With an agonized yelp of pain, Chang tore his arm free and turned to receive the full force of the metal weight against his jaw. His mangled hand pawed the air in front of Bond’s face and Bond felt warm blood sting his cheek. Chang staggered forward, desperately trying to lay hands on Bond, who fell back almost to the clock face. As Chang made one desperate rush, Bond stepped aside, lashing out again. The weight of the blow struck Chang on the back of the head and he pitched forward, stretching out his arms to break his fall against the ghostly circle of light. There was a splintering sound and a sudden rush of night air into the room as Chang disappeared, leaving a jagged hole in the clock face.
From below, the sound of the orchestra playing in the square ended as abruptly as if a needle had been lifted from a record. It was replaced by a chorus of horrified screams. Bond let the weight drop from his numbed fingers and staggered forward to peer through the opening. Chang was lying face downwards on a table that had collapsed beneath his weight. A dark stain was quickly spreading over the spotless white tablecloth. Bond ducked back to avoid the startled faces that were tilted up to him and started to move fast for the stairs. It was time to be on his way.
10
THE QUICKNESS OF THE HAND
Holly Goodhead moved to the edge of her balcony and spread her arms wide. Nosing against the wide, lamp-lit quay was a huddle of small steamers and ferry boats. A few seamen and tourists were hurrying home to their beds and directly below a waiter was folding the royal blue sun umbrellas over the coffee tables. The cold winter sunshine had produced little passing trade. Now the Canale di San Marco was a pinpoint blaze of lights and in the distance the Lido showed up against the night like glistening beads of dew on a spider’s web. Holly drank in one of the most beautiful views in the world and turned to enter her suite. Her address had been well received, but a combination of tension, exhilaration and relief made her welcome the thought of sleep. She was stretching out a hand for a standard lamp when a second hand closed over hers. She pressed the switch and the light acked on to reveal Bond staring down at her, his eyes hard, his mouth a ruthless slit. His hair was dishevelled and there were bruises on his face that she would gladly have added to.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Bond’s expression did not relent. ‘Convalescing. Your friend Chang just tried to kill me.’
Holly flared her nostrils and willed her heartbeat to return to normal. ‘And you think I had something to do with it?’
Bond released her hand contemptuously and moved around the suite, turning on more lights. ‘The thought had flashed across my mind.’ He moved to a bureau and picked up a slim gold retractable ball-point pen. ‘What’s Drax up to in that laboratory?’
‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’
‘I intend to.’ Bond started to doodle on a pad.
Holly placed one hand on her hip and ran the other through her hair. ‘Are you leaving me your telephone number?’
Bond smiled grimly. ‘I don’t see the point.’ He held up the pen before his eyes and pressed its base. A hypodermic needle darted out like a snake’s tongue. Bond winced. ‘Ah — now I do.’ He pressed again and a fine jet of colourless liquid squirted into the air. ‘Not what I want to get stuck with tonight.’ He pressed a third time and the needle retracted. Bond pocketed the pen and continued to prowl.
Holly followed him uneasily. ‘Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, James?’
Bond flashed an icy smile. ‘I see we’ve gravitated to first name terms at last.’ His hand rummaged through the cosmetics on the recessed dressing table. He picked up a small scent atomizer and sniffed it.
Holly smiled winsomely. ‘You approve?’
Bond directed the atomizer at the mirror and pressed its top. A sheet of flame emerged as from a flame-thrower, and his image was obliterated. The blackened mirror cracked and rained glass on the dressing table. Bond wrinkled his nostrils and, holding the atomizer between finger and thumb, replaced it. ‘It’s a trifle overpowering, isn’t it?’
Hardly pausing, he moved to Holly’s handbag and emptied its contents on the embroidered counterpane of the large double bed. A small leather-bound pocket diary with a slim pencil tucked into its spine appeared in his hand. He directed the diary at an armchair and squeezed. The ‘pencil’ was fired like a dart to bury itself in the stuffing of the chair. ‘No doubt tipped with cyanide,’ said Bond as if making an inventory. He picked up a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles and examined the decoration by the hinges. A tiny tube was visible pointing in the direction in which the wearer would be looking. Bond put on the spectacles.
