by Ian Fleming
Bond put his arm round her waist and took her weight. He didn’t trust himself to look at her feet. He knew they must be bad. It was no good being sorry for each other. There wasn’t time for it if they were to stay alive.
They started moving again, Bond’s face grim with the extra effort, the girl’s feet leaving bloody footsteps on the ground, and almost immediately she whispered urgently and there was a wooden door in the wall of the tunnel and it was ajar and no sound came from the other side.
Bond took out his gun and gently eased the door open. The long garage was empty. Under the neon lights the black and gold painted dragon on wheels looked like a float waiting for the Lord Mayor’s Show. It was pointing towards the sliding doors and the hatch of the armoured cabin stood open. Bond prayed that the tank was full and that the mechanic had carried out his orders to get the damage fixed.
Suddenly, from somewhere outside, there was the sound of voices. They came nearer, several of them, jabbering urgently.
Bond took the girl by the hand and ran forward. There was only one place to hide—in the marsh buggy. The girl scrambled in. Bond followed, softly pulling the door shut behind him. They crouched, waiting. Bond thought: only three rounds left in the gun. Too late he remembered the rack of weapons on the wall of the garage. Now the voices were outside. There came the clang of the door being slid back on its runners and a confusion of talk.
“How d’ya know they were shootin’?”
“Couldn’t been nuthin else. I should know.”
“Better take rifles. Here, Joe! Take that one, Lemmy! An’ some pineapples. Box under da table.”
There was the metallic noise of bolts being slid home and safety catches clicked.
“Some feller must a gone nuts. Couldn’t ha’ been da Limey. You ever seen da big pus-feller in da creek? Cheessus! An’ da rest of da tricks da Doc fixed up in da tube? An’ dat white gal. She cain’t have been in much shape dis mornin.’ Any of you men bin to have a look?”
“Nossir.”
“No.”
“No.”
“Haw, haw. I’se sho surprised at you fellers. Dat’s a fine piece of ass out dere on de crab walk.”
More rattling and shuffling of feet, then, “Okay let’s go! Two abreast till we gets to da main tunnel. Shoot at da legs. Whoever’s makin’ trouble, da Doc’ll sure want him to play wit.”
“Tee-hee.”
Feet echoed hollowly on the concrete. Bond held his breath as they filed by. Would they notice the shut door of the buggy? But they went on down the garage and into the tunnel and the noise of them slowly faded away.
Bond touched the girl’s arm and put his finger to his lips. Softly he eased open the door and listened again. Nothing. He dropped to the ground and walked round the buggy and went to the half-open entrance. Cautiously he edged his head round. There was no one in sight. There was a smell of frying food in the air that brought the saliva to Bond’s mouth. Dishes and pans clattered in the nearest building, about twenty yards away, and from one of the further Quonsets came the sound of a guitar and a man’s voice singing a calypso. Dogs started to bark half-heartedly and then were silent. The Dobermann Pinschers.
Bond turned and ran back to the end of the garage. No sound came from the tunnel. Softly Bond closed the tunnel door and locked and bolted it. He went to the arms-rack on the wall and chose another Smith & Wesson and a Remington carbine. He verified that they were loaded and went to the door of the marsh buggy and handed them in to the girl. Now the entrance door. Bond put his shoulder to it and softly eased it wide open. The corrugated iron rumbled hollowly. Bond ran back and scrambled through the open hatch and into the driver’s seat. “Shut it, Honey,” he whispered urgently and bent and turned the ignition key.
The needle on the gauge swung to Full. Pray God the damned thing would start up quickly. Some diesels were slow. Bond stamped his foot down on the starter.
The grinding rattle was deafening. It must be audible all over the compound! Bond stopped and tried again. The engine fluttered and died. And again, and this time the blessed thing fired and the strong iron pulse hammered as Bond revved it up. Now, gently into gear. Which one? Try this. Yes, it bit. Brake off, you bloody fool! Christ, it had nearly stalled. But now they were out and on the track and Bond rammed his foot down to the floor.
“Anyone after us?” Bond had to shout above the noise of the diesel.
