Thunderball (11 page)

"Do they eat boiled vegetables for lunch?''

"Yes, and they drink carrot juice and prune juice.''

"We won't get on, then. I won't sink lower than conch chowder.''

She looked at him curiously. "You seem to know a lot about Nassau.''

"You mean about conch being an aphrodisiac? That's not only a Nassau idea. It's all over the world where there are conchs.''

"Is it true?''

"Island people have it on their wedding night. I haven't found it to have any effect on me.''

"Why?'' She looked mischievous. "Are you married?''

"No.'' Bond smiled across into her eyes. "Are you?''

"No.''

Then we might both try some conch soup some time and see what happens.''

"That's only a little better than the millionaires. You'll have to try harder.''

The drinks came. The girl stirred hers with a finger, to mix in the brown sediment of Worcester sauce, and drank half of it. She reached for the carton of Dukes, broke it open, and slit a packet with her thumbnail. She took out a cigarette, sniffed it cautiously, and lit it with Bond's lighter. She inhaled deeply and blew out a long plume of smoke. She said doubtfully, "Not bad. At least the smoke looks like smoke. Why did you say you were such an expert on giving up smoking?''

"Because I've given it up so often.'' Bond thought it time to get away from the small talk. He said, "Why do you talk such good English? Your accent sounds Italian.''

"Yes, my name's Dominetta Vitali. But I was sent to school in England. To the Cheltenham Ladies College. Then I went to RADA to learn acting. The English kind of acting. My parents thought that was a ladylike way to be brought up. Then they were both killed in a train crash. I went back to Italy to earn my living. I remembered my English but''--she laughed without bitterness--"I soon forgot most of the rest. You don't get far in the Italian theater by being able to walk about with a book balanced on your head.''

"But this relative with the yacht.'' Bond looked out to sea. "Wasn't he there to look after you?''

"No.'' The answer was curt. When Bond made no comment she added, "He's not exactly a relative, not a close one. He's a sort of close friend. A guardian.'' "Oh, yes.''

"You must come and visit us on the yacht.'' She felt that a bit of gush was needed. "He's called Largo, Emilio Largo. You've probably heard. He's here on some kind of a treasure hunt.''

"Really?'' Now it was Bond's turn to gush. "That sounds rather fun, Of course I'd like to meet him. What's it all about? Is there anything in it?''

"Heaven knows. He's very secretive about it. Apparently there's some kind of a map. But I'm not allowed to see it and I have to stay ashore when he goes off prospecting or whatever he does. A lot of people have put up money for it, sort of shareholders. They've all just arrived. As we're going in a week or so, I suppose everything's ready and the real hunt's going to start any moment now.''

"What are the shareholders like? Do they seem sensible sort of people? The trouble with most treasure hunts is that either someone's been there before and sneaked off with the treasure or the ship's so deep in the coral you can't get at it.''

"They seem all right. Very dull and rich. Terribly serious for something as romantic as treasure hunting. They seem to spend all their time with Largo. Plotting and planning, I suppose. And they never seem to go out in the sun or go bathing or anything. It's as if they didn't want to get sunburned. As far as I can gather, none of them have ever been in the tropics before. Just a typical bunch of stuffy businessmen. They're probably better than that. I haven't seen much of them. Largo's giving a party for them at the Casino tonight.''

"What do you do all day?''

"Oh, I fool around. Do a bit of shopping for the yacht. Drive around in the car. Bathe on other people's beaches when their houses are empty. I like underwater swimming. I've got an aqualung and I take one of the crew out or a fisherman. The crew are better. They all do it.''

"I used to do it a bit. I've brought my gear. Will you show me some good bits of reef sometime?''

The girl looked pointedly at her watch. "I might do. It's time I went.'' She got up. "Thanks for the drink. I'm afraid I can't take you back. I'm going the other way. They'll get you a taxi here.'' She shuffled her feet into her sandals.

Bond followed the girl through the restaurant to her car. She got in and pressed the starter. Bond decided to risk another snub. He said, "Perhaps I'll see you at the Casino tonight, Dominetta.''

