by Orca Various
“Yes?”
“Then, observe Angel Dahl slipping into the washroom before the plane lands and getting her black dress out of her bag and putting it on.”
“You put on the little black dress? The one I got you to buy?” Bad Adam couldn’t help but wonder what she looked like in it.
“Yes…except I didn’t buy the one you wanted me to. I took another one off a rack when you weren’t looking.”
“You did?”
She could see my disappointment and looked a little guilty. “Adam, it just wasn’t me.”
“So, what is this one like?”
The shuttle pulled out. She was sitting there beside me in her baggy sweatpants and baggy sweatshirt, so she’d taken the dress off again on the way to Jamaica.
“Well, it isn’t exactly formfitting.”
“What a surprise.”
“No, it’s long and has long sleeves and a high neck and is very loose and comfortable.”
“Comfortable? So, you’re telling me it looks like a black potato sack?”
She scrunched up her face. “Yeah, kind of.”
I frowned. “On with the story.”
“Enter Angel Dahl getting off the plane at L.F. Wade International Airport with the straw hat pulled down over her face, hair tied up under it, the little girl’s big shades on, wearing the unusual long black dress with the turtleneck pulled up over her chin, using a spy technique she learned from a book about William Stephenson to make herself seem shorter than she really is. It is in the way you walk. Observe Angel Dahl assuming the color of the wall, stepping right past Jim, who is waiting in the arrivals area. All she needs is a few seconds. Observe Angel Dahl making a beeline to the escalators, rushing over to Departures, hustling to the check-out counters for international flights, booking the next one to Jamaica, which was departing very soon since there are many flights between the islands. Oh, and observe Ms. Dahl buying herself a new pair of shades.”
“And,” I said, “observe her boarding a flight to Montego Bay, Jamaica, rushing out of the airport and sneaking onto the shuttle to the Goldeneye Resort before the so-called Adam McLean even sees her.”
“The devilishly handsome Adam McLean.”
“Now you are really stretching things.”
“No, I’m not.”
She gave me a long look when she said that. It felt kind of awkward. Angel was kind of awkward, period, exactly what you’d expect of someone who hadn’t spent a lot of time interacting with people. But there was something about her that was so genuine too.
“I got here long before you, late last night. I had to sleep in the arrivals lounge. I saw you get off the flight and trailed you. You didn’t even notice me! I got in front of you and onto the shuttle. I saw some girls eyeing you.”
“Let’s think about what we have to do next,” I said quickly. “We don’t have any time to lose.”
But then a bad thought came into my mind. Something wasn’t right about her story. How did Angel Dahl really get on that flight from Bermuda to Jamaica? I remembered again that she wasn’t allowed a credit card. Back home, she was given money when she needed it. She had what she wanted, but only when she asked. I had given her quite a bit of cash in New York, but John had frisked her at the airport, so how did she pay for the plane ride? When I thought about it again, it was hard to believe he hadn’t found her money. I had to ask her straight out. I wasn’t going to Goldeneye with her if she was working for the other side.
“How did you pay for the flight?” I said bluntly.
“With the money you gave me.”
“But—”
“Yeah, John frisked me. But he didn’t find it.”
“But that’s almost impossible.”
“Not for a woman.” She smiled.
“A woman?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “Uh, that’s what I am, Adam.” She looked a little miffed.
“Yeah, of course, I uh, I didn’t mean—”
“My bra.”
“Excuse me?”
“I put the money in my bra.” She gave me a self-satisfied grin.
I remembered then that John hadn’t wanted to touch her anywhere that would look creepy, not in public in the airport. She had put the money in the one place he wouldn’t dare search. She’d probably somehow transferred it there when he wasn’t looking. He had no idea how clever she was.
Not a big area to hide money, said Bad Adam to me. Surprised it didn’t slip right through and land on the floor.
Shut up! I shouted at him inside my head. I wanted to punch his lights out.
“You’re brilliant,” I told her. She grinned.
