Nobody Lives for Ever

by John Gardner

  For the first time since they had met, Bond thought he could detect an invitation in Sukie’s voice. He certainly saw a small angry flash in Nannie’s eyes. Could it be that they were fighting over him?

  ‘What’s the plan?’ Nannie asked, a little sharply.

  ‘Where’s the best place to watch this incredible sunset?’

  She allowed him a smile. ‘The deck outside the Havana Docks bar, or so they tell me.’

  ‘And at what time?’

  ‘Around six.’

  ‘The bar’s in the hotel?’

  ‘Right over there.’ She waved a hand vaguely in the direction from which they had come. ‘Above the restaurants, right out towards the sea.’

  ‘Meet you both there at six, then.’

  Bond smiled, turned the key in his door and disappeared into a pleasant and functional, if not luxurious, suite.

  The two briefcases stood with his special Samsonite folding case in the middle of the room. It took Bond less than ten minutes to complete his unpacking. He felt better with the ASP hidden away under his jacket, and the baton at his waistband.

  He checked the rooms carefully, made certain the window catches were secure, then quietly opened the door. The corridor was deserted. Silently he closed the door, making his way quickly to the elevator and back down into the gardens, using an exit to the car park which he had noticed on the way through. It was hot and humid outside.

  At the far end of the parking lot stood a low building called the Pier House Market, with access from both the hotel and Front Street. Bond went straight through, pausing for a moment to look at the fruit and meat on sale, then on Front Street he turned right and crossed the cracked and lumpy road, walking fast to the corner of Duval. He passed the shop he really wanted to visit and bought some faded jeans, a T-shirt free of tasteless slogans and a pair of soft loafers in a male boutique. He also selected an over-priced short linen jacket. For anyone in Bond’s job, a jacket or blouse was always necessary to hide the hardware.

  He came out of the boutique and made his way back to the place he had spotted from the car. It had a walk-in front with a dummy clad in Scuba gear out on the sidewalk. The sign read ‘Reef Plunderers’ Diving Emporium’. A bearded salesman tried to sell him a three and a half hour snorkelling trip on a dive boat predictably called Reef Plunderer II, but Bond said he was not interested.

  ‘Captain Jack knows all the best places to dive along the reef,’ the salesman protested limply.

  ‘I want a wet suit, snorkelling mask, knife, flippers and undersea torch. And I shall need a shoulder bag for the lot,’ Bond told him in that effectively quiet but firm tone.

  The salesman looked at Bond, took in the physique under the lightweight suit and the hard look in the icy blue eyes.

  ‘Yes, siree. Sure. Right,’ he said, leading the way to the rear of the shop. ‘Gonna cost a ransom, but you sure know what y’awl’re after.’

  ‘That’s right.’ Bond did not allow his voice to rise above the almost whispering softness.

  ‘Right,’ the salesman repeated. He was dressed to look like an old salt, with a striped T-shirt and jeans. A gold ring hung piratically rather than fashionably from one ear. He gave Bond another sidelong look and began to collect the equipment from the back of the store. It was more than a quarter of an hour before Bond was completely satisfied. He added a belt with a waterproof zipper bag to his purchases, and then paid with his Platinum Amex Card, made out in the name of James Boldman.

  ‘Guess I’ll have to just run a check on this, sir, Mr Boldman.’

  ‘You don’t have to, and you know it.’ Bond gazed at the man with ice-cold eyes. ‘But if you’re about to make telephone calls, I’m going to stand next to you. Right?’

  ‘Right. Right,’ the pirate salesman repeated, leading the way to a tiny office at the back of the store. ‘Yes, sir-bub. Yes, siree.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled the Amex number. The card was cleared in seconds. It took another ten minutes for the purchases to be stowed away in the shoulder bag. As he left, Bond put his mouth very close to the pierced ear with the ring in it.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he began. ‘I’m a stranger in town, but now you know my name.’

  ‘Sure.’ The pirate gave him a trapped look.