"Praps.'' She put the car pointedly into gear. She took another look at him. She decided that she did want to see him again. She said, "But for God's sake don't call me Dominetta. I'm never called that. People call me Domino.'' She gave him a brief smile, but it was a smile into the eyes. She raised a hand. The rear wheels spat sand and gravel and the little blue car whirled out along the driveway to the main road. It paused at the intersection and then, as Bond watched, turned righthanded toward Nassau.

Bond smiled. He said, "Bitch,'' and walked back into the restaurant to pay his bill and have a taxi called.

12.

The Man from the C.I.A.

The taxi took Bond out to the airport at the other end of the island by the Interfield Road. The man from the Central Intelligence Agency Was due in by Pan American at one-fifteen. His name was Larkin, F. Larkin. Bond hoped he wouldn't be a muscle-bound ex-college man With a crew-cut and a desire to show up the incompetence of the British, the backwardness of their little Colony, and the clumsy ineptitude of Bond, in order to gain credit with his chief in Washington. Bond hoped that at any rate he would bring the equipment he had asked for before he left London through Section A, who looked after the liaison with C.I.A. This was the latest transmitter and receiver for agents in the field, so that the two of them could be independent of cable offices, and have instant communication with London and Washington, and the most modern portable Geiger counters for operating both on land and under water. One of the chief virtues of C.I.A., in Bond's estimation, was the excellence of their equipment, and he had no false pride about borrowing from them.

New Providence, the island containing Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, is a drab sandy slab of land fringed with some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. But the interior is nothing but a waste of low-lying scrub, casuarinas, mastic, and poison-wood with a large brackish lake at the western end. There are birds and tropical flowers and palm trees, imported fully grown from Florida, in the beautiful gardens of the millionaires round the coast, but in the middle of the island there is nothing to attract the eye but the skeleton fingers of spidery windmill pumps sticking up above the pine barrens, and Bond spent the ride to the airport reviewing the morning.

He had arrived at seven a.m. to be met by the Governor's A.D.C. – -a mild error of security--and taken to the Royal Bahamian, a large old-fashioned hotel to which had recently been applied a thin veneer of American efficiency and tourist gimmicks--ice water in his room, a Cellophane-wrapped basket of dingy fruit "with the compliments of the Manager,'' and a strip of "sanitized'' paper across the lavatory seat. After a shower and a tepid, touristy breakfast on his balcony overlooking the beautiful beach, he had gone up to Government House at nine o'clock for a meeting with the Commissioner of Police, the Chief of Immigration and Customs, and the Deputy Governor. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be. The MOST IMMEDIATES and the TOP SECRETS had made a superficial impact and he was promised full cooperation in every aspect of his assignment, but the whole business was clearly put down as a ridiculous flap and something that must not be allowed to interfere with the normal routine of running a small, sleepy colony, nor with the comfort and happiness of the tourists. Roddick, the Deputy Governor, careful, middle-of-the-way man with a ginger mustache and gleaming pince-nez, had put the whole affair in a most sensible light. "You see, Commander Bond, in our opinion--and we have most carefully debated all the possibilities, all the, er, angles, as our American friends would say--it is inconceivable that a large four-engined plane could have been hidden anywhere within the confines of the Colony. The only airstrip cable of taking such a plane--am I right, Harling?-- is here in Nassau. So far as a landing on the sea is concerned, a, er, ditching I think they call it, we have been in radio contact with the Administrators on all the larger outer islands and the replies are all negative. The radar people at the meteorological station…''

Bond had interrupted at this point. "Might I ask if the radar screen is manned round the clock? My impression is that the airport is very busy during the day, but that there is very little traffic at night. Would it be possible that the radar is not so closely watched at night?''

The Commissioner of Police, a pleasant, very military-looking man in his forties, the silver buttons and insignia on whose dark blue uniform glittered as they can only when spit and polish is a main activity and there are plenty of batmen around, said judiciously, "I think the Commander has a point there, sir. The airport commandant admits that things do slacken off a bit when there's nothing scheduled. He hasn't got all that amount of staff and of course most of them are locals, sir. Good men, but hardly up to London Airport standards. And the radar at the met. station is only a G.C.A. set with a low horizon and range--mostly used for shipping.''

