Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (15 page)

Sanchez gave a short laugh. It sounded as though he was genuinely amused. ‘Senor Bond, you have big
conjones.
’ He went on chuckling as he spoke. ‘You come here, to my place, with no references. You walk in carrying a piece. Throwing a lot of money around. But you know something? Nobody saw you come in. Nobody will remember you. So, nobody has to see you go out.’

‘Senor Sanchez, I don’t joke about my work. Believe me, I could be quite useful to a man in your position. I already know you have a reputation for rewarding those who serve you well and remain loyal. Sure, I carry a gun. It’s a habit you don’t get out of easily. As for the money? Well, I got very lucky with a hit. The people I was working for paid me a great deal, but men in my line never hang on to cash. Like life, it’s easy come, easy go.’

There was silence for a good forty seconds and, in that time, Bond’s thumb and forefinger had retrieved the second bug from his cummerbund. ‘You have a very nice set-up here.’

Sanchez rose: the same exaggerated slow motion. ‘It’s okay. What do you think of this?’ He pressed a stud in the side of his chair and the wall to their right rolled back to display a long room, twice the size of the one in which they stood. There was a polished glass table at least twenty feet in length, and chairs were placed around it. Each place was set up for a meeting, with yellow legal scratch-pads, sharpened pencils, pens and blotters.

‘My boardroom.’ Sanchez smiled, gesturing for Bond to take a look. He did so, resting his hand on the edge of the long table, transferring a bug to the underside.

‘Now,’ Sanchez picked up the passport and settled back into his chair, waving for Bond to come back into his room. ‘I think I’ll keep this for a few days, then we’ll talk again. As I said, you have big
conjones.
I like that in a man. We’ll just have to see.’ He nodded towards the door, the lazy movement of his head signifying that the meeting was over.

Bond reached for the Walther, but Sanchez moved, fast as a snake’s tongue. ‘No! No, Mr Bond. You will not need this in Isthmus. We have a very safe city.’

‘I’m glad to hear it.’ He managed a smile as he walked towards the door. ‘If you need me, I’m at the Hôtel El Presidente.’

He paused, looking back at Sanchez, the door half open.

‘Yes, I know you are.’ Sanchez gave his lazy smile. ‘In the meantime, you’re welcome to come to the casino and lose – or win – money any time you like.’

As he closed the door, Bond heard Sanchez snap at, he presumed, Heller. ‘Check him out!’

Riding down in the private elevator, Bond thought about the man he had just left, deciding he was probably one of the most callous people he had ever met, and that in a life filled with meeting villains and people of evil intent. On the surface, Sanchez was a calm, calculating man, with a penchant for the good things in life: behind that lazy charm lay complete indifference to suffering. Not only the suffering he saw with his own eyes, or knew of because he had ordered it, but the terrible cloak of despair, self-loathing, deceit and crime which he activated from afar by dealing in millions of dollars’ worth of street drugs.

Now, Bond had set himself firmly face to face with the baron of evil. It would only be a matter of time before Heller made telephone calls, or tapped into his private sources. Then he would be exposed for what he was.

Now there was an urgency, and Bond realised that it was not just a matter of getting rid of Sanchez because of what he had done to Felix Leiter and his new wife: not simply revenge for that. Bond wanted to squash the man like an insect that carried some deadly disease. He was determined to smash Sanchez
and
his whole sordid empire.

The elevator doors opened. Plenty of people were still playing the tables in the salon privé. He even caught another glimpse of the big Chinese, Kwang, now seated at a roulette wheel.

He looked towards the blackjack table at which he had played. No dealer, and no nearby pit boss. Just one person, Pam, sitting quietly, a drink in front of her. As he walked across the room, Bond realised another significant fact. The table was bare, but for Pam’s tiny sequinned evening bag. Where his high pile of gaming plaques had been there was only green baize.

‘Ready to go?’ he asked, and Pam looked up, past him at the manager who had given them this table. The man was hurrying over, carrying what looked suspiciously like a bank draft.

‘The draft you required, Senorita Kennedy,’ he said, hand outstretched. But Bond intercepted the pass, snipping the piece of paper from the manager’s fingers before Pam’s hand could close over it.

The manager looked embarrassed for a moment, then bowed and left, almost walking backwards.

Pam shrugged. ‘Just the profits,’ she said, trying a lame smile. ‘I could use a little walking around money.’

