Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (20 page)

‘Sanchez has managed to buy four hand-held missiles from the Contras. He paid well over the odds for them.’

‘What kind of missiles? Stingers? Blowpipes? SA-6s? Sa-8s? Chaparrals?’

‘I know they’re not Stingers. I heard him say Stingers were no good because they were cumbersome. Difficult to cart around, what with the electronics pack and all. These are prototypes of some new thing. I don’t know if they even have a proper designation.
You
know what they’re doing: letting the Contras field-test new stuff for them. These things can be used in one of two modes: either ground to air, or ground to ground.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He had heard they were testing new, highly-portable, wholly self-contained, small weapons like this. Certainly the Stingers were out with the maze of electronic packs, conductance bars, and complex things like interrogation systems (the IFF which told the operator if an aircraft was friendly or not) that went with them. The United States had been working on all kinds of small, cheaper, more easily portable hand-held missiles.

‘The point is,’ Pam took another gulp of air, ‘Sanchez has already threatened to shoot down an unprotected airliner if the DEA doesn’t lay off. The letter Felix gave me is from the attorney general. Washington’s promised Heller immunity if he gets the missiles back, without any incident.’

Bond was as certain as he could be that she was telling the truth. ‘Did Heller go for the deal?’ he asked.

‘Originally, yes. But after Sanchez got away, Heller panicked. He sent a message back to me saying the deal was off and I was as good as dead if he ever saw me again.’

He was just about convinced. ‘You know where they’ve got these missiles?’

Pam made a frustrated gesture, balling her fists and beating them on her thigh. ‘The whole thing’s over now. We’ve missed our chance, James, we’ll never get another shot at him.’

He dropped the pistol on to the bed. ‘Oh yes we will.’ He gave her a brief outline of what had happened on the previous night, and through until morning. ‘I’ve no other option but to believe you, Pam. So what we’re going to do is finish Kwang’s job for him. Kwang told me, come to that I heard it all through the Jabberwocky anyway, that Sanchez is taking the orientals on a guided tour of his laboratories. I intend to be there. But we have one little problem. My old shipmate Krest is arriving tonight in
Wavekrest.
Sanchez is going to want his money, and we’ve still got some of it left. Also, I’ve rather put the boot in. I think Sanchez is ninety-nine per cent convinced that Krest’s been double-crossing him. To begin with, we have to convince him. Make it a one hundred per cent certainty.’

He opened the door. Q sat in one of the deep chairs, his face bleak with worry.

‘You still got that chauffeur’s uniform, Q?’

‘Yes.’ A sudden new light in his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Sorry about the rough stuff, but I had to make certain we were all on the same side.’

‘And are we?’

Bond glanced at Pam, her cheeks still streaked with tears, her eyes red and puffy. He gave her his Sunday smile. ‘I think so. Gather round, and I’ll tell you what I think we should do.’

They sat in a conspiratorial huddle, and Bond began, ‘Pam, I know you’re a good pilot in the air, but how would you be on water?’

‘Spectacular.’

‘Ah, well I want you to be spectacularly bad. You see, Sanchez might well control his empire; he might well rule in his organisation, but he doesn’t rule the waves. Anything of size going into his private harbour has to have an official pilot.’

‘You don’t mean . . . ?’

‘I’ll tell you what I mean, then my uncle and I have to go and do one little chore at the bank.’ He went on speaking for the best part of fifteen minutes, then they spent an hour fine-tuning the plan.

Wavekrest
’s lights were plainly visible miles away. Q, Bond and Pam watched them draw closer. They stood together in the wheelhouse of the little pilot boat, discussing how easy it was to bribe officials. ‘Only a couple of thousand for the pilot to turn a blind eye. I can hardly believe it!’ Q had still not got used to the whole way of life in Isthmus. Earlier, his eyes had almost popped out of his head in the bank, when Senor Montolongo, with a philosophical shrug, watched Bond withdraw all the cash.

Now, the money hung in sacks disguised as fenders over the starboard side of the pilot boat.

When they were within hailing distance of
Wavekrest
Bond whispered that it was Pam’s big chance. ‘Get ready, and do your worst.’ He smiled grimly in the darkness.

‘If I do my worst, I’ll still be doing my best.’ She hunched her shoulders in the warm night air.