"Quite, quite.'' The Deputy Governor didn't want to be dragged into a discussion about radar sets or the merits of Nassavian labor. "There's certainly a point there. No doubt Commander Bond will be making his own inquiries. Now there was a request from the Secretary of State''--the title rolled sonorously forth--"for details and comments on recent arrivals in the island, suspicious characters, and so forth. Mr. Pitman?''

The Chief of Immigration and Customs was a sleek Nassavian with quick brown eyes and an ingratiating manner. He smiled pleasantly. Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The usual mixture of tourists and businessmen and local people coming home. We were asked to have details for the past two weeks, sir.'' He touched the brief case on his lap. "I have all the immigration forms here, sir. Perhaps Commander Bond would care to go through them with me.'' The brown eyes flicked toward Bond and away. "All the big hotels have house detectives. I could probably get him further details on any particular name. All Passports were checked in the normal manner. There were no irregularities and none of these people was on our Wanted List.''

Bond said, "Might I ask a question?''

The Deputy Governor nodded enthusiastically. "Of course. Of course. Anything you like. We're all here to help.''

"I'm looking for a group of men. Probably ten or more. They probably stick together a good deal. Might be as many as twenty or thirty. I guess they would be Europeans. They probably have a ship or a plane. They may have been here for months or only a few days. I gather you have plenty of conventions coming to Nassau--salesmen, tourist associations, religious groups, heaven knows what all. Apparently they take a block of rooms in some hotel and hold meetings and so forth for a week or so. Is there anything like that going on at the moment?''

"Mr. Pitman?''

"Well, of course we do have plenty of those sort of gatherings. Very welcome to the Tourist Board.'' The Chief of Immigration smiled conspiratorially at Bond as if he had just given away a closely guarded secret. "But in the last two weeks we've only had a Moral Rearmament Group at the Emerald Wave and the Tiptop Biscuit people at the Royal Bahamian. They've gone now. Quite the usual convention pattern. All very respectable.''

"That's just it, Mr. Pitman. The people I'm looking for, the people who may have arranged to steal this plane, will certainly take pains to look respectable and behave in a respectable fashion. We're not looking for a bunch of flashy crooks. We think these must be very big people indeed. Now, is there anything like that on the island, a group of people like that?''

"Well''--the Chief of Immigration smiled broadly--"of course we've got our annual treasure hunt going on.''

The Deputy Governor barked a quick, deprecating laugh. "Now, steady on, Mr. Pitman. Surely we don't want them to get mixed up in all this, or heaven knows where we shall end. I can't believe Commander Bond wants to bother his head over a lot of rich beachcombers.''

The Commissioner of Police said doubtfully, "The only thing is, sir--they do have a yacht, and a small plane for the matter of that. And I did hear that a lot of shareholders in the swindle had come in lately. Those points do tally with what the Commander was asking about. I admit it's ridiculous, but this man Largo's respectable enough for Commander Bond's requirements and his men have never once given us trouble. Unusual to have not even one case of drunkenness in a ship's crew in nearly six months.''

And Bond had leaped at the flimsy thread and had pursued it for another two hours-- in the Customs building and in the Commissioner's office-- and, as a result, he had gone walking in the town to see if he could get a look at Largo or any of his party or pick up any other shreds of gossip. As a result he had got a good look at Domino Vitali.

And now?

The taxi had arrived at the airport. Bond told the driver to wait and walked into the long low entrance hall just as the arrival of Larkin's flight was being announced over the Tannoy. He knew there would be the usual delay for customs and immigration. He went to the souvenir shop and bought a copy of the New York Times. In its usual discreet headlines it was still leading with the loss of the Vindicator. Perhaps it knew also about the loss of the atom bombs, because Arthur Krock, on the editorial page, had a heavyweight column about the security aspects of the NATO alliance. Bond was halfway through this when a quiet voice in his ear said, "007? Meet No. 000.''

Bond swung round. It was! It was Felix Leiter!

Leiter, his C.I.A. companion on some of the most thrilling cases in Bond's career, grinned and thrust the steel hook that was his right hand under Bond's arm. "Take it easy, friend. Dick Tracy will tell all when we get out of here. Bags are out front. Let's go.''

Bond said, "Well God damn it! You old so-and-so! Did you know it was going to be me?''

"Sure. C.I.A. knows all.''

