The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  Content, twenty thousand acres in the foothills of Candlefly Peak, one of the most easterly of the Blue Mountains in the county of Portland, had been given to an early Havelock by Oliver Cromwell as a reward for having been one of the signatories to King Charles’s death warrant. Unlike so many other settlers of those and later times the Havelocks had maintained the plantation through three centuries, through earthquakes and hurricanes and through the boom and bust of cocoa, sugar, citrus, and copra. Now it was in bananas and cattle, and it was one of the richest and best run of all the private estates in the island. The house, patched up or rebuilt after earthquake or hurricane, was a hybrid—a mahogany-pillared, two-storeyed central block on the old stone foundations flanked by two single-storeyed wings with widely overhung, flat-pitched Jamaican roofs of silver cedar shingles. The Havelocks were now sitting on the deep veranda of the central block facing the gently sloping garden beyond which a vast tumbling jungle vista stretched away twenty miles to the sea.

  Colonel Havelock put down his Gleaner. “I thought I heard a car.”

  Mrs. Havelock said firmly: “If it’s those ghastly Feddens from Port Antonio, you’ve simply got to get rid of them. I can’t stand any more of their moans about England. And last time they were both quite drunk when they left and dinner was cold.” She got up quickly. “I’m going to tell Agatha to say I’ve got a migraine.”

  Agatha came out through the drawing-room door. She looked fussed. She was followed closely by three men. She said hurriedly: “Gemmun from Kingston’m. To see de Colonel.”

  The leading man slid past the housekeeper. He was still wearing his hat, a panama with a short very upcurled brim. He took this off with his left hand and held it against his stomach. The rays of the sun glittered on hair-grease and on a mouthful of smiling white teeth. He went up to Colonel Havelock, his outstretched hand held straight in front of him. “Major Gonzales. From Havana. Pleased to meet you, Colonel.”

  The accent was the sham American of a Jamaican taxi-driver. Colonel Havelock had got to his feet. He touched the outstretched hand briefly. He looked over the Major’s shoulder at the other two men who had stationed themselves on either side of the door. They were both carrying that new holdall of the tropics—a Pan American overnight bag. The bags looked heavy. Now the two men bent down together and placed them beside their yellowish shoes. They straightened themselves. They wore flat white caps with transparent green visors that cast green shadows down to their cheekbones. Through the green shadows their intelligent animal eyes fixed themselves on the Major, reading his behaviour.

  “They are my secretaries.”

  Colonel Havelock took a pipe out of his pocket and began to fill it. His direct blue eyes took in the sharp clothes, the natty shoes, the glistening fingernails of the Major and the blue jeans and calypso shirts of the other two. He wondered how he could get these men into his study and near the revolver in the top drawer of his desk. He said: “What can I do for you?” As he lit his pipe he watched the Major’s eyes and mouth through the smoke.

  Major Gonzales spread his hands. The width of his smile remained constant. The liquid, almost golden eyes were amused, friendly. “It is a matter of business, Colonel. I represent a certain gentleman in Havana”—he made a throw-away gesture with his right hand. “A powerful gentleman. A very fine guy.” Major Gonzales assumed an expression of sincerity. “You would like him, Colonel. He asked me to present his compliments and to inquire the price of your property.”

  Mrs. Havelock, who had been watching the scene with a polite half-smile on her lips, moved to stand beside her husband. She said kindly, so as not to embarrass the poor man: “What a shame, Major. All this way on these dusty roads! Your friend really should have written first, or asked anyone in Kingston or at Government House. You see, my husband’s family have lived here for nearly three hundred years.” She looked at him sweetly, apologetically. “I’m afraid there just isn’t any question of selling Content. There never has been. I wonder where your important friend can possibly have got the idea from.”

  Major Gonzales bowed briefly. His smiling face turned back to Colonel Havelock. He said, as if Mrs. Havelock had not opened her mouth: “My gentleman is told this is one of the finest estancias in Jamaica. He is a most generous man. You may mention any sum that is reasonable.”

  Colonel Havelock said firmly: “You heard what Mrs. Havelock said. The property is not for sale.”