It was now December 30, zero eight hundred hours. We had one day and night at Goldeneye. I had to be back in Buffalo by the next night. Mom would be flying home then. Tomorrow! I couldn’t believe it. There’s a James Bond movie called Tomorrow Never Dies. I wished that was true.
We had to think of what we’d do the minute we got to the resort. But once the bus was rolling out of the airport and moving across Highway A1 along the northern coast, it was hard not to be distracted by the passing scenery. The shuttle was one of those tourist ones with massive windows that went almost floor to ceiling, so you could see as much as possible of the outdoors. And what an outdoors!
It wasn’t that it was perfect out there. There was lots of poverty. But even the few ramshackle houses and huts, the tough-looking men, the poor women, kids in bare feet, the dirt roads, were set in an absolute paradise. It was the most colorful place I’d ever seen, as if God had put some sort of lens over it to make everything look bright, bursting with the most radiant hues on earth. Jamaica was green, very green, but also yellow and red and purple and all the other colors of the rainbow. The air smelled salty. As we moved out of the suburban part of Montego Bay and into the countryside, I spotted jerk-chicken restaurants and little clubs and bars with Red Stripe beer advertised outside. Reggae music just pounded out the doors, even at this hour of the morning. It was real reggae music, from the land where it was born. Marley’s image rose up on billboards and across T-shirts everywhere. Men had dreadlocks down to their waists, and women wore skimpy clothes in vividly colored fabrics.
The driver was talking about Jamaican history and I wanted to listen, but I couldn’t concentrate. I asked Angel if she had come up with any ideas on her flight, but she shook her head. I wanted to will the shuttle forward, zip it along to Goldeneye in a flash. But the driver moved us slowly, so slowly. That was the pace of things in Jamaica. The people walking along looked like they were barely shuffling. Actually, it seemed like the right way to do things, the way the world should move. But not today!
As we traveled next to the Caribbean, a short gray stone wall appeared between us and the water, weathered and only a few feet high. Beyond it was not only an endless stretch of deep blue, but also, unseen in the distance, the other islands of the West Indies. It occurred to me that I must be looking directly toward Cuba’s southern shore. In fact, if we were to sail straight out, I’d likely land near Guantanamo Bay, a piece of land in Cuba that America owned, the site of a famous military prison that was important during the missile crisis and today held the terrorists who wanted to attack and destroy our country. It was a kind of symbol of America’s modern Cold War. It held not only enemy soldiers and terrorists, but probably some spies who hated us and plotted against us, many of them put there by our own spies. There were lots of rumors that torture went on there. I didn’t know whether to salute it or wish it didn’t exist.
Soon we passed the old town of Falmouth, a picturesque place that likely didn’t look much different when pirates were the rogue kings of the Caribbean three or four centuries ago. Then we passed Discovery Bay, where Christopher Columbus supposedly first set foot on the island. It was pretty incredible, but I barely looked at it and hardly heard the driver’s travelogue.
W.
W marked the spot.
The Cuban Missile Crisis.
Just one day.
FOURTEEN
GOLDENEYE
We began passing resorts, many with famous names—like Sandals and Club Med—that I’d seen in slick magazine ads and on TV back home. You could see their gates from the bus, and their beautiful hotels, swimming pools, tennis courts and beaches beyond. I wanted to pull the driver out of his seat, take his place and press my foot down hard on the gas. I had a tourist map on my knee, which was bouncing up and down with my nervous twitch. I knew we were getting close.
Ten or fifteen minutes later I saw the big blue sign for the little Ian Fleming Airport. I’d noticed it on the map, just minutes from Goldeneye, but it was amazing to see it in person. The creator of 007 had been in this very place! And, maybe, so had my grandfather. Had they plotted to help save the world right here during the Cuban Missile Crisis? Did they slip over to Cuba from these shores on inflatable boats, silently sneaking into that forbidding communist stronghold at night in black wet suits, real secret agents bearing Walther PPKs complete with suppressors? Did W send them? William Stephenson?