Bond did not show his usual sense of humour. ‘You can walk one hell of a long way on quarter of a million dollars.’

‘Okay. Only trying to help.’ She gave a little sad wave as he slipped the cheque into his pocket. Then, as they walked out of the salon privé into the lobby of the casino, she asked, ‘What did you manage to do with that hot tamale you disappeared with?’

Bond was so preoccupied that he did not even catch the jealous edge in her voice.‘We went to see Sanchez.’

‘Oh, is that all? Jesus, James, I could hit you sometimes. Sanchez’ll have you checked out quick as a buck rabbit with a doe. Then we’ll both end up getting the deep six.’

They had reached the doors now, and Bond was still distracted. He walked out on to the pavement and looked up at the big picture windows above him. There were flags flying above a piece of statuary, a lounging nude woman, graceful and surprisingly tasteful for Sanchez, he thought. The statue’s arms were reaching up towards the flag.

The Rolls whispered to a stop by the kerb and the chauffeur held the door open. Bond glanced across the road towards the building under demolition.

As they drove away, he looked back and caught sight of the big Kwang and his fragile Japanese girlfriend, Loti. They were standing waiting for their car, but both looked back towards the Rolls.

‘Did you find out anything?’ Pam asked as they left the car and walked towards the doors of the Hôtel.

‘I found out he lives behind windows made of two-inch-thick armoured glass, and that there’s a bodyguard with him almost twenty-four hours a day.’

‘You’re not thinking of . . . ?’ she began, but Bond held his hand up, a sign for her to stop talking as they entered the vast lobby of the Hôtel.

‘Three-fourteen please,’ he said to the night porter.

‘There we are, Senor Bond.’ The porter gave a toothy and somewhat lecherous grin as he eyed Pam. ‘Oh, Senor Bond, you’ll be happy to know that your uncle arrived.’

‘Really?’ He did not show any surprise.

‘Yes. I’ve put him in your suite. I hope that was correct.’

‘Of course. Thank you.’

‘What uncle?’ Pam asked as they walked across towards the elevators.

‘You carrying?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, let me have it, then you stay down here until I send for you. I’d like to make this a proper family reunion.’

‘James,’ she sidestepped into a quiet vestibule, deserted but for a line of house phones. ‘James, what’s going on?’ Raising her skirt to show a very generous amount of leg, and more, she removed the small Beretta from its holster strapped to her thigh, handing it to Bond. ‘What’s going on?’ she repeated.

‘Damned if I know. Wait, and I’ll let you know.’ He disappeared into the elevator, leaving Pam standing by the telephones looking concerned.

The third floor seemed to be empty and Bond made his way silently towards 314. He then flattened himself against the wall, outside the range of the peephole, and rang the bell.

The door opened almost at once, and, as it did so, Bond leapt at the figure in the doorway. One hand went for the man’s throat, the other pushed the little pistol into his ear.

‘Right, Uncle. Let’s see who you’re really related to,’ he whispered, pushing the figure back and kicking the door closed behind him.

10

DEAR UNCLE

Bond was lying at a 90-degree angle to the intruder’s body, well out of the way of flailing arms and legs. His left arm pressed down across the man’s throat, while he literally screwed the muzzle of the little Beretta into his ear.

‘Right,’ he whispered, breathing hard, his voice full of menace. ‘Who sent you? Heller? Or was it Sanchez himself? Tell me now or I’ll blow your wretched little head off.’

The victim struggled, making croaking sounds. Bond relaxed pressure on his windpipe, so that the sounds became words. Words from a voice he recognised.

‘Really, 007! For goodness sake! Let
me
go!’

‘Oh, my God!’ The intruder wore sandals, baggy checked pants and a blinding floral shirt. He had taken that in, his mind telling him the fellow was dressed like a tourist which would be natural cover for his ‘uncle’. He had not seen the face properly, but the voice was distinctive. ‘Good grief, what are you doing here?’ He let go of the figure who had been struggling on the floor, standing up and helping him to his feet.

Standing in front of him, looking shaken, was Major Boothroyd, head of Q-Branch, officially titled the Armourer, but more lovingly referred to by all at the London Headquarters as Q.

‘I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t go creeping in without being announced.’

‘Well, I couldn’t have left a message at reception saying, “Please tell Mr Bond that Q’s in his suite”, could I?’

‘I suppose not. But what in heaven’s name’re you doing here? Sit down. Have a drink.’

