James Bond Anthology (142 page)

M. looked morosely at Bond. ‘See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares’ nest these old women’s societies are always stirring up. People start preserving something – churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds – and there’s always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it’s private land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I’m supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what’s happened to a covey of pink storks.’ M. snorted. ‘Anyway, you asked about Strangways’s last case and that’s it.’ M. leant forward belligerently. ‘Any questions? I’ve got a busy day ahead.’

Bond grinned. He couldn’t help it. M.’s occasional outbursts of rage were so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as any attempt to waste the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to his feet. ‘Perhaps if I could have the file, sir,’ he said placatingly. ‘It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less because of these birds. Perhaps two more did – Strangways and the Trueblood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we’ve got nothing else to go on.’

‘Take it, take it,’ said M. impatiently. ‘And hurry up and get your holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of the world happens to be in a bit of a mess.’

Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his Beretta and the holster. ‘No,’ said M. sharply. ‘Leave that. And mind you’ve got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again.’

Bond looked across into M.’s eyes. For the first time in his life he hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M. was being tough and mean. It was deferred punishment for having nearly got killed on his last job. Plus getting away from this filthy weather into the sunshine. M. couldn’t bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being sent on this cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.

With the anger balling up inside him like cats’ fur, Bond said, ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ and turned and walked out of the room.

4 | RECEPTION COMMITTEE

The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super-Constellation hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.

Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of smallholdings showed on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. ‘Xaymaca’ the Arawak Indians had called it – ‘The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.

The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north–south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.

The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.

Bond’s passport described him as ‘Import and Export Merchant’.

‘What company, sir?’

‘Universal Export.’

‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’

‘Pleasure.’

‘I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’ The negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.

‘Thank you.’

Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years before.

‘Quarrel!’

From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ‘How you, cap’n?’ he called delightedly.

‘I’m fine,’ said Bond. ‘Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?’

‘Sure, cap’n.’

The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew Quarrel, chalked Bond’s bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and looked into the dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of Morgan’s time. ‘You haven’t changed, Quarrel,’ he said affectionately. ‘How’s the turtle fishing?’

‘Not so bad, cap’n, an’ not so good. Much de same as always.’ He looked critically at Bond. ‘Yo been sick, or somepun?’

Bond was surprised. ‘As a matter of fact I have. But I’ve been fit for weeks. What made you say that?’

Quarrel was embarrassed. ‘Sorry, cap’n,’ he said, thinking he might have offended Bond. ‘Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las’ time.’

‘Oh well,’ said Bond. ‘It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of your training. I’m not as fit as I ought to be.’

‘Sho ting, cap’n.’

They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and flash of a press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic charm, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the
Daily Gleaner
.’ She glanced down at a list in her hand. ‘Mister Bond, isn’t it? And how long will you be with us, Mister Bond?’

Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. ‘In transit,’ he said shortly. ‘I think you’ll find there were more interesting people on the plane.’

‘Oh no, I’m sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what hotel will you be staying at?’

Damn, thought Bond. He said ‘Myrtle Bank’ and moved on.

‘Thank you, Mister Bond,’ said the tinkling voice. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy …’

They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said, ‘Ever seen that girl at the airport before?’

Quarrel reflected. ‘Reck’n not, cap’n. But de
Gleaner
have plenty camera gals.’

Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture should be wanted by the Press. It was five years since his last adventures on the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the papers.

They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply at it and then at the number plate. Strangways’s car. What the hell? ‘Where did you get this, Quarrel?’

‘A.D.C. tell me fe to take him, cap’n. Him say hit de only spare car dey have. Why, cap’n? Him no good?’

‘Oh, it’s all right, Quarrel,’ said Bond resignedly. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might have guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it would certainly put the finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone happened to be interested.

They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat and enjoyed the beauty of it all – the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented air, the ceiling of stars, the necklace of yellow lights shimmering across the harbour – but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing what he shouldn’t have done.

