Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (3 page)

The latter action was only to allow Bond to get back inside the helicopter to the jubilant trio of Leiter, Hawkins and Mullins.

Once he was through the door, they let the line out a little so that, when they returned to the coastguard helipad, on the north-west side of the town, they could dump the plane softly on to the tarmac.

When they did arrive back, people poured out of hotels and shops to watch this strange sight of a light aircraft swinging, suspended under the helicopter.

People drinking in Sloppy Joe’s and Captain Tony’s came out on to the sidewalks; folks who had been patiently waiting in church for the wedding, stampeded for the door as the news passed through St Paul’s like a brush fire; the good ol’ boys sitting around Garrison Bight, and the smart young people around the modern Marina could hardly believe their eyes.

‘Airplane wreck, I guess,’ said one of the good ol’ boys.

‘If’n God had meant us to fly he’d’ve given us jet engines ’stead of assholes,’ another good ol’ boy spat accurately into the gutter.

Outside St Paul’s church, Sharky pleaded with the beautiful Ms Della Churchill who had, only minutes before, called the whole wedding off.

‘They’re here, Della. Just twice more around the block and they’ll be sitting up front there, with the preacher ready to go.’

Della took a deep breath, then relented. ‘Okay, only twice more though.’

Sharky leapt into the Bentley telling the driver to go like hell. Over his shoulder he shouted back at Della, ‘Twice more. Slowly, though. Very slowly.’

As it was, the future Mrs Leiter went around four more times at a crawl. Only then were Felix Leiter and his best man, James Bond, in place, their white roses pinned correctly, though their morning clothes looked decidedly the worse for wear.

So, almost three hours late, the strains of the bridal chorus from
Lohengrin
piped out and Della, an irritated glint in her eyes behind the veil, came beautifully down the aisle to go through the wedding ceremony at last.

‘Well, they got me to the church, almost on time,’ Felix said later on their way back to his delightful gingerbread house which had cost him a fortune, his entire CIA kiss-off money together with accrued interest.

2

UNWANTED GUESTS

James Bond found himself a quiet corner in the main room of Felix Leiter’s house, nursing a glass of champagne, running his eyes over the guests, looking for what he thought of as ‘likely winners’. He had spotted one earlier, outside the church. A tall and striking brunette dressed in a crisp pink suit. Yet, somehow the suit was not right, as though the girl preferred to slouch about in jeans and a T-shirt. It was only a quick impression that Bond could never have explained, but, as lovely as she was, the girl seemed out of place and, in his constant inquisitive hunt for the secret of women, he was anxious to talk with her.

His eyes searched the room, but the girl was missing so he began to review possible second choices. It was not as though he had all the time in the world, for he was already late on site for an assignment M, his chief, had authorised a week ago.

Around him the wedding party shrieked, laughed, babbled and appeared to be going true to form. He wandered over to the buffet where white-coated waiters assisted in dispensing plates of jumbo prawns, accompanied by the usual hot red sauce; salmon, both cold and smoked, and a great assortment of salads. Bond saw there were puddings also and eyed the local Key Lime pie which, if not a gourmet dish, he always found cleared the palate wonderfully.

Two girls, talking animatedly about diets and what they dared eat, stood together on his left, so Bond quietly intruded with a remark about the millions of calories that lay in front of them. They seemed happy enough after he had introduced himself and they, in turn, announced themselves to be Lizzie Owen, a short, bubbly and attractive young woman who turned out to be an artist, and a shy blonde who simply gave her name as Pat. Bond marked the latter as possibly his best chance for the evening and began the tedious business of small-talk, leading gently to more serious matters. Half an hour later he had discovered that Pat had come to Key West for a week, en route for Australia. That had been nine years ago.

‘Some people regard this place as the really tacky end of Florida,’ she told him. ‘But it has a strange sense of unreality. It’s a place of escape. Mind you, I really don’t know how people like Hemingway ever managed to get any creative work done here.’

Bond was about to make some light remark about Key West being different in Hemingway’s time, when he saw Della, looking radiant and very happy, heading in his direction. As she approached she raised her right hand displaying a long and lethal cake knife.

‘James!’

Bond thought he had rarely seen her so happy. He put his hands up in mock surrender, looking at the knife. ‘Take whatever you want. Just don’t do your Anthony Perkins imitation.’