  Major Gonzales laughed. It sounded quite genuine laughter. He shook his head as if he was explaining something to a rather dense child. “You misunderstand me, Colonel. My gentleman desires this property and no other property in Jamaica. He has some funds, some extra funds, to invest. These funds are seeking a home in Jamaica. My gentleman wishes this to be their home.”

  Colonel Havelock said patiently: “I quite understand, Major. And I am so sorry you have wasted your time. Content will never be for sale in my lifetime. And now, if you’ll forgive me. My wife and I always dine early, and you have a long way to go.” He made a gesture to the left, along the veranda. “I think you’ll find this is the quickest way to your car. Let me show you.”

  Colonel Havelock moved invitingly, but when Major Gonzales stayed where he was, he stopped. The blue eyes began to freeze.

  There was perhaps one less tooth in Major Gonzales’s smile and his eyes had become watchful. But his manner was still jolly. He said cheerfully, “Just one moment, Colonel.” He issued a curt order over his shoulder. Both the Havelocks noticed the jolly mask slip with the few sharp words through the teeth. For the first time Mrs. Havelock looked slightly uncertain. She moved still closer to her husband. The two men picked up their blue Pan American bags and stepped forward. Major Gonzales reached for the zipper on each of them in turn and pulled. The taut mouths sprang open. The bags were full to the brim with neat solid wads of American money. Major Gonzales spread his arms. “All hundred dollar bills. All genuine. Half a million dollars. That is, in your money, let us say, one hundred and eighty thousand pounds. A small fortune. There are many other good places to live in the world, Colonel. And perhaps my gentleman would add a further twenty thousand pounds to make the round sum. You would know in a week. All I need is half a sheet of paper with your signature. The lawyers can do the rest. Now, Colonel,” the smile was winning, “shall we say yes and shake hands on it? Then the bags stay here and we leave you to your dinner.”

  The Havelocks now looked at the Major with the same expression—a mixture of anger and disgust. One could imagine Mrs. Havelock telling the story next day. “Such a common, greasy little man. And those filthy plastic bags full of money! Timmy was wonderful. He just told him to get out and take the dirty stuff away with him.”

  Colonel Havelock’s mouth turned down with distaste. He said: “I thought I had made myself clear, Major. The property is not for sale at any price. And I do not share the popular thirst for American dollars. I must now ask you to leave.” Colonel Havelock laid his cold pipe on the table as if he was preparing to roll up his sleeves.

  For the first time Major Gonzales’s smile lost its warmth. The mouth continued to grin but it was now shaped in an angry grimace. The liquid golden eyes were suddenly brassy and hard. He said softly: “Colonel. It is I who have not made myself clear. Not you. My gentleman has instructed me to say that if you will not accept his most generous terms we must proceed to other measures.”

  Mrs. Havelock was suddenly afraid. She put her hand on Colonel Havelock’s arm and pressed it hard. He put his hand over hers in reassurance. He said through tight lips: “Please leave us alone and go, Major. Otherwise I shall communicate with the police.”

  The pink tip of Major Gonzales’s tongue came out and slowly licked along his lips. All the light had gone out of his face and it had become taut and hard. He said harshly. “So the property is not for sale in your lifetime, Colonel. Is that your last word?” His right hand went behind his back and he clicke
d his fingers softly, once. Behind him the gun-hands of the two men slid through the opening of their gay shirts above the waistbands. The sharp animal eyes watched the Major’s fingers behind his back.

  Mrs. Havelock’s hand went up to her mouth. Colonel Havelock tried to say yes, but his mouth was dry. He swallowed noisily. He could not believe it. This mangy Cuban crook must be bluffing. He managed to say thickly: “Yes, it is.”

  Major Gonzales nodded curtly. “In that case, Colonel, my gentleman will carry on the negotiations with the next owner—with your daughter.”

  The fingers clicked. Major Gonzales stepped to one side to give a clear field of fire. The brown monkey-hands came out from under the gay shirts. The ugly sausage-shaped hunks of metal spat and thudded—again and again, even when the two bodies were on their way to the ground.