Holly shook her head. ‘They do nothing for you.’
Bond held a blotter in front of his face and tapped the top of the spectacles as if ruminating on something. There was an almost inaudible hiss. and a dart scarcely larger than a thorn was embedded in the blotter. ‘They’d do less for me if you were wearing them,’ said Bond. He pressed the side of a powder compact and a wicked-looking blade flicked out. ‘You do have some rough toys.’
‘A girl has to look after herself these days,’ said Holly.
Bond smiled grimly. ‘I know Third World armies that aren’t this well equipped.’ He pulled apart a lipstick holder to reveal what looked suspiciously like a miniature detonator and explosive charge. The cylinder of a Zippo lighter was divided so that not only could it light a cigarette but squirt Mace in the face of an attacker.
Bond shook his head. ‘I bet you pulled the arms off all your dolls.’
‘I never had any dolls,’ said Holly. ‘I always used to be out on the streets with a catcher’s glove.’
‘With a baseball bat, more likely,’ said Bond. He pressed one of the clasps on the side of the handbag and a telescopic aerial began to glide silently into the air. There was a subdued crackle of static electricity and the second clasp glowed with the numbers of radio bands.
Bond tossed the handbag on to the bed beside its contents. ‘I’ve seen this equipment before, Holly, and it wasn’t in Macy’s.’ He paused for a moment before he crossed to a drinks trolley. ‘It was being developed by the C.I.A. An old friend of mine, Felix Leiter, gave me a sneak preview.’ Bond turned his back to throw some ice cubes into a glass and top it up with Chivas Regal. ‘I think you probably know him.’ There was no reply from Holly. ‘Because it occurs to me that the C.I.A. placed you with Drax. Correct?’
He waved a hand towards the trolley in invitation. Holly shook her head. ‘Correct.’ Her face softened into a conciliatory smile. ‘Could it be that this is the moment for us to pool our resources?’
Bond studied Holly over the top of his glass. It was the first time he could remember her smiling like that. So warm. So guileless. So insincere. He put down his glass. ‘That might have its compensations.’
Holly took a step towards him so that she was close enough to be touched. Her long silk gown could have been tied tightly across her low-cut nightdress but it was not. Bond drew her to him and kissed the corner of her mouth gently. His eyes were still suspicious.
‘You think I’m trying to hide something, don’t you?’ said Holly.
Bond raised his eyebrows and suppressed a smile. ‘Yes and no,’ he said drily.
Holly watched his eyes warily circling the room. ‘Haven’t you done enough detective work for one evening?’ She broke away and started replacing the contents of her handbag.
Bond caught a glimpse of his battered face in a mirror and smiled ruefully. ‘I am tempted to call it a day.’
Holly smoothed down the counterpane seductively and placed her bag on a bedside table. She crossed to Bond and winced as she saw his hand. ‘You’d better let me take a look at that.’ She unfolded his fingers one by one and examined the deep cut across his palm. ‘I’ve got something in the bathroom.’
Bond smiled. ‘As long as it’s not in your handbag.’ He rested his nose against her hair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Holly. We would be better off working together.’ She tilted back her head
to look at him and he closed his free hand over hers. ‘Détente?’
Holly nodded. ‘Agreed.’
‘Understanding?’
Holly twisted her head quizzically. ‘Possibly.’
‘Co-operation?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Trust?’
Her mouth came up to his fast. ‘Why do you have to talk so much?’