“No. Wait! Yes, there’s a man come out of the huts! And another! They’re waving and shouting at us. Now some more are coming out. One of them’s run off to the right. Another’s gone back into the hut. He’s come out with a rifle. He’s lying down. He’s firing!”
“Close the slot! Lie down on the floor!” Bond glanced at the speedometer. Twenty. And they were on a slope. There was nothing more to get out of the machine. Bond concentrated on keeping the huge bucking wheels on the track. The cabin bounced and swayed on the springs. It was a job to keep his hands and feet on the controls. An iron fist clanged against the cabin. And another. What was the range? Four hundred? Good shooting! But that would be the lot. He shouted, “Take a look, Honey! Open the slot an inch.”
“The man’s got up. He’s stopped firing. They’re all looking after us—a whole crowd of them. Wait, there’s something else. The dogs are coming! There’s no one with them. They’re just tearing down the track after us. Will they catch us?”
“Doesn’t matter if they do. Come and sit by me, Honey. Hold tight. Mind your head against the roof.” Bond eased up the throttle. She was beside him. He grinned sideways at her. “Hell, Honey. We’ve made it. When we get down to the lake I’ll stop and shoot up the dogs. If I know those brutes I’ve only got to kill one and the whole pack’ll stop to eat him.”
Bond felt her hand at his neck. She kept it there as they swayed and thundered down the track. At the lake, Bond went on fifty yards into the water and turned the machine round and put it in neutral. Through the oblong slot he could see the pack streaming round the last bend. He reached down for the rifle and pushed it through the aperture. Now the dogs were in the water and swimming. Bond kept his finger on the trigger and sprayed bullets into the middle of them. One floundered, kicking. Then another and another. He could hear their snarling screams above the clatter of the engine. There was blood in the water. A fight had started. He saw one dog leap on one of the wounded ones and sink its teeth into the back of its neck. Now they all seemed to have gone berserk. They were milling around in the frothing bloody water. Bond emptied his magazine among them and dropped the gun on the floor. He said, “That’s that, Honey,” and put the machine into gear and swung it round and began rolling at an easy speed across the shallow lake towards the distant gap in the mangroves that was the mouth of the river.
For five minutes they moved along in silence. Then Bond put a hand on the girl’s knee and said, “We should be all right now, Honey. When they find the boss is dead there’ll be panic. I guess some of the brighter ones will try and get away to Cuba in the plane or the launch. They’ll worry about their skins, not about us. All the same, we’ll not take the canoe out until it’s dark. I guess it’s about ten by now. We should be at the coast in an hour. Then we’ll rest up and try and get in shape for the trip. Weather looks all right and there’ll be a bit more moon tonight. Think, you can make it?”
Her hand squeezed his neck. “Of course I can, James. But what about you? Your poor body! It’s nothing but burns and bruises. And what are those red marks across your stomach?”
“Tell you later. I’ll be okay. But you tell me what happened to you last night. How in hell did you manage to get away from the crabs? What went wrong with that bastard’s plan? All night long I could only think of you out there being slowly eaten to death. God, what a thing to have dreamed up! What happened?”
The girl was actually laughing. Bond looked sideways. The golden hair was tousled and the blue eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, but otherwise she might just be coming home from a midnight barbecue.
&nb
sp; “That man thought he knew everything. Silly old fool.” She might have been talking about a stupid schoolteacher. “He’s much more impressed by the black crabs than I am. To begin with, I don’t mind any animal touching me, and anyway those crabs wouldn’t think of even nipping someone if they stay quite still and haven’t got an open sore or anything. The whole point is that they don’t really like meat. They live mostly on plants and things. If he was right and he did kill a black girl that way, either she had an open wound or she must have died of fright. He must have wanted to see if I’d stand it. Filthy old man. I only fainted down there at dinner because I knew he’d have something much worse for you.”
“Well, I’m damned. I wish to heaven I’d known that. I thought of you being picked to pieces.”