  Major Gonzales bent down and verified where the bullets had hit. Then the three small men walked quickly back through the rose and white drawing-room and across the dark carved mahogany hall and out through the elegant front door. They climbed unhurriedly into a black Ford Consul Sedan with Jamaican number plates and, with Major Gonzales driving and the two gunmen sitting upright in the back seat, they drove off at an easy pace down the long avenue of Royal Palms. At the junction of the drive and the road to Port Antonio the cut telephone wires hung down through the trees like bright lianas. Major Gonzales slalomed the car carefully and expertly down the rough parochial road until he was on the metalled strip near the coast. Then he put on speed. Twenty minutes after the killing he came to the outer sprawl of the little banana port. There he ran the stolen car onto the grass verge beside the road and the three men got out and walked the quarter of a mile through the sparsely lit main street to the banana wharves. The speed-boat was waiting, its exhaust bubbling. The three men got in and the boat zoomed off across the still waters of what an American poetess has called the most beautiful harbour in the world. The anchor chain was already half up on the glittering fifty-ton Chriscraft. She was flying the Stars and Stripes. The two graceful antennae of the deep-sea rods explained that these were tourists—from Kingston, perhaps, or from Montego Bay. The three men went on board and the speed-boat was swung in. Two canoes were circling, begging. Major Gonzales tossed a fifty-cent piece to each of them and the stripped men dived. The twin diesels awoke to a stuttering roar and the Chriscraft settled her stern down a fraction and made for the deep channel below the Titchfield hotel. By dawn she would be back in Havana. The fishermen and wharfingers ashore watched her go, and went on with their argument as to which of the film-stars holidaying in Jamaica this could have been.

  Up on the broad veranda of Content the last rays of the sun glittered on the red stains. One of the doctor birds whirred over the balustrade and hovered close above Mrs. Havelock’s heart, looking down. No, this was not for him. He flirted gaily off to his roosting-perch among the closing hibiscus.

  There came the sound of someone in a small sports car making a racing change at the bend of the drive. If Mrs. Havelock had been alive she would have been getting ready to say: “Judy. I’m always telling you not to do that on the corner. It scatters gravel all over the lawn and you know how it ruins Joshua’s lawn-mower.”

  * * *

  —

  It was a month later. In London, October had begun with a week of brilliant Indian summer, and the noise of the mowers came up from Regent’s Park and in through the wide open windows of M.’s office. They were motor-mowers and James Bond reflected that one of the most beautiful noises of summer, the drowsy iron song of the old machines, was going for ever from the world. Perhaps today children felt the same about the puff and chatter of the little two-stroke engines. At least the cut grass would smell the same.

  Bond had time for these reflections because M. seemed to be having difficulty in coming to the point. Bond had been asked if he had anything on at the moment, and he had replied happily that he hadn’t and had waited for Pandora’s box to be opened for him. He was mildly intrigued because M. had addressed him as James and not by his number—007. This was unusual during duty hours. It sounded as if there might be some personal angle to this assignment—as if it might be put to him more as a request than as an order. And it seemed to Bond that there was an extra small cleft of worry between the frosty, damnably clear, grey eyes. And three minutes was certainly too long to spend getting a pipe going.

  M. swivelled his chair round square with the desk and flung the box of matches down so that it skidded across the red leather top towards Bond. Bond fielded it and skidded it politely back to the middle of the desk. M. smiled briefly. He seemed to make up his mind. he said mildly: “James, has it ever occurred to you that every man in the fleet knows what to do except the commanding admiral?”

  Bond frowned. He said: “It hadn’t occurred to me, sir. But I see what you mean. The rest only have to carry out orders. The admiral has to decide on the orders. I suppose it’s the same as saying that Supreme Command is the loneliest post there is.”

  M. jerked his pipe sideways. “Same sort of idea. Someone’s got to be tough. Someone’s got to decide in the end. If you send a havering signal to the Admiralty you deserve to be put on the beach. Some people are religious—pass the decision on to God.” M.’s eyes were defensive. “I used to try that sometimes in the Service, but He always passed the buck back again—told me to get on and make up my own mind. Good for one, I suppose, but tough. Trouble is, very few people keep tough after about forty. They’ve been knocked about by life—had troubles, tragedies, illnesses. These things soften you up.” M. looked sharply at Bond. “How’s your coefficient of toughness, James? You haven’t got to the dangerous age yet.”