  ‘If anyone else gets to know I’ve been here except you, Amex and myself, I shall come back, cut that ring from your ear and then do the same job on your nose, followed by a more vital organ.’ He dropped his hand, fist clenched, so that it lay level with the pirate’s crotch. ‘You understand me? I mean it.’

  ‘I already forgot your name, Mr . . . er . . . Mr . . .’

  ‘Keep it like that,’ said Bond as he strode off.

  He made his way back to the hotel at the more leisurely pace of the people thronging the street. Back in his suite, he lugged the CC500 from its briefcase, hooked it to the telephone and put in a quick call to London. He did not wait for a response, but gave them his exact location, saying he would be in touch as soon as the job was completed.

  ‘It’s going down tonight,’ he finished. ‘If I’m not in touch within forty-eight hours, look for Shark Island, off Key West. Repeat, it’s going down tonight.’

  It was a very apt phrase, he thought, as he changed into his newly acquired clothes. The ASP and baton were in place, so he no longer felt naked, but, surveying himself in the mirror, he thought he would blend in nicely with the tourist scene.

  ‘Going down tonight,’ he said softly to himself. Then he left for the Havana Docks bar.

  17

  SHARK ISLAND

  The deck in front of the Havana Docks bar at the Pier House is made of wooden planks, raised on several levels and has metal chairs and tables arranged to give visitors the impression that they are on board a ship at anchor. Globe lights on poles stand at intervals along the heavy wooden guard rail. It is perhaps the best vantage point in Key West, from which to watch the sun setting over the sea.

  The deck was crowded and there was a buzz of light-hearted chatter. The lights had come on, attracting swarms of insects around the globes. Someone was playing Mood Indigo on the piano. The rails were lined with tourists eager to capture the sunset with their cameras.

  As the clear sky turned to a deeper navy blue, so an occasional speedboat crossed in front of the hotel, while a light aircraft buzzed a wide circuit, its lights flashing. To the left, along the wide Mallory Square which fronts on to the ocean, jugglers, conjurers, fire eaters and acrobats performed amid a crush of people. It was the same on every fine night, a celebration of the day’s end and a look towards the pleasures the night might bring.

  James Bond sat at a table and gazed out to sea past the two dark green humps of Tank and Wisteria Islands. If he had any sense he would be on a boat or aeroplane moving out, he thought. He was fully aware of the danger close at hand. There could be no doubt that Tarquin Rainey was Tamil Rahani, Blofeld’s successor and that this could well be his last chance to smash SPECTRE once and for all.

  ‘Isn’t this absolutely super,’ said Sukie delightedly. ‘There really is nothing like it in the whole world.’

  It was not clear whether she was talking about the huge shrimps they were eating with that very special tangy, hot red sauce, their Calypso Daiquiris, or the beautiful view.

  The sun appeared to grow larger as it dropped slowly behind Wisteria Island, throwing a huge patch of blood-red light across the sky.

  Above them, a US Customs helicopter clattered its way, running from south to north, red and green lights twinkling on and off as it turned, heading towards the naval air station. Bond wondered if SPECTRE had become involved in the huge drug traffic which was reported to pass into America by this route – landing on isolated sections of the Florida Keys, to be taken inland and distributed. The Navy and Customs kept a very close eye on places like Key West.

  A cheer went up, echoed from the crowd further up the coastline on Mallory Square, as the sun finally plunged into the sea, filling the whole sky with
deep scarlet for a couple of minutes before the velvet darkness took over.

  ‘What’s the deal, James?’ Nannie asked in almost a whisper.

  They drew together, their heads lowered over the seafood. He told them that until midnight, at least, they should all be seen around.

  ‘We’ll stroll out into town, have dinner somewhere, and then come back to the hotel. Afterwards I want us each to leave separately. Don’t use the car, and keep an eye out for anyone following you. Nannie, you’re trained in this kind of thing so you can brief Sukie, tell her the best way to avoid suspicion. I have my own plans. The most important thing is that we rendezvous at Garrison Bight, aboard Prospero, around one in the morning. Okay?’

  Bond noticed a small furrow of concern between Nannie’s eyes. ‘What then?’ she asked.