The girl snorted. “Of course it wasn’t very nice having my clothes taken off and being tied down to pegs in the ground. But those black men didn’t dare touch me. They just made jokes and then went away. It wasn’t very comfortable out there on the rock, but I was thinking of you and how I could get at Doctor No and kill him. Then I heard the crabs beginning to run—that’s what we call it in Jamaica—and soon they came scurrying and rattling along—hundreds of them. I just lay still and thought of you. They walked round me and over me. I might have been a rock for all they cared. They tickled a bit. One annoyed me by trying to pull out a bit of my hair. But they don’t smell or anything, and I just waited for the early morning when they crawl into holes and go to sleep. I got quite fond of them. They were company. Then they got fewer and fewer and finally stopped coming and I could move. I pulled at all the pegs in turn and then concentrated on my right-hand one. In the end I got it out of the crack in the rock and the rest was easy. I got back to the buildings and began scouting about. I got into the machine shop near the garage and found this filthy old suit. Then the conveyor thing started up not far away and I thought about it and I guessed it must be taking the guano through the mountain. I knew you must be dead by then,” the quiet voice was matter of fact, “so I thought I’d get to the conveyor somehow and get through the mountain and kill Doctor No. I took a screwdriver to do it with.” She giggled. “When we ran into each other, I’d have stuck it into you only it was in my pocket and I couldn’t get to it. I found the door in the back of the machine shop and walked through and into the main tunnel. That’s all.” She caressed the back of his neck. “I ran along watching my step and the next thing I knew was your head hitting me in the stomach.” She giggled again. “Darling, I hope I didn’t hurt you too much when we were fighting. My Nanny told me always to hit men there.”
Bond laughed. “She did, did she?” He reached out and caught her by the hair and pulled her face to him. Her mouth felt its way round his cheek and locked itself against his.
The machine gave a sideways lurch. The kiss ended. They had hit the first mangrove roots at the entrance to the river.
Chapter 20
Slave-Time
“You’re quite sure of all this?”
The Acting Governor’s eyes were hunted, resentful. How could these things have been going on under his nose, in one of Jamaica’s dependencies? What would the Colonial Office have to say about it? He already saw the long, pale blue envelope marked ‘Personal. For Addressee Only,’ and the foolscap page with those very wide margins: ‘The Secretary of State for the Colonies has instructed me to express to you his surprise...’
“Yes, sir. Quite sure.” Bond had no sympathy for the man. He hadn’t liked the reception he had had on his last visit to King’s House, nor the mean comments on Strangways and the girl. He liked the memory of them even less now that he knew his friend and the girl were at the bottom of the Mona Reservoir.
“Er—well we mustn’t let any of this get out to the Press. You understand that? I’ll send my report in to the Secretary of State by the next bag. I’m sure I can rely on your...”
“Excuse me, sir.” The Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force was a modern young soldier of thirty-five. His military record was good enough for him to be unimpressed by relics from the Edwardian era of Colonial Governors, whom he collectively referred to as ‘feather-hatted fuddy-duddies.’ “I think we can assume that Commander Bond is unlikely to communicate with anyone except his Department. And if I may say so, sir, I submit that we should take steps to clear up Crab Key without waiting for approval from London. I can provide a platoon ready to embark by this evening. HMS Narvik came in yesterday. If the programme of receptions and cocktail parties for her could possibly be deferred for forty-eight hours or so...” The Brigadier let his sarcasm hang in the air.
“I agree with the Brigadier, sir.” The voice of the Police Superintendent was edgy. Quick action might save him from a reprimand, but it would have to be quick. “And in any case I shall have to proceed immediately against the various Jamaicans who appear to be implicated. I’ll have to get the divers working at Mona. If this case is to be cleaned up we can’t afford to wait for London. As Mister—er—Commander Bond says, most of these Negro gangsters will probably be in Cuba by now. Have to get in touch with my opposite number in Havana and catch up with them before they take to the hills or go underground. I think we ought to move at once, sir.”
There was silence in the cool shadowy room where the meeting was being held. On the ceiling above the massive mahogany conference table there was an unexpected dapple of sunlight. Bond guessed that it shone up through the slats of the jalousies from a fountain or a lily pond in the garden outside the tall windows. Far away there was the sound of tennis balls being knocked about. Distantly a young girl’s voice called, “Smooth. Your serve, Gladys.” The Governor’s children? Secretaries? From one end of the room King George VI, from the other end the Queen, looked down the table with grace and good humour.