She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him hard on the lips.

‘Hey, hey. You’re a happily married woman now.’

‘Just claiming my rights. Bride gets to kiss the best man.’ She was the tiniest bit tipsy.

Bond held her away from him, his arms resting on her shoulders. ‘I thought it was the other way around; but no matter. Anything goes.’

‘It certainly does.’ She brandished the knife. ‘It’s time to cut the cake, but where’s the groom? I’ll tell you where the groom is; he’s closeted in his study, and with another woman.’

‘The cad. Want me to get him?’

‘Seriously, James, could you? We really should cut the cake.’

‘Anything for a lady, especially if she’s got a knife.’ He told Lizzie and Pat not to go away, quietly took the cake knife from Della, then went up the stairs to Felix’s study. Reaching the door he tapped and walked straight in.

Felix was sitting at his desk in the centre of the room, operating his computer. Next to him, leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen, was the delightful brunette he had seen outside the church.

They both looked up in surprise, but neither showed any sign of guilt.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had . . .’ Bond began.

‘Come on in, James, we’re almost finished.’ He turned to the girl and handed her a sealed envelope. ‘There you go, Pam.’ Then, turning to Bond, ‘James, meet Pam.’

Pam gave him an almost curt, utterly disinterested, nod. She touched Leiter on the shoulder and said, ‘Goodbye, then, Felix. See you around.’ She went to the door without another look at Bond who gave his old friend a quizzical look.

Leiter smiled, ‘Strictly in the line of duty, James. Nice girl but business only.’

‘Business or not, you’ve got a house full of guests and they’re waiting to cut the cake and make lame speeches with slightly risqué jokes. In other words, Della’s on the warpath and sent me to get you.’

Leiter turned to his computer and performed one keystroke. ‘Okay, let me just save this and I’ll be ready to face anyone. Take a seat, I’m afraid the DEA never sleeps and they want a full report yesterday.’

Bond sat, knowing that, even on a wedding day, people like Felix – and himself come to that – had to put their jobs and duty first. Leiter was still talking, ‘I’ve a great deal to thank you for my old friend. Without you, we wouldn’t have got Sanchez. I think I told you he hasn’t been out of his home base in a long time.’

Bond grunted. ‘You couldn’t extradite him from Central America?’

Leiter shook his head. ‘No way. That guy’s intimidated, killed, or bribed most of the government officials from here to Chile. Down there, they have only one law – Sanchez’s law,
Plomo o Plata
.’

‘Lead or silver,’ Bond quietly translated.

‘Right.’ Leiter closed down his computer and was about to get up when the door burst open and a tough-looking, grey-haired man came barging in, a big cigar clamped between his teeth.

‘Ed!’ Leiter greeted the newcomer with surprised delight. ‘James, meet Ed Killifer, our senior agent down here.’

Killifer seemed to have hardly heard the introduction for he spoke directly to Felix, ‘Double congratulations, old buddy. Great job you did. Now, just you take your time over the honeymoon.’ Then he turned to Bond. ‘Guess you must be James Bond, the guy who went along for the ride?’

Bond made a modest gesture.

‘Some ride, uh? A great job. Don’t know how to thank you, James.’

‘Give the credit to Felix. Between the three of us I’d rather have my name left out of this.’ He warmed to Killifer, mentally summing him up as one of those hardworking, dedicated, salt-of-the earth agents. A fast disappearing breed from most intelligence, security and drug enforcement organisations.

‘You’ll never credit what that bastard did when we started to interrogate him.’

‘I’d believe anything of Sanchez.’ Felix’s smile had disappeared.

‘The son-of-a-bitch actually said he’d never come to trial. That he had too many people in his pocket. I told him he was facing at least a hundred and thirty-nine felony counts, and none of his famous million-dollar bribes would get him out of this. You know what he said? Two million’s what he said. Cool as an iced beer. Hawkins looked like his socks had been blown off. That scumbag was offering
us
two million US.’