We passed Marley Beach and Reggae Beach and were told that James Bond Beach was nearby. We were really close. I thought of Dr. No being filmed here, with Sean Connery and his stunning Bond Girl both in bathing suits, one of the most iconic movie scenes of all time.
Goldeneye appeared moments later. We swept through the ornate gates and up to the front door of the beautiful two-story white building where guests checked in. Men in white jackets and shorts stood on the steps, holding small hot towels on shining silver plates for us to wipe our faces. I’d given Angel the window seat on the shuttle, and she had her face pressed up against the glass, looking very happy indeed. She smiled at me and took my hand as we got up to leave the bus. I let go as soon as we stepped down.
Everything was taken care of. A man took our bags. The Walther PPK was in mine, but I let him have it. All we had to do was show our identification and we would be taken to our accommodations.
“I, uh, had to book a one-bedroom villa. It was all that was available, and all I could afford,” I told Angel as we waited to be taken to our room. I felt really bad about that and had been putting off telling her. I wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d slapped me.
She blushed. “Not to worry,” she said and smiled again.
What did that mean? I was worried. If Shirley found out about this, she’d be furious. And I wouldn’t blame her, not one bit. I wanted to tell Angel right away that I’d sleep outside if necessary, but I couldn’t because our attendant had come back and we wanted to make the resort people think we were a couple. We had to be convincing. She even took my hand again, though she snickered a bit when she did, as if it was an inside joke. I didn’t give Bad Adam a chance to be excited about any of this. I cut him off before he could offer up a single thought; given his shallow views on Angel’s looks, though, he might not have been too thrilled by the situation anyway.
The resort was incredibly beautiful. We walked along a narrow wooden bridge that went over a lagoon where other tourists were paddle-boating and swimming. Couples walked hand in hand along the private beach up ahead, kids in the water cried out with joy, you could hear gentle music playing, and alluring aromas of spicy food filled the air, mingling with the smell of the salty sea.
Once the resort guy had opened up our villa and snapped back all the shutters, he handed “Mr. Murphy” the key and left, and I started into my full apology.
“Angel, I am really sorry about this. I’ll put some of the pillows on the floor and sleep in the bathroom or out on the—”
“Yeah,” she said, “never mind—we’ll work it out.” She said it in a kind of dreamy voice as she gazed around at her surroundings. I could understand why. The place was stunning. It was on the beach, a curving, gorgeous stretch of white sand in front of transparent pale blue water. White umbrellas stood over tables that dotted the sand, and an infinity pool, as crystal-clear as the warm water, seemed to hang out into the sea. Our front door opened right onto the beach. Our little building was almost like a Jamaican chalet, with a gray shingled roof that looked thatched from a distance and white exterior walls. We had our own deck with sun chairs, and an outdoor shower was just out of sight among the vines and flowers. Inside, the walls were cool and white, and the bed (which made me gulp) was huge and decorated with colorful pillows. You reached it by walking up a short flight of wooden stairs onto a light-carpeted floor. Angel kicked off her flip-flops. We had an en suite bathroom, a desk for writing and huge open windows looking out over the sea. There was a bottle of champagne on ice sitting on our gleaming wooden table. I had tried drinking a bit of alcohol a few times but hadn’t touched a drop since I’d come back from France. I didn’t think Angel would either. She didn’t seem like that kind of girl.
She looked so happy, I thought she might cry. I hoped not. I would have no idea what to do.
“We have to get to work,” I said.
“Right.” She fell onto the bed, giggling. “Work.”
FIFTEEN
ARMED AND DANGEROUS
“I’m starving,” said Angel, sitting up on the bed a few minutes later.
“Okay, we can talk in the restaurant. Are you changing?”
She shook her head. She was going to stay in those sweats and that sweatshirt? In a beach resort?
It had been air-conditioned on the shuttle, so I’d left my long-sleeved Yankees shirt on. Now I pulled it off over my head. As I did, my Skyfall T pulled up too, so there I was, shirtless in front of her again. She didn’t look away. I pulled it down.
“Let’s go.”