‘Ahoy there,
Wavekrest!
’ Bond called through the megaphone. ‘Stand by to receive the pilot.’

They got some garbled reply, but, as they came alongside, so a Jacob’s ladder came down from the larger vessel. Pam swarmed up it and mounted the rail to be met by a startled mate. In Spanish she asked to be taken to the bridge.

‘You are the harbour pilot?’ The mate’s voice matched his look of amazement.

‘No,’ Pam grinned at him. ‘No, I’m his secretary.’

The sarcasm was lost on the mate.

Back on the pilot boat, Q and Bond watched the progress, staying close to
Wavekrest
as she entered the harbour.

‘She’s doing very well, really,’ Q said.

They both winced as
Wavekrest
hit a sandbar, going over it with a nasty crunch.

‘
Very
well indeed.’ Bond was stripped to the waist. ‘She’s now got to make that tricky turn towards the main dock. That should be fun. Look, Sanchez, Heller and some of his gentlemen are waiting for Krest.’

‘After what you’ve told me, I’d like to be a fly on the wall when they meet.’ Q was at the wheel and doing better than Pam.

‘I intend to be a fly on the wall, Ouch!’
Wavekrest
came around in a half-circle, smashing an untended dory into matchwood. ‘I rather think she’s going to take that ship right into the dock wall.’

Certainly that was what it looked like from the bridge of
Wavekrest.
‘Senorita, are we not coming in a little fast, and the angle is bad . . .’ the captain began.

Pam looked at him blankly. ‘Okay,’ she shrugged. ‘I’m the pilot, but if you want to do the driving you’d better take the wheel.’

The moment had been timed well, for Pam merely walked away, leaving the captain and navigation officers shouting orders. They struggled to put engines into reverse, but it was too late.
Wavekrest
made it into the side of the dock with a shuddering crunch which made Sanchez smile grimly.

Nobody saw Pam leave the bridge, but everyone heard Krest’s cries of rage, even Bond who was by this time in the stern of the pilot boat, slipping into the water, taking the disguised sacks of money from Q who cut them adrift as Bond gave the order. With the bags around his neck he went deep, heading for the well in
Wavekrest’s
stern where Pam had, by this time, opened the well doors.

She put a hand down and helped Bond up, past
Sentinel
, into the area near the decompression chamber.

‘Well done,’ Bond squeezed her hand. ‘Come on, we won’t have much time. The decompression chamber.’ They lugged the bags of money over to the door, with its thick glass panel, and big lever of a lock, ripping the bags open and letting hundred-dollar bills loose in the chamber. When it was done they closed the door again and looked around for a good hiding place.

Already, above them on deck they could hear Krest greeting Sanchez. ‘I didn’t expect you to come aboard personally.’

‘And I didn’t think you would, but I like surprises. You’ve been having a lot of surprises lately, Milton.’

‘We got some crazy woman harbour pilot . . .’

‘Let’s talk about the money, eh? That’s what I came for. Does he have a safe?’

The last question obviously directed at Lupe, for she answered. ‘In the owner’s stateroom. I show you.’

The conversation died away.

‘Trouble,’ Bond whispered. ‘Better than we hoped for.’ They had found that there was room to hide behind a bank of lockers which gave them seclusion, dark and a good view of the decompression chamber, now almost bloated with cash.

They waited for around fifteen minutes, then there was the sound of doors banging, footsteps and angry words. Sanchez was shouting, ‘Search the whole ship. We know he hasn’t put in anywhere. Either the money’s on board or he’s got it wrapped in plastic at the bottom of the ocean. Search everywhere.’

Krest’s voice was shrill, ‘I swear, Franz. It happened like I said . . .’

‘Oh yeah, and pigs might fly.’ The footsteps overhead seemed to be getting nearer to the companionway, and the voices were more clear. ‘So, let’s go over it again. Make sure I’ve got it right.’ Sanchez’s voice was gritty, laced with a well-honed edge. ‘You say he waterskied behind the plane, then jumped on to it. What is this guy? A circus artist?’

‘No, well, yes. He was kinda dragged into the air. Then, well, like I told you, he threw the pilots out and flew away . . .’

‘Like a bird, flapping his wings, I suppose.’

‘I’m telling you the truth, Franz. He took every cent. Would I make up a story like that? You gotta believe me . . .’

‘I gotta get my money back, Milton. I don’t have to believe anybody. What’s down here?’ They were right above, standing at the top of the companionway ladder.