Bond frowned as Killifer continued, ‘I told him. “None of your filthy money’s gonna get you out of this one, Sanchez. You’re hooked.” ’ Turning to Bond, ‘Hooked! Good huh? I told him straight that he wasn’t in some banana republic now. He just looked at me. Funny kinda look he has. Then he said, “Very righteous, Mr Killifer, but I think I’ll be home very soon.” Some hope. They’ve got a cell set up for him in the high-security block at Quantico and they’re gonna ring the place with Marines. No way is he gonna get out.’

‘Come on, Ed, come and have a drink. We’re just going to cut the cake.’ Leiter was now standing.

‘No, sorry, pal, but I just came over to kiss the bride and wish you luck. I’m still on duty, we’re leaving in half an hour. Everything’s set to take
Mr
Sanchez to Quantico. We go all the way to Virginia, and I won’t rest till I’ve handed him over.’ He thrust out his hand to Leiter, pumping his arm as though trying to dislodge it from its socket. ‘See you around, buddy, and you take care of that bride.’ He turned and gave Bond a firm, dry handshake. ‘Nice to have met you, Bond. Hope there’ll be another time. See you around, okay?’ He gave an expansive wave with his right hand, the big cigar tucked between his fingers, and left the room.

‘One of the best men in the business.’ Leiter slid out the 3·5 disk and tapped it with his forefinger. ‘First rule when you’re working with micros. Always keep a backup safely stored away. You never know. If something happens, you lose all the data.’ He then tucked it away behind a framed photograph of Della which stood next to a nice little plaster repro of one of the soldiers from the famous Qin Shiuang’s terracotta army. He took the cake knife from Bond. ‘Let’s face the music. Della should be just about ready to kill me.’ At the door he stopped placing the gloved false hand on Bond’s arm. ‘I don’t have to tell you how grateful I am – for everything.’

‘What are friends for?’ Bond asked, realising that he really wanted to quiz Felix about the lovely young dark-haired beauty who had been in the study, but holding his tongue. He would look for her later, and maybe . . . Well, who knew?

At the Drug Enforcement Agency headquarters across the Key, they were ready to move Sanchez out for the journey to Quantico, and they were taking no chances. An armoured van stood near the doors, and the prisoner, looking quite unconcerned, was led from the building in chains which ran from his wrists to his ankles, which were also shackled with just enough chain to allow him an undignified shuffle. He was flanked by a pair of marshals, each armed with a shotgun, while another two marshals’ cars stood by. On the helipad a police chopper stood, its rotors at idle.

Ed Killifer, having made his appearance at the wedding reception, brought his car to a halt in his marked parking slot, got out and walked over to Sanchez and the marshals, the eternal cigar clamped between his lips. He smiled grimly at Sanchez. ‘All ready for the joyride?’

‘They didn’t even give me time to pack an overnight case.’ Sanchez was infuriatingly confident.

‘Where you’re going, you’ll need a couple of million night cases.’ Killifer was near to sneering. ‘Okay boys, let’s hit the road.’

They helped Sanchez into the back of the armoured van where other chains were padlocked to steel rings on either side of the uncomfortable bench which ran along one wall of the van. With a nod, Killifer slammed the doors and one of the marshals inside pulled the locking mechanism.

‘Have to be a Houdini to get out of that,’ Killifer muttered as he walked to the front of the van, picked up a shotgun and climbed in next to the driver. ‘Okay,’ he shouted boisterously. ‘Wagons Ho!’

Slowly the convoy pulled away, a marshal’s car in front of the armoured van, another behind, and the police helicopter patrolling the sky overhead.

Once on Route One, they picked up speed: everyone, from the police in the chopper to Killifer beside the armoured van driver alert, and ready for anything.

About a mile out of Key West, on a small stretch of bridge, the lead car signalled the convoy to slow down. Ahead a sign read ‘Caution! Bridge Under Repair.’ A section of the metal guard-rail on the right had been removed and coned off to mark a stretch of temporary wooden fencing.

The police, high above, watched the first marshal’s car pass the spot, but, as the armoured van came abreast of the coned wooden fence, so the van suddenly seemed to speed up and slew sideways.

The bonnet hit the fence which shattered under impact. For a second the van appeared to leap outwards and hang in space. Then, as though in slow motion, it dipped and plunged into the muddy water below.

Both the marshals’ cars screamed to a halt and the chopper descended, turning low over the spot where the van had hit the water. The air was full of the crackle of radios calling for special backup.