Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (7 page)

Bond walked a few paces. ‘Can we leave in an hour or so? I’ve got to try and do my little bit of work, then pick up a few things.’

‘Why not? I’ll be ready and waiting, at the Charter Boat Dock.’

‘About an hour then.’ Bond turned away abruptly, quickly putting distance between Sharky and himself. His first priority was Felix Leiter’s house.

He had done nothing but lie on his bed in the Pier House all day, calling room service for food. The telephone rang twice, but he did not pick up, except to make one call out, to the hospital. Felix was doing well, they told him. The rest of his time was spent thinking: trying to work out the next move. His conscience pricked, knowing that he should really be elsewhere on business for London. But Felix Leiter was a good friend – a man who had saved his life many times over.

When he had eventually left the hotel, to keep his appointment with Sharky, Bond had done what was known in the trade as a ‘round-the-houses’, or ‘dry cleaning’ – in plain language watching his own back, checking that he was not under any surveillance.

On his devious way to Mallory Square he picked up no indicators, yet there was this odd intuition that he was, in fact, being watched. In the end he doubled back to the hotel shop and loitered there for a few minutes. Still no result, so he set out again, and was forced to dodge a conch train as he crossed the road. Conch trains ply the whole street system of Key West all day – motorised vehicles made to look like engines, drawing a series of coaches filled with rubber-necking tourists. It was a good and colourful way of seeing the sights.

Now, having left Sharky, Bond again got the familiar feeling that somebody was on his back. This, he thought, could turn out to be a time-waster. He had an hour to get over to Sharky’s fishing boat and he wanted to fit in the clandestine visit to Felix’s house before then if possible.

He turned into Duval and was aware of someone coming up fast behind him. His muscles tightened as he prepared himself for anything, slipping the button on his lightweight jacket to be sure he could get at his automatic, now oiled, cleaned and resting in a shoulder holster.

‘Hi, James Bond. Got time for a word?’ It was Hawkins, Leiter’s former partner, now walking beside him, just a shade too close, as though he was leading a blind man.

‘Sure, but I haven’t got long.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Hawkins smiled.

‘Okay. What do we talk about? Felix?’

‘Something connected.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well . . .’ Hawkins was taking his time. ‘I’d best tell you. The local cops got an anonymous tip first thing this morning – very early. Some old guy called in to say he had heard shots.’

‘So?’

‘So, he
had
heard shots. The cops turned up five-hundred keys of Columbian pure in the warehouse.’

‘Cottage industry around here, isn’t it?’

‘Maybe. But they also put their hands on a pair of stiffs, and some pieces of what used to be Ed Killifer.’

‘I’m sorry about that.’

‘It just so happens that the warehouse is owned by a company belonging to a Mr Milton Krest, who, in turn, is a very close friend of Sanchez. I’ve no need to tell you that Sanchez is still missing, and so is the ignoble Mr Krest.’

‘Looks like someone’s on the job, then.’

‘I just hope it isn’t you, James.’

‘Never heard of this fellow Krest. Don’t know any warehouses.’

‘I wonder. We know you came into the Charter Boat Dock, in a dinghy, with Leiter’s friend Sharky. The information indicates you could have just made it from that warehouse if Sharky rowed fast enough.’

Bond smiled pleasantly. ‘Mr Hawkins, you’ve a vivid imagination. Why don’t you ask Sharky?’

‘Oh, they’re going to – the cops, I mean. You see, the DA’s tearing his hair out and yelling blue murder. He wants the truth, and fast. We’ve got laws in this country, you know.’

With a sigh, Bond realised he would have to get over to the Charter Boat Dock as quickly as possible. Leiter’s house could wait.

‘Laws,’ repeated Hawkins.

‘You got a law against what they did to Felix?’

They walked on in silence for a few minutes, Bond trying to think of a way to dodge Hawkins, and Hawkins obviously becoming more and more tense. Finally, Hawkins turned and stopped directly in front of Bond, his voice now harsh and completely unsympathetic. ‘Look, Mr Bond, you’re in over your head. This is where it ends as far as you’re concerned.’

Bond cursed himself. He had been so intent on trying to get away from Hawkins that he had not even noticed the appearance of anyone else. Now he was flanked by two young, and very fit, men. They were dressed in lightweight suits: one grey and the other blue. Bond thought he vaguely recognised the one in the grey suit.