“What do you think, Colonial Secretary?” The Governor’s voice was hustled.
Bond listened to the first few words. He gathered that Pleydell-Smith agreed with the other two. He stopped listening. His mind drifted into a world of tennis courts and lily ponds and kings and queens, of London, of people being photographed with pigeons on their heads in Trafalgar Square, of the forsythia that would soon be blazing on the bypass roundabouts, of May, the treasured housekeeper in his flat off the King’s Road, getting up to brew herself a cup of tea (here it was eleven o’clock. It would be four o’clock in London), of the first tube trains beginning to run, shaking the ground beneath his cool, dark bedroom. Of the douce weather of England: the soft airs, the heat waves, the cold spells—‘The only country where you can take a walk every day of the year’—Chesterfield’s Letters? And then Bond thought of Crab Key, of the hot ugly wind beginning to blow, of the stink of the marsh gas from the mangrove swamps, the jagged grey, dead coral in whose holes the black crabs were now squatting, the black and red eyes moving swiftly on their stalks as a shadow—a cloud, a bird—broke their small horizons. Down in the bird colony the brown and white and pink birds would be stalking in the shallows, or fighting or nesting, while up on the guanera the cormorants would be streaming back from their breakfast to deposit their milligramme of rent to the landlord who would no longer be collecting. And where would the landlord be? The men from the SS Blanche would have dug him out. The body would have been examined for signs of life and then put somewhere. Would they have washed the yellow dust off him and dressed him in his kimono while the Captain radioed Antwerp for instructions? And where had Doctor No’s soul gone to? Had it been a bad soul or just a mad one? Bond thought of the burned twist down in the swamp that had been Quarrel. He remembered the soft ways of the big body, the innocence in the grey, horizon-seeking eyes, the simple lusts and desires, the reverence for superstitions and instincts, the childish faults, the loyalty and even love that Quarrel had given him—the warmth, there was only one word for it, of the man. Surely he hadn’t gone to the same place as Doctor No. Whatever happened to dead people, there was surely one place for the warm and another for the cold. And which, when the time came,
would he, Bond, go to?
The Colonial Secretary was mentioning Bond’s name. Bond pulled himself together.
“... survived is quite extraordinary. I do think, sir, that we should show our gratitude to Commander Bond and to his Service by accepting his recommendations. It does seem, sir, that he has done at least three-quarters of the job. Surely the least we can do is look after the other quarter.”
The Governor grunted. He squinted down the table at Bond. The chap didn’t seem to be paying much attention. But one couldn’t be sure with these Secret Service fellows. Dangerous chaps to have around, sniffing and snooping. And their damned Chief carried a lot of guns in Whitehall. Didn’t do to get on the wrong side of him. Of course there was something to be said for sending the Narvik. News would leak, of course. All the Press of the world would be coming down on his head. But then suddenly the Governor saw the headlines: ‘GOVERNOR TAKES SWIFT ACTION... ISLAND’S STRONG MAN INTERVENES... THE NAVY’S THERE!’ Perhaps after all it would be better to do it that way. Even go down and see the troops off himself. Yes, that was it, by jove. Cargill, of the Gleaner, was coming to lunch. He’d drop a hint or two to the chap and make sure the story got proper coverage. Yes, that was it. That was the way to play the hand.
The Governor raised his hands and let them fall flat on the table in a gesture of submission. He embraced the conference with a wry smile of surrender.
“So I am overruled, gentlemen. Well, then,” the voice was avuncular, telling the children that just this once... “I accept your verdict. Colonial Secretary, will you please call upon the commanding officer of HMS Narvik and explain the position. In strict confidence, of course. Brigadier, I leave the military arrangements in your hands. Superintendent, you will know what to do.” The Governor rose. He inclined his head regally in the direction of Bond. “And it only remains to express my appreciation to Commander—er—Bond, for his part in this affair. I shall not fail to mention your assistance, Commander, to the Secretary of State.”