‘Brandy, 007. Better make it a stiff one.’ Q made a clucking noise and walked towards the long table under the window. There had been a bowl of fruit on it, now, as Bond poured a liberal dose of Remy Martin, he saw the fruit had been joined by one of Q’s favourite briefcases: the type built on the bellows principle, which gave you the impression that it would hold anything, like a bottomless pit.

Q lugged the bag over to a chair and sat down, heavily. ‘You’re certainly fast and fit, Bond.’ He massaged his neck. ‘Well, that’s as it should be, I suppose. What am I doing here, you ask?’

Bond nodded, placing the brandy within Q’s reach.

‘I’m on leave. On vacation as they say in the States. This being the case, thought I’d pop by and see how you’re getting along.’ Q’s face had assumed a look of slightly overdone innocence.

Bond sat close to him. ‘How did you find me?’

Q drew a deep breath, as though he had been caught in one of his own pieces of trickery. ‘Damn it, Bond. Moneypenny. The woman’s worried sick about you.’

It was Bond’s turn to sigh. ‘And how did she know?’

‘Never mind about that.’

‘Q, listen to me. You’re not a field man. This is a dangerous place, and you would be better off out of it. Why not slip off into the night, eh?’

For a moment Q looked quite angry. ‘No need to be coy with me, Bond. I know what you’re up to; and frankly I believe you need my help . . .’

‘But . . .’

‘Face up to it man, if it wasn’t for Q-Branch you’d have been dead years ago.’

Bond thought about it for a minute, then decided Q was quite right. He gave a small nod, but, by this time, Q was already opening the case, which sprang outwards, like a stage-magician’s trick.

‘Everything for the man on holiday, eh?’ Q actually chuckled, rubbing his hands together. ‘Just put a few things in. Travelling alarm clock . . .’ He pulled out the small digital time-piece no larger than a pack of cigarettes ‘. . . stuffed with explosives. Set it for someone and . . . poof!’

‘Poof!’ Bond repeated. ‘I really don’t think I need a terrorist’s weapon, Q.’

‘No, didn’t think so, but . . .’

Bond saw a passport in the depths of the case. He put his hand out and grabbed it. It was in his street name, James Boldman. ‘You really have thought of everything. Just what I needed – they’ve taken mine.’ Q snatched the passport from him with a warning cry. ‘Don’t open that! You might have activated it.’

‘Say again?’

‘If you press hard on the centre of the crest, goat making advances to a lion, a little dot appears in the number window below.’ Q demonstrated. ‘Press twice and it deactivates.’

‘What, in fact, does it activate and deactivate?’

‘Mace. If you don’t really want your ID examined, you hand it over in the activated condition and it’ll give a nice, wide-angled dose of Mace. Useful?’

‘Quite possibly. Yes, I’ll take a dozen of those.’

‘Cut the frivolity, Bond. We’re into serious stuff here. Now, toothpaste,’ removing two king-sized tubes of a well-known brand.

‘Don’t tell me. Some terrorist tried palming one of these off on his girlfriend. What’s in it?’

‘What would you expect?’

‘C-4?’ Composition C-4 is an off-white putty-like substance, ninety per cent of which is RDX, the other ten per cent being a stabilising and binding agent. Nuclear weapons apart, RDX is the most powerful explosive on earth. In its C-4 form it converts to malleable
plastique.

‘Well done.’ Q looked pleased. ‘C-4.’ He pulled out a thick pen with a TV station’s logo on the top. ‘And here, inside the tube, is a selection of detonators. The pen converts into a remote with a couple of triple-A batteries.’

‘Again, just what I wanted.’ Already a plan was starting to form in Bond’s mind. ‘This will do very well.’

‘Oh, there’s more. For instance . . .’ Q stopped short, head turning and a look of alarm on his face as the door crashed open.

Bond’s hand streaked out towards the Beretta lying on the table, stopping when he saw it was Pam, standing in the doorway, another automatic in her hand. ‘I thought there might be a mess to clear up, but I see it really is your uncle.’

‘Close the door, Pam. Uncle, I want you to meet Ms Kennedy . . . my . . . er, my cousin.’

‘Really?’ Q looked quite pleased at what he saw. ‘Are we related?’

‘It’s quite possible,’ Bond said grittily. ‘Ms Kennedy has a repertoire of tricks as well. I thought you only had one weapon.’ He looked at her with suspicion.