Bond looked at each in turn, and then at Hawkins. He was blocked in, unless he did something violent, not a good idea in streets that were already filling up with cars and people making their way on foot to the many good restaurants in the area.

He looked up and realised where he was. A gate which led into a pleasantly laid-out garden, and behind this a house, with a balcony surrounding the whole of the second floor. There was a bust of Ernest Hemingway above the gate, and a sign which said ‘Historical Monument, Hemingway House. CLOSED’. So, he was at the famous place. On his previous visit to Key West he had planned to visit this house where Ernest Hemingway had lived from the early thirties until 1961, and where he wrote
For Whom the Bell Tolls, Green Hills of Africa
, and
The Snows of Kilimanjaro
, among many others. Someone had once told him that the Hemingway house had the saddest atmosphere he had ever encountered in any home.

‘Take no notice of the sign, sir. Just go straight in.’ The one in the grey suit was firm-voiced, and Bond now knew where he had seen him before. He even remembered the man’s name. The accent was very English.

He nodded and walked inside the garden, the newcomers flanking him, directing him around to the right. There were cats everywhere. Hemingway had loved cats and had some hybrid variety with extra toes.

They led him past the swimming pool, where Hemingway had thrown down his last quarter into the wet cement, saying that was all he had left. They had left the quarter for all to see – though the infant son of an English author had secretly prised out the quarter on a visit. It turned out to have been minted in 1970.

Very gently, the pair of bodyguards – for that is what they were – led Bond up the flight of steps taking them up to the veranda. Even on this structure, Bond could feel the sorrow. Someone had been very unhappy here. He hoped he was not about to join in with the sense of despair which permeated the place.

His guards shouldered him to that part of the veranda which looked out on to the street – Whitehead Street. The man who stood there had not been so positioned when they entered the garden, but he was certainly there now, his back immediately recognisable.

From somewhere, maybe the church where Felix and Della had so happily married, a bell tolled once. Bond shrugged. He did not believe in omens. ‘Sir?’ he said to the man, who now turned to look at him with cold grey eyes. The two bodyguards seemed to nudge closer to Bond.

‘Well, Commander Bond, what have you got to say for yourself?’ M – the Chief of the Secret Service – asked. He looked furious, and his hands clenched and unclenched as though he was trying to keep his anger in check.

Bond opened his mouth to speak, but M spoke for him. ‘You were supposed to be in Istanbul two days ago. It was important to your Queen, your country and the Service. That’s why I’ve bothered to spend Lord knows how many hours on aircraft, to come to this tacky little showplace. Instead of dealing with matters in Turkey, I understand you took time off to attend a wedding, which ended up in carnage.’

‘It was Leiter, sir. I’ve worked with him before . . .’

‘And are not scheduled to work with him in Istanbul, Bond. I’ve been here for almost a day and heard some most unsavoury things. The local police suspect you of mayhem, if not murder. I know Leiter was a friend, but from where I stand it looks as though the whole business has clouded your judgement. You have a job to do and I want it doing. Now. Got it? I want you on a plane out of here tonight and whatever connections you can make to Istanbul as quickly as possible.’ All this was said with the stabbing of M’s forefinger, the body language for killing.

‘I’m afraid I haven’t quite finished here, sir.’ Bond was not going to be bullied. The Istanbul business, as he knew only too well, had been on and off the boil for months.

‘You are to leave it to the Americans, Bond. It’s their mess. You will let them clear it up.’ M took a pace back. His two bodyguards seemed to have relaxed and were not crowding Bond so closely.

‘With respect, sir, the Americans just won’t do anything.
You
know that Leiter put his life on the line for me many times . . .’

‘Enough sentiment,’ M snapped. ‘He knew the risks he was taking. Just as you always know the risks.’

‘And his wife?’

M made a pshawing sound. ‘Do you not realise the other dangers, man? You’re running a private vendetta, and that could compromise Her Majesty’s government. Now, you have an assignment. I expect you to carry out that assignment objectively and professionally as you have many times before.’