Four hours later, Bond lay naked beneath a sheet, feeling Holly nuzzling into his shoulder. She let out a small contented sigh and draped an arm across his chest. Bond drove a tiger from his loins and stretched out a furtive right arm. His Rolex Oyster Perpetual, glowing in the darkness, told him that it was time to leave. He slid from the bed, gently replacing Holly’s arm on the warm sheet. Holly made another contented noise and burrowed into the pillow. Bond suddenly thought how vulnerable she looked and pulled the sheet up about her shoulders. His clothes lay mingled with hers and a shaft of moonlight played on the label of the woollen jacket that had caught his eye in the glass shop: ‘Victoria Bevan, Handmade Knitwear. Great Shelford, Cambridge, England’. Dr Holly Goodhead obviously cast her net wide in the pursuit of excellence. Bond felt a pang of nostalgia as he looked down at this link with a country that meant more to him than any other in the world. England in winter matched the bleak asperity of his spirit, yet an immediate return was out of the question. His only lead directed him to more tropical climes. He breathed in the cool night air and briskly pulled on his polo-neck pullover. There were five hours to daybreak and he had work to do. Holly permitted herself another sigh as she shifted her position to take full advantage of the warm space left by Bond and listen to the sounds of him dressing. There was a nearly inaudible exhalation as he pulled on his shoes, and she heard a floorboard creak as he moved to the door. The handle turned. A pause, a click. The door was shut again. Holly lay still and listened for several seconds. ‘James?’ Her voice was bruised and plaintive. She raised herself on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of Bond lurking. Quickly she sat up and brushed the hair from her face before picking up the telephone. She waited, irritably flicking at the tip of her nose. Nobody would have believed, looking at that serious, composed face, that an hour before she had been indulging in the most passionate lovemaking of her life.
The ever-hopeful voice of an Italian night porter sounded on the end of the line. ‘Si, signora?’
The voice was as cold as that of a mid-western Baptist schoolmistress making her first trip east of the Great Lakes. ‘Send up somebody for my bags... At once, please.’
A thin net of rain fell on St Mark’s Square as Bond turned up the collar of his Aquascutum raincoat and waited respectfully on the less brisk pace of M and Frederick Gray. It was a few hours after he had left Holly’s suite and the more than prompt arrival of both his secular bosses was decidedly an embarrassment of riches. He was reminded of Gray’s immortal lines:
How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away!
‘This had better be good, Bond,’ snapped Gray. ‘There was a late sitting last night and I hardly had time to clear my mind of that damned division bell before your message came through.’
M felt it necessary to intercede on behalf of his protégé. ‘007 doesn’t usually press the panic button unless it’s serious, Minister.’
Gray uttered a noncommittal grunt and looked round the square. Small groups of armed carabinieri lurked in the archways with as much self-effacing discretion as Italians are capable of mustering. ‘I take it you’ve covered everything with our Italian friends?’
Bond nodded briskly. ‘Yes, sir. It’s all been taken care of.’ There was a slight edge of disdain to his voice which suggested that he was not overfond of Frederick Gray.
Gray either did not notice or did not care. ‘Poor devils. I expect they’re doing this kind of thing in their sleep these days.’ The tone was pious and complacent. It intimated that the Moro kidnapping could never have taken place in Britain. If pressed for an opinion, Bond would have been less optimistic.
The façade of the Venini Glass shop loomed up, with a few ,early morning sightseers peering in inquisitively. The police, wrapped in their heavy blue overcoats, nudged them back with their elbows. An inspector stepped forward and saluted. Bond addressed him in Italian and the three Englishmen moved into the shop, leaving the two plain clothes men who had flown in with Gray and M standing at the doorway. The beautiful shop assistant who had greeted Bond on his first visit thrust herself forward and unleashed a volley of excited Italian. Bond nodded to one of the policemen who drew her aside, still protesting.
Gray looked embarrassed. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Bond. I’ve played bridge with this fellow Drax.’ M delivered a cold look which Gray rightly took as a reproach. ‘He’s a very influential figure in Anglo-American affairs. Sort of diplomat without portfolio. Chaps like him wield an awful lot of international influence.’
Bond said nothing but led the way through to the courtyard. The prow of a police launch was visible through the wrought iron gate. Two policemen stood at the top of the flight of steps. Nobody could fault the speed and thoroughness with which the Italians had moved. Bond swallowed. His throat was dry. A few yards away lay the remnants of something inexplicably evil. He was not looking forward to seeing inside the laboratory again.
At the top of the steps they were met by two carabinieri and a plain clothes man carrying a canvas bag, The plain clothes man shook hands solemnly and led the way down the corridor. He paused outside the steel doors and turned to Bond.
‘This is it?’ asked Gray.