At the entrance Leiter had his luggage, which was considerable, put aboard Bond's taxi, and told the driver to take it to the Royal Bahamian. A man standing beside an undistinguished-looking black Ford Consul sedan left the car and came up. "Mr. Larkin? I'm from the Hertz company. This is the car you ordered. We hope she's what you want. You did specify something conventional.''

Leiter glanced casually at the car. "Looks all right. I just want a car that'll go. None of those ritzy jobs with only room for a small blonde with a sponge bag. I'm here to do property work-- not jazz it up.

"May I see your New York license, sir? Right. Then if you'll just sign here… and I'll make a note of the number of your Diner's Club card. When you go, leave the car anywhere you like and just notify us. We'll collect it. Have a good holiday, sir.''

They got into the car. Bond took the wheel. Leiter said that he'd have to practice a bit on what he called "this Limey southpaw routine'' of driving on the left, and anyway he'd be interested to see if Bond had improved his cornering since their last drive together.

When they were out of the airport Bond said, "Now go ahead and tell. Last time we met you were with Pinkertons. What's the score?''

"Drafted. Just damned well drafted. Hell, anyone would think there was a war on. You see, James, once you've worked for C.I.A., you're automatically put on the reserve of officers when you leave. Unless you've been cashiered for not eating the code book under fire or something. And apparently my old Chief, Alien Dulles that is, just didn't have the men to go round when the President sounded the fire alarm. So I and twenty or so other guys were just pulled in--drop everything, twenty-four hours to report. Hell! I thought the Russians had landed! And then they tell me the score and to pack my bathing trunks and my spade and bucket and come on down to Nassau. So of course I griped like hell. Asked them if I shouldn't brush up on my Canasta game and take some quick lessons in the cha-cha. So then they unbuttoned and told me I was to team up with you down here and I thought maybe if that old bastard of yours, N or M or whatever you call him, had sent you down here with your old equalizer, there might be something cooking in the pot after all. So I picked up the gear you'd asked for from Admin., packed the bow and arrows instead of the spade and bucket, and here I am. And that's that. Now you tell, you old sonofabitch. Hell, it's good to see you.''

Bond took Leiter through the whole story, point by point from the moment he had been summoned to M's office the morning before. When he came to the shooting outside his headquarters, Leiter stopped him.

"Now what do you make of that, James? In my book that's a pretty funny coincidence. Have you been fooling around with anybody's wife lately? Sounds more like around the Loop in Chicago than a mile or so from Piccadilly.''

Bond said seriously, "It makes no sense to me, and none to anyone else. The only man who might have had it in for me, recently that is, is a crazy bastard I met down at a sort of clinic place I had to go to on some blasted medical grounds.'' Bond, to Leiter's keen pleasure, rather sheepishly gave details of his "cure'' at Shrublands. "I bowled this man out as a member of a Chinese Tong, one of their secret societies, the Red Lightning Tong. He must have heard me getting the gen on his outfit from Records--on an open line from a call box in the place. Next thing, he damned near managed to murder me. Just for a lark, and to get even, I did my best to roast him alive.'' Bond gave the details. "Nice quiet place, Shrublands. You'd be surprised how carrot juice seems to affect people.'' "Where was this lunatic asylum?''

"Place called Washington. Modest little place compared with yours. Not far from Brighton.''

"And the letter was posted from Brighton.'' "That's the hell of a long shot.''

"I'll try another. One of the points our chaps brought up was that if a plane was to be stolen at night and landed at night, a full moon would be the hell of an aid to the job. But the plane was taken five days after the full. Just supposing your roast chicken was the letter-sender. And supposing the roasting forced him to delay sending the letter while he recovered. His employers would be pretty angry. Yes?''

"I suppose so.''

"And supposing they gave orders for him to be rubbed for inefficiency. And supposing the killer got to him just as he got to you to settle his private account. From what you tell me he wouldn't have lain down under what you did to him. Well, now. Just supposing all that. It adds up, doesn't it?''

Bond laughed, partly in admiration. "You've been taking mescalin or something. It's a damned good sequence for a comic strip, but these things don't happen in real life.''

"Planes with atom bombs don't get stolen in real life. Except that they do. You're slowing down, James. How many people would believe the files on some of the cases you and I have got mixed up in? Don't give me that crap about real life. There ain't no such animal.''