There was a long pause, filled only by a laugh from somewhere out in the street. Then Bond clenched his teeth. This was one of the most difficult decisions he had ever had to make. ‘Then you can have my resignation, sir.’

‘This isn’t some country club, Bond. Nor your London club.’

Bond took a deep breath and waited, staring out his old chief.

‘All right,’ M snapped at last. ‘All right. Your resignation. Effective immediately, your licence within the Service, and all that entails, is revoked. I need hardly remind you that you’re still bound by the Official Secrets Act . . .’

‘As is every British citizen, sir. That’s sometimes forgotten.’

M took no notice. ‘I require your personal weapon now.’ He held out his hand.

After a pause, Bond shrugged and removed his automatic from its holster. ‘I suppose it’s a farewell to arms, then.’ As he said it he felt the bodyguards relax once more. Making as though to hand over the pistol to M, Bond whipped around without warning. The grey-suited man caught the full force of the pistol butt under his chin, while his partner received Bond’s knee in the traditional street-fighter’s target and doubled up with a sharp cry of pain.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Bond shouldered past M, jarring him to one side, and vaulted over the veranda railings. It was a longer drop than he had reckoned, but he rolled and came up, pistol at the ready, making his way to the gate. As he reached it, a conch train passed by. The driver/conductor was saying, ‘And on our right we have the most famous house in Key West, if you don’t count the Aububon House and President Truman’s Little White House . . .’

On the veranda, the bodyguard with a stabbing pain in his groin, had risen, gun out and ready to fire into the garden. M stepped forward and stayed his hand. ‘Too many people – don’t they teach you anything these days?’

From the veranda, M looked out into the night. ‘God help you, Commander Bond,’ he said aloud, and the bodyguard could not tell if it was anger, sorrow or humour on the old man’s face. Then M turned and walked inside. He could not get out of this place quickly enough, for he too had found it deeply depressing.

Through binoculars, at a range of two miles,
Wavekrest
gave the impression of being very much a working ship. She was about 150 feet long, broad in the beam, with a strange overhang on the stern, which also sported a pair of booms, port and starboard. There were small cranes on the booms, and men scurried around. There were obviously divers in the water. Behind the ship, Coy Sol Bay made a beautiful backdrop. A pair of catamarans bobbed nearby, and there were diving flags in the water.

Bond had watched dawn come up as they rode at anchor about six miles from Coy Sol Bay, and shielded from
Wavekrest
by the headland. ‘We don’t want to get there until late morning,’ he had told Sharky. ‘It might look a little odd if they all woke up and just found us sitting watching them.’

‘Like we would have woke up and found the cops sitting on my boat,’ Sharky grinned.

After his leap from the veranda of the Hemingway house, Bond had slipped on to the conch train. It was evening and this was probably the last ride any of the tourists would get. The end two coaches were empty, and Bond rode the short distance back to the train offices then had speedily made his way to Sharky’s boat.

They were a mile out of Key West when the sound of police sirens came floating from the Charter Boat Dock. For an hour or so, both men scanned the night for the blinking lights of a police helicopter, but they had obviously either been called off or called it a day.

Now it was eleven o’clock on a beautiful calm morning. Sharky had dropped nets over the side and Bond lay hidden near the bows, watching
Wavekrest
on binoculars supplied by Sharky.

He scanned the superstructure which did not fit into the rest of the picture of
Wavekrest
as a marine research ship. Certainly they appeared to have all the technology – radar and sonar dishes turned lazily from behind the bridge – but towards the rear there was an incongruous luxury area. He could pick out very smart cabin doors and what could well be a small pool abaft the main superstructure. Bond also spotted something more sinister. Set for’ard, below the bridge, was a long rack of spear-guns. Most of them were fairly standard, top quality and the kind of things carried by scuba divers. But towards the end were another kind altogether, the type that fired small harpoons, often fitted with small explosive charges.

He swept the ship again with the binoculars, and this time caught a flash of something else, a sight which made him swing the glasses back towards the first cabin door for’ard – the one that appeared to have a brass plate on it.

The door had opened, and a pleasant sight emerged. A young, dark girl dressed in a one-piece swimsuit which covered her, both front and back. She carried a towel and beach bag, and walked as though the world was watching her, towards the place where Bond thought he had spotted a pool. He recognised her immediately.