said, “Get moving yourself. Mind your manners. And tell those apes to take their guns off us. They might let one off by mistake. They look dumb enough.”

  The man came closer. The other three closed up behind him. Hate shone redly in their eyes. The leading man lifted a clenched fist as big as a small ham and held it under Bond’s nose. He was controlling himself with an effort. He said tensely, “Listen, mister. Sometimes us boys is allowed to join in the fun at the end. I’m just praying this’ll be one of those times. Once we made it last a whole week. An’ Jees, if I get you...” He broke off. His eyes were alight with cruelty. He looked past Bond at the girl. The eyes became mouths that licked their lips. He wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers. The tip of his tongue showed pinkly between the purple lips. He turned to the other three. “What say, fellers?”

  The three men were also looking at the girl. They nodded dumbly, like children in front of a Christmas tree.

  Bond longed to run berserk among them, laying into their faces with his manacled wrists, accepting their bloody revenge. But for the girl he would have done it. Now all he had achieved with his brave words was to get her frightened. He said, “All right, all right. You’re four and we’re two and we’ve got our hands tied. Come on. We won’t hurt you. Just don’t push us around too much. Doctor No might not be pleased.”

  At the name, the men’s faces changed. Three pairs of eyes looked whitely from Bond to the leader. For a minute the leader stared suspiciously at Bond, wondering, trying to fathom whether perhaps Bond had got some edge on their boss. His mouth opened to say something. He thought better of it. He said lamely, “Okay, okay. We was just kiddin.’” He turned to the men for confirmation. “Right?”

  “Sure! Sure thing.” It was a ragged mumble. The men looked away.

  The leader said gruffly, “This way, mister.” He walked off down the long hut.

  Bond took the girl’s wrist and followed. He was impressed with the weight of Doctor No’s name. That was something to remember if they had any more dealings with the staff.

  The man came to a rough wooden door at the end of the hut. There was a bellpush beside it. He rang twice and waited. There came a click and the door opened to reveal ten yards of carpeted rock passage with another door, smarter and cream-painted, at the end.

  The man stood aside. “Straight ahead, mister. Knock on the door. The receptionist’ll take over.” There was no irony in his voice and his eyes were impassive.

  Bond led the girl into the passage. He heard the door shut behind them. He stopped and looked down at her. He said, “Now what?”

  She smiled tremulously. “It’s nice to feel carpet under one’s feet.”

  Bond squeezed her wrist. He walked forward to the cream-painted door and knocked.

  The door opened. Bond went through with the girl at his heels. When he stopped dead in his tracks, he didn’t feel the girl bump into him. He just stood and stared.

  Chapter 13

  Mink-lined Prison

  It was the sort of reception room the largest American corporations have on the President’s floor in their New York skyscrapers. It was of pleasant proportions, about twenty feet square. The floor was close-carpeted in the thickest wine-red
Wilton and the walls and ceiling were painted a soft dove grey. Colour lithograph reproductions of Degas ballet sketches were well hung in groups on the walls and the lighting was by tall modern standard lamps with dark green silk shades in a fashionable barrel design.

  To Bond’s right was a broad mahogany desk with a green leather top, handsome matching desk furniture and the most expensive type of intercom. Two tall antique chairs waited for visitors. On the other side of the room was a refectory-type table with shiny magazines and two more chairs. On both the desk and the table were tall vases of freshly cut hibiscus. The air was fresh and cool and held a slight, expensive fragrance.

  There were two women in the room. Behind the desk, with pen poised over a printed form, sat an efficient-looking Chinese girl with horn-rimmed spectacles below a bang of black hair cut short. Her eyes and mouth wore the standard receptionist’s smile of welcome—bright, helpful, inquisitive.

  Holding the door through which they had come, and waiting for them to move farther into the room so that she could close it, stood an older, rather matronly woman of about forty-five. She also had Chinese blood. Her appearance, wholesome, bosomy, eager, was almost excessively gracious. Her square cut pince-nez gleamed with the hostess’s desire to make them feel at home.

  Both women were dressed in spotless white, with white stockings and white suede brogues, like assistants in the most expensive American beauty-parlours. There was something soft and colourless about their skins as if they rarely went out of doors.

  While Bond took in the scene, the woman at the door twittered conventional phrases of welcome as if they had been caught in a storm and had arrived late at a party.

  “You poor dears. We simply didn’t know when to expect you. We kept on being told you were on your way. First it was teatime yesterday, then dinner, and it was only half an hour ago we heard you would only be here in time for breakfast. You must be famished. Come along now and help Sister Rose fill in your forms and then I’ll pack you both straight off to bed. You must be tired out.”