  Bond didn’t like personal questions. He didn’t know what to answer, nor what the truth was. He had not got a wife or children—had never suffered the tragedy of a personal loss. He had not had to stand up to blindness or a mortal disease. He had absolutely no idea how he would face these things that needed so much more toughness than he had ever had to show. He said hesitantly: “I suppose I can stand most things if I have to and if I think it’s right, sir. I mean”—he did not like using such words—“if the cause is—er—sort of just, sir.” He went on, feeling ashamed at himself for throwing the ball back at M.: “Of course it’s not easy to know what is just and what isn’t. I suppose I assume that when I’m given an unpleasant job in the Service the cause is a just one.”

  “Dammit,” M.’s eyes glittered impatiently. “That’s just what I mean! You rely on me. You won’t take any damned responsibility yourself.” He thrust the stem of his pipe towards his chest. “I’m the one who has to do that. I’m the one who has to decide if a thing is right or not.” The anger died out of the eyes. The grim mouth bent sourly. He said gloomily: “Oh well, I suppose it’s what I’m paid for. Somebody’s got to drive the bloody train.” M. put his pipe back in his mouth and drew on it deeply to relieve his feelings.

  Now Bond felt sorry for M. He had never before heard M. use as strong a word as “bloody.” Nor had M. ever given a member of his staff any hint that he felt the weight of the burden he was carrying and had carried ever since he had thrown up the certain prospect of becoming Fifth Sea Lord in order to take over the Secret Service. M. had got himself a problem. Bond wondered what it was. It would not be concerned with danger. If M. could get the odds more or less right he would risk anything, anywhere in the world. It would not be political. M. did not give a damn for the susceptibilities of any Ministry and thought nothing of going behind their backs to get a personal ruling from the Prime Minister. It might be moral. It might be personal. Bond said: “Is there anything I can help over, sir?”

  M. looked briefly, thoughtfully at Bond, and then swivelled his chair so that he could look out of the window at the high summery clouds. He said abruptly: “Do you remember the Havelock case?”

  “Only what I read in the papers, sir. Elderly couple in Jamaica. The daughter came h
ome one night and found them full of bullets. There was some talk of gangsters from Havana. The housekeeper said three men had called in a car. She thought they might have been Cubans. It turned out the car had been stolen. A yacht had sailed from the local harbour that night. But as far as I remember the police didn’t get anywhere. That’s all, sir. I haven’t seen any signals passing on the case.”

  M. said gruffly: “You wouldn’t have. They’ve been personal to me. We weren’t asked to handle the case. Just happens,” M. cleared his throat: this private use of the Service was on his conscience, “I knew the Havelocks. Matter of fact I was best man at their wedding. Malta. Nineteen-twenty-five.”

  “I see, sir. That’s bad.”

  M. said shortly: “Nice people. Anyway, I told Station C to look into it. They didn’t get anywhere with the Batista people, but we’ve got a good man with the other side—with this chap Castro. And Castro’s Intelligence people seem to have the Government pretty well penetrated. I got the whole story a couple of weeks ago. It boils down to the fact that a man called Hammerstein, or von Hammerstein, had the couple killed. There are a lot of Germans well dug in in these banana republics. They’re Nazis who got out of the net at the end of the War. This one’s ex-Gestapo. He got a job as head of Batista’s Counter Intelligence. Made a packet of money out of extortion and blackmail and protection. He was set up for life until Castro’s lot began to make headway. He was one of the first to start easing himself out. He cut one of his officers in on his loot, a man called Gonzales, and this man travelled around the Caribbean with a couple of gunmen to protect him and began salting away Hammerstein’s money outside Cuba—put it in real estate and suchlike under nominees. Only bought the best, but at top prices. Hammerstein could afford them. When money didn’t work he’d use force—kidnap a child, burn down a few acres, anything to make the owner see reason. Well, this man Hammerstein heard of the Havelocks’ property, one of the best in Jamaica, and he told Gonzales to go and get it. I suppose his orders were to kill the Havelocks if they wouldn’t sell and then put pressure on the daughter. There’s a daughter, by the way. Should be about twenty-five by now. Never seen her myself. Anyway, that’s what happened. They killed the Havelocks. Then two weeks ago Batista sacked Hammerstein. May have got to hear about one of these jobs. I don’t know. But, anyway, Hammerstein cleared out and took his little team of three with him. Timed things pretty well, I should say. It looks as if Castro may get in this winter if he keeps the pressure up.”