  ‘Has Sukie looked at the charts?’

  ‘Yes and it’s not the easiest trip by night.’ Sukie’s eyes were expressionless. ‘It’s a challenge, though. The sandbars are not well marked and we’ll have to show a certain amount of light to begin with. Once we’re beyond the reef it’s not too bad.’

  ‘Just get me to within a couple of kilometres of the island,’ Bond said with a hint of authority, looking straight into her eyes.

  They finished their drinks and rose to leave, sauntering casually from the deck. At the door to the bar, Bond paused and asked the others to wait for a moment. He went back to the rails and looked down into the sea. Earlier he had noticed the hotel’s little pull-start speed boat making trips close to the beach. It was still there, tied up between the wooden piles of the pier. Smiling to himself, he rejoined Sukie and Nannie, and they went through the bar, where the pianist was now playing Bewitched. A small dance floor had been set up on the beach, and a threeman combo had started to pound out rhythms. The paths were lit by shaded lamps, and people were still swimming, diving into the floodlit pool, laughing with pleasure.

  They strolled, arms linked – one on each side of Bond – down Duval, looking at shop windows and peering into the restaurants, all apparently full to capacity. A crowd stood in front of the light grey, English-looking church, staring across the road at half a dozen youngsters who were breakdancing to the music of a ghetto-blaster in front of Fast Buck Freddie’s Department Store.

  Eventually, they retraced their footsteps and found themselves in front of Claire, a restaurant that looked both busy and exceptionally good. They walked up to the maître d’, who was hovering by a tall desk in the small garden outside the main restaurant.

  ‘Boldman,’ said Bond. ‘Party of three. Eight o’clock.’

  The maître d’ consulted his book, looked troubled and asked when the booking had been made.

  ‘Yesterday evening,’ Bond said with conviction.

  ‘There seems to be some error, Mr Boldman . . .’ the bemused man retorted, a little too firmly for Bond’s liking.

  ‘I reserved the table specially. It’s the only night we can make this week. I spoke to a young man last night and he assured me I had the table.’

  ‘Just one moment, sir.’ The maître d’ disappeared into the restaurant and they could see him in agitated conversation with one of the waiters. Finally he came out, smiling. ‘You’re lucky, sir. We’ve had an unexpected cancellation . . .’

  ‘Not lucky,’ Bond said with his jaw clenched. ‘We had a table reserved. You’re simply giving us our table.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  They were shown to a corner table in a pleasant white room. Bond took a seat with his back to the wall and a good view of the entrance. The tablecloths were paper, and there were packets of crayons beside each plate. Bond doodled, drawing a skull and crossbones. Nannie had sketched something vaguely obscene, in red. She leaned forward.

  ‘I haven’t spotted anyone. Are we being watched?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Bond said with a knowing smile as he opened the large menu. ‘Two of them, working each side of the street. Possibly three. Did you notice the man in a yellow shirt and jeans, tall, black and with a lot of rings on his fingers? The other’s a little chap, dark trousers, white shirt, with a tattoo on his left arm – mermaid being indecent with a swordfish, by the look of it. He’s across the street now.’

  ‘Got ‘em,’ Nannie said as she turned to her menu.

  ‘Where’s the third?’ asked Sukie.

  ‘An old blue Buick. Big fellow at the wheel, alone and cruising. Not easy to tell, but he’s been up and down the street a lot. So have others, but he was the only one who didn’t seem to take any interest in people on the sidewalks. I’d say he was the backup. Watch out for them.’

  A waiter appeared and took their order. They all chose Conch chowder, the Thai beef salad and, inevitably, Key lime pie. They drank a Californian champagne, which slightly offended Bond’s palate. They talked constantly, keeping off their plans for the night.

  When they were out on the street again, Bond told them to be wary.

  ‘I want you both there, on board and with nobody on your backs, by one o’clock.’

  As they walked west towards the Front Street intersection, the man in the yellow shirt kept well back on the other side of the street. The tattooed man let them pass him, then overtook them and let them pass again before they got back to the Pier House. The blue Buick had cruised by twice, and was parked outside the Lobster House, almost opposite the main entrance to the hotel.