‘Only the docking well for the probe. For
Sentinel.
Docking area, and the decompression chamber.’

‘Let’s take a little look. Colonel Heller, you organise the search.’

There were four of them: Sanchez, Krest, and the two hoodlums, Perez and Braun, and it took less than a minute for Sanchez to see the money in the decompression chamber. Bond and Pam pressed themselves against the metal bulkhead, glad of the darkness.

‘So what in hell’s this, Milton? A tax shelter?’

Krest gave a cry. A cross between a turkey being strangled and a man with severe digestive trouble. ‘Franz! I swear it! That’s not my money. I’ve never seen it before. I . . .’

‘Too damned right it’s not your money, amigo. It’s
my
money.’ Sanchez’s hand went out to the door lever. The clunk of it opening seemed to echo right through the ship. ‘
My
money. You think I’m that stupid, Krest? I know all about it. The water-skiing, plane-riding expert already gave me the evidence. You rip me off, then plan to use my money to pay a hit team. You have the nerve to put a contract out on
me
?’

They could see everything: the open door to the chamber, Sanchez screaming, holding Krest by the collar as he propelled him towards the chamber.

‘You want the money so much? Okay, Krest, take it!’ With a kick he sent Krest flying into the chamber, slamming the door on him, then looking around.

Pam clung to Bond, and he put his hand up, trying to blot out the picture from her eyes. Already he had a fair idea of what Sanchez meant to do.

They could see Krest’s face through the thick glass, his cries muffled and his banging fists making no impression on anyone. Meanwhile, Sanchez had turned up the pressure valve to maximum: the needle on the big round depth gauge indicated fifty feet.

Sanchez shook his head, like a boxer going in for the kill, then grabbed at a fire axe, smashing the glass around the firefighting equipment to get at it.

Already the depth gauge was showing five hundred feet below sea level and Krest was sprawled against the huge pile of money, fighting for breath.

‘Let’s bring him to the surface! Fast!’ Sanchez shouted, raising the axe and grinding it through the pipe labelled ‘Vent’ running from the chamber to the service area. There was a terrible
whoossssshhhhh!
as the pipe gave way, the pressure dropping in a fraction of a second.

Krest’s eyes bulged, his face contorted and then his head quite simply exploded, as though a balloon filled with blood and offal had been burst. Bond turned away as the horrible mess spattered over the glass, and he put his hand firmly over Pam’s face.

‘Good.’ Sanchez did not seem to show any emotion. ‘Poor old Milton Krest just had a blow-out.’ He moved back towards the ladder.

Perez, in a weak voice, asked what should be done with the money.

‘What d’you think?’ Sanchez snapped. ‘Launder it.’

They heard his feet clumping as he ascended the ladder, then Braun, sounding sick said, ‘Come on. We’ll get some of the boys to clean up the mess.’

‘Now,’ Bond whispered. ‘Don’t look, just follow me into the well.’

Within minutes they were out through the well and open docking doors, swimming gently towards the pilot boat which was moving very slowly away from
Wavekrest.

Stripping off his shirt, James Bond stretched out on the bed, and pulled the sheets over him. By the sound of voices in the corridor he reckoned that he had only just got back in time.

Pam had swum strongly, keeping pace with him, and Q was there, ready to help them on board. He knew now that he had to move quickly. He hurried away below, turning to Q and asking him to get the inflatable ready, and put his gear on board. Five minutes later he came back on deck, dried off and in slacks, shirt and a pair of his favourite moccasins.

‘It’s all ready, James.’ Q, the old devil, sounded almost emotional.

‘I can’t tell you how much you’ve both helped.’ Bond took in a deep breath of night air. ‘Right, we split up now. You, Pam, take my old uncle in the plane. We meet again in Miami when it’s all over.’

‘Shouldn’t we stick together?’ For all her toughness, and the kind of life she had led, Pam had obviously been shaken by the manner of Krest’s death.

‘No. They could well be after me. Particularly if I don’t make it back in time. It’ll be safer if I’m alone.’

Pam tried to protest again, but he stopped her words with a kiss, then was away, over the side, scrambling down the ladder to the bobbing inflatable which contained his briefcase and overnight bag. With a final wave he started the near-silent electric motor and headed the rubber raft towards the shoreline.