There were two eateries at the resort. The Gazebo, a cool, tree-house kind of restaurant that looked out over the sea, and another spot called the Bizot Bar, which had a great view too, but was more of a burger-and-fries place. We wanted something quick, so we headed to the Bizot. We both got some spicy jerk chicken and sweet-potato fries, washing it all down with a fruit drink that had actual fruit in it, served in a tumbler about a foot high with lots of ice and a tiny umbrella. We sat on the porch overlooking the beach, hearing the sounds of the sea and people enjoying themselves. I should have been beside myself with joy, but I was looking around, wondering what W meant and how it might be connected to this heaven on earth. Nothing was evident. Ian Fleming, I thought—it might have something to do with him. Angel and I gazed out over the water, viewing the scene from behind our dark shades.
My cell phone pinged.
Q here.
Yes?
Got some news for you, Bond, big news.
My heart rate increased. I pulled my chair closer to Angel and showed her the screen. She looked down at it, gasped and bent closer to the phone; our cheeks were almost touching.
Really?
I found an American spy named Stanley Shick on this list of operatives that some spy geek has collected. Shick was very active in the early 1960s, CIA, international espionage.
So?
Take a closer look at his last name.
I glanced at Angel. “Shick?” I said to her, puzzled. Then I started moving the letters around. Angel must have done the same. “Hicks!” she cried out. I texted the name back to my little buddy.
Bingo, wrote Leon. Most spies had cryptonyms or code names. Stanley Shick’s was Guy.
“Guy Hicks!” whispered Angel.
“Wow!” I said out loud. “It’s him!”
A man had just sat down near us, alone at a table. He looked over at us and smiled.
He disappeared, Leon texted. Last seen September 1962.
The month before the Cuban Missile Crisis.
Thanks a million, Q. I’ll debrief you when I get home.
We are waiting for you. And when I say we, you know who I mean.
I set the phone down and noticed a slightly disgruntled look on Angel’s face. She hadn’t liked Leon’s last sentence, but I wasn’t thinking about that.
“Guy Hicks vanished on the eve of the Cuban Missile Crisis!” I exclaimed as quietly as po
ssible.
“He must have been eliminated,” said Angel.
“If that’s true, then who is in the house in Bermuda?”
“Adam, don’t jump to conclusions.” But her eyes looked worried.
“Grandpa,” I said.
“Don’t—”
“Grandpa took his name. He took his place too! It is him. It’s his scent on his shirts! Explain that!”
“But why would he take his place?”
I wasn’t listening. I felt like crying. Grandpa!
“Excuse me,” we heard someone say.
It was sometime between ten and eleven in the morning, so there was hardly anyone else in the bar, just us and the man who had come in after us and fitted himself into one of the wooden chairs at a table right next to us. I say “fitted” because he was, uh, a little heavy. Okay, he was fat, but there isn’t anything wrong with that, as long as you are healthy. Problem was, he didn’t look too fit. He was maybe sixty years old, with straggly, thinning hair poking out from under a truly ugly I Jamaica hat that looked like a really cheap knockoff of a Tilley hat. He was wearing awful red jean shorts that showed his very white, stubbly, thick legs, and hard black shoes and black socks, the socks pulled up almost to his knees. On his substantial upper body he sported an ugly beach shirt with flamingos and flowers and bikini-clad women on it. But under it, he wore something that caught my eye—the same Skyfall T-shirt that I had on, though his stretched over two or three pretty hefty rolls of flab. I wasn’t judging him. He was likely a very nice man.
“Yes, sir?”
“I noticed your T-shirt, young fellow.”
He had sort of a squeaky voice and a slight lisp. He squinted because he wasn’t wearing shades. His glasses were thick, and each lens was circular and about the size of a grapefruit or bigger. He looked like a portly, balding owl.
“Yes,” I said, “Skyfall. Great film.”
“Indeed. Are you kids from America?” He had an American accent himself. I couldn’t place it, but it sounded vaguely southern.
“Well, I am, but—”