‘Yes, sir.’ Bond took the canvas bag and withdrew three gas masks. They dangled from his fingers like squid.
Gray looked incredulous. ‘Gas masks?’ His voice was an imitation of Lady Bracknell’s. ‘Now look here —’
‘I don’t think it’s wise to take any chances.’ Bond’s voice was firm but calm. M said nothing but stretched out his hand for a mask. Gray gave an exclamation of impatience and followed suit. The plain clothes man and the carabinieri retired down the corridor towards the courtyard.
‘Haven’t done this since the war.’ M’s voice almost savoured the nostalgia as he pulled on his gas mask. Gray followed suit as if being asked to put on a funny hat at a children’s party. When satisfied that the two men were properly protected, Bond pulled on his own mask and approached the door control panel. His chest heaved as he raised a finger. Five-one-one-three-five. Nothing happened. He tapped the numbers again with the same lack of result. Beside him he could see Gray’s eyes behind the mask straining to catch M’s. Bond turned towards the door and experienced a shock. Where there had once been smooth metal there was now a handle. Bond felt uneasy. As Gray cleared his throat impatiently, Bond turned the handle gently and felt the door opening. He pushed it forward and stepped into the room to receive his second surprise of the morning.
What had once been the outer office had disappeared. Of the laboratory there was no sign. In their place was a long vaulted chamber hung with Aubusson tapestries and Renaissance paintings. Bookcases projected at regular intervals from the walls and the gold leaf on the hand-tooled leather covers gleamed in the thin morning light that entered from the high diamond-shaped windows. A huge brass candelabra hung from the ceiling, and the room was sprinkled with tasteful items of antique furniture. It was from one of these that a familiar figure rose. The pink satin upholstery of the chaise longue paid an insipid compliment to the red hair and the rufous complexion, but there was no mistaking Drax’s awesome bulk in any surroundings. He surveyed his visitors with an amused smile tinged with mockery.
‘Why, I do believe it’s Frederick Gray. What a surprise!’ He approached with arms outstretched as Gray tore off his gas mask. ‘And in distinguished company, all wearing gas masks.’ His smile embraced the trio. ‘You must excuse me, gentlemen. Not being English, I sometimes find your sense of humour a trifle difficult to follow.’
Bond felt the w
ords sting him like a whiplash. What a damnably clever fellow he was up against. To underestimate Hugo Drax for one second would be to risk paying a forfeit of one’s life.
Frederick Gray’s eyes blazed with anger and embarrassment. He removed them from Bond and accepted Drax’s hand. ‘Frightfully sorry about this intrusion — I think our lines of communication must have got crossed.’ He foundered and turned to M for help.
‘Good morning, Mr Drax,’ said M calmly. ‘Do you happen to have a laboratory on your premises?’
‘A laboratory?’ Drax sounded surprised. ‘No. There are the workshops, of course, but nothing that you could call a laboratory. The art of glass manufacture as practised here has changed little over the centuries.’
‘And no more accidents?’ said Bond coldly. ‘Such as the incident that led to Miss Parker’s death?’
For a second a tiny pinpoint of red glowed in the centre of Drax’s ill-matched eyes. ‘An incident certainly, but not an accident. Somebody broke into the glassworks last night. Chang, my personal assistant, appears to have surprised the intruder in the museum — it is where any thief would have gone. I cannot be sure of exactly what took place because Chang was murdered.’
Gray turned to look at Bond and then controlled himself. ‘How terrible. You have all our sympathy.’
‘Thank you,’ said Drax. ‘I take it that this is not the crime you are investigating?’
‘Not directly,’ said M. ‘Although the events may be connected.’
‘That is always possible,’ said Drax. He looked at Bond without love. ‘I hope you will keep me abreast of all developments.’ He smiled. ‘I believe that is the rather convoluted expression you English employ in these situations?’
‘Sometimes,’ said M noncommittally. Bond could tell that the old man had not warmed to Drax — though that was hardly going to help him in his present situation. ‘I think we’d better leave you in peace.’ M nodded gruffly to Drax and led the way towards the door, with Gray grovelling two steps behind.
James Bond and Moonraker Page 9