What he
had
done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to the Governor. In it he had first asked that the A.D.C. should get Quarrel over from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten pounds a week. Quarrel had been with Bond on his last adventure in Jamaica. He was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman’s qualities of the Cayman Islander, and he was a passport into the lower strata of coloured life which would otherwise be closed to Bond. Everybody loved him and he was a splendid companion. Bond knew that Quarrel was vital if he was to get anywhere on the Strangways case – whether it was a case or just a scandal. Then Bond had asked for a single room and shower at the Blue Hills Hotel, for the loan of a car and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at the airport. Most of this had been wrong. In particular Bond should have taken a taxi to his hotel and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would have seen the car and had a chance to change it.

As it was, reflected Bond, he might just as well have advertised his visit and its purpose in the
Gleaner
. He sighed. It was the mistakes one made at the beginning of a case that were the worst. They were the irretrievable ones, the ones that got you off on the wrong foot, that gave the enemy the first game. But was there an enemy? Wasn’t he being over-cautious? On an impulse Bond turned in his seat. A hundred yards behind were two dim sidelights. Most Jamaicans drive with their headlights full on. Bond turned back. He said, ‘Quarrel. At the end of the Palisadoes, where the left fork goes to Kingston and right to Morant, I want you to turn quickly down the Morant road and stop at once and turn your lights off. Right? And now go like hell.’

‘Okay, cap’n.’ Quarrel’s voice sounded pleased. He put his foot down to the floorboards. The little car gave a deep growl and tore off down the white road.

Now they were at the end of the straight. The car skidded round the curve where the corner of the harbour bit into the land. Another five hundred yards and they would be at the intersection. Bond looked back. There was no sign of the other car. Here was the signpost. Quarrel did a racing change and hurled the car round on a tight lock. He pulled in to the side and dowsed his lights. Bond turned and waited. At once he heard the roar of a big car at speed. Lights blazed on, looking for them. Then the car was past and tearing on towards Kingston. Bond had time to notice that it was a big American type taxicab and that there was no one in it but the driver. Then it was gone.

The dust settled slowly. They sat for ten minutes saying nothing. Then Bond told Quarrel to turn the car and take the Kingston road. He said, ‘I think that car was interested in us, Quarrel. You don’t drive an empty taxi back from the airport. It’s an expensive run. Keep a watch out. He may find we’ve fooled him and be waiting for us.’

‘Sho ting, cap’n,’ said Quarrel happily. This was just the sort of life he had hoped for when he got Bond’s message.

They came into the stream of Kingston traffic – buses, cars, horsedrawn carts, pannier-laden donkeys down from the hills, and the hand-drawn barrows selling violent coloured drinks. In the crush it was impossible to say if they were being followed. They turned off to the right and up towards the hills. There were many cars behind them. Any one of them could have been the American taxi. They drove for a quarter of an hour up to Halfway Tree and then on to the Junction Road, the main road across the island. Soon there was a neon sign of a green palm tree and
underneath ‘Blue Hills. THE hotel’. They drove in and up the drive lined with neatly rounded bushes of bougainvillaea.

A hundred yards higher up the road the black taxi waved the following drivers on and pulled in to the left. It made a U-turn in a break in the traffic and swept back down the hill towards Kingston.

The Blue Hills was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel with modern trimmings. Bond was welcomed with deference because his reservation had been made by King’s House. He was shown to a fine corner room with a balcony looking out over the distant sweep of Kingston harbour. Thankfully he took off his London clothes, now moist with perspiration, and went into the glass-fronted shower and turned the cold water full on and stood under it for five minutes during which he washed his hair to remove the last dirt of big-city life. Then he pulled on a pair of Sea Island cotton shorts and, with sensual pleasure at the warm soft air on his nakedness, unpacked his things and rang for the waiter.

Bond ordered a double gin and tonic and one whole green lime. When the drink came he cut the lime in half, dropped the two squeezed halves into the long glass, almost filled the glass with ice cubes and then poured in the tonic. He took the drink out on to the balcony, and sat and looked out across the spectacular view. He thought how wonderful it was to be away from headquarters, and from London, and from hospitals, and to be here, at this moment, doing what he was doing and knowing, as all his senses told him, that he was on a good tough case again.