  ‘They have us well staked out,’ Bond murmured as they crossed the street and walked up the drive to the main entrance. There they made a great show of saying goodnight.

  Bond was taking no chances. As soon as he got to his room he checked the old, well-tried traps he had laid. The slivers of matchstick were still wedged into the doors of the clothes cupboards and the threads on the drawers were unbroken. His luggage was also intact. It was ten-thirty, time to move. He doubted if SPECTRE’S surveillance team would expect anyone to make a move before the early hours. He had not let the others know that he had slipped the spare charts from Prospero inside his jacket before they left the boat that afternoon. Now he spread them out on the round glass table in the centre of his sitting room and began to study the course from Garrison Bight to Shark Island, making notes. When he was satisfied that he had all the compass bearings correct, and a very good idea of how he could guide a boat to within safe distance of the island, Bond began to dress for action.

  He peeled off the T-shirt and wriggled into a light black cotton rollneck from his case. The jeans were replaced by a pair of black slacks, which he always packed. Next, he took out the wide belt which had been so useful when Der Haken had him locked up in Salzburg. He removed the Q Branch Toolkit and spread the contents out on the table. He checked the small explosive charges and their electronic connectors, adding from the false bottom of his second briefcase four small flat packets of plastique explosive, each no larger than a stick of chewing gum. Into the inner pockets of the belt he fitted four small lengths of fuse, some extra thin electric wire, half a dozen tiny detonators, a miniature pin-light torch, not much larger than the filter of a cigarette – and one other very important item.

  Together the explosives would not dispose of an entire building, but they could be useful with locks or door hinges. He buckled on the belt, threading it through the loops on his trousers, then opened up the shoulder bag which contained the wet suit and snorkelling equipment. Sweating a little, he struggled into the wet suit and clipped the knife into place on the belt. The ASP, two spare magazines, the charts and the baton he put into the waterproof pouch threaded on to the belt. He carried the flippers, mask, underwater torch and snorkel in the shoulder bag.

  Leaving the suite, he kept inside the hotel for as long as possible. There was still a great deal of noise coming from the bars, restaurant and makeshift dance floor and he finally emerged through an exit on the ocean side of the festivities.

  Squatting down with his back against the wall, Bond unzipped the shoulder bag and pulled on the flippers, then slowly edged himself towards t
he water. The music and laughter were loud behind him as he climbed over the short stretch of rock marking the right-hand boundary of the hotel bathing area. He washed the mask out, slipped it on and adjusted the snorkel. Grasping the torch, he slid straight down into the water. He swam gently round the metal shark guard which protected swimmers using the hotel beach. It took about ten minutes to find the thick wooden piles under the Havana Docks bar deck, but he surfaced only a couple of metres from the moored motor boat.

  Any sound he made clambering aboard would not have been heard above the noise coming from the hotel, and once inside the neat little craft, he could quickly check the fuel gauges with the pin-light torch. The beach staff were efficient and the tank had been filled, presumably ready for the next morning’s work.

  He cast off using his hands to manoeuvre the speed boat from under the pier. He then allowed it to drift, occasionally guiding it with the flat of his hand in the water, heading north, into the Gulf of Mexico, silently passing the Standard Oil pier.

  The boat was about a kilometre and a half out when Bond switched on the riding lights. He moved aft to prime and start the motor. It fired at the first pull, and he had to scramble quickly forward and swing himself behind the wheel, one hand on the throttle. He opened up, glancing down at the small luminous dial on the compass, and silently thanked the Pier House for the care they took in keeping the boat in order.

  Minutes later, he was cruising carefully along the coast, fumbling with the pouch to pull out the charts and take his first visual fix. He could not risk running the speed boat at anywhere approaching its full speed. The night was clear, and the moon was up, but Bond still had to peer into the dark water ahead. He spotted the exit point from Garrison Bight and began negotiating the tricky sandbars, cruising slowly, occasionally feeling the shallow draught of the boat touch the sand. Twenty minutes later he cleared the reef and set course for Shark Island.