COST OF LIVING
James Bond was tired of Barbados. To put it more accurately, he was exhausted, completely drained of passion, like a pale strand of blueish vein after a swarming frenzy of leeches have scoured every last drop of blood from the flesh. The island was slowly sinking its hooked claws into his body, its pretensions towards imperial grandeur a contradictory shambles of comforting nostalgia and gentle mockery. The low pastel rooftops, the afternoon roars of the cricket ground, even the statue of Lord Nelson that peered with haughty condescension at the jumbled smoky traffic; all served the purpose of convincing the visitor that he had discovered a miniature parody of homely English countryside. If not for the sweltering heat and the smatterings of garbled creole that hollered from every doorstep, Bond mused, he might as well have been spending a day in the rolling South Downs.
But, of course, this was no mere jaunt away from the office. The angular bulk of the gun pressed tight against his shoulder under the worsted blue shirt reminded him of that constantly; so did the blade of the commando dagger pressed into the heel of his oxfords; and then there were M's authoritative words as the old man's slate-grey eyes passed over the manila operational file he was handing across the desk: "Shouldn't be taxing, I imagine. This is a cut-and-dry run, understand? In on Friday, out on Sunday. Clear? Good luck out there." Sitting by the harbour and watching a flotilla of fishing boats make for the far bank, Bond damned M's luck with a succession of bitter curses. Much good it had done him so far. He took a long sip from a tall glass of the local mauby, a cool sweet infusion made from tree bark and aniseed, tempered with a medicinal lashing of rum. It was now early evening on the Saturday, the sky flushed a brilliant auburn, and there was nothing to indicate when or even if this supposed drug smuggler, Hargreaves, would be showing his face tonight. According to the borrowed CIA report which Bond had hastily skimmed over on the plane, this backwater was a haven for narcotics shipments. His task was to make contact with this Hargreaves fellow and then, in the euphemistic language favoured by the boys from Washington, "take all steps necessary to ensure target fails to participate further in such illegal activities."
Bond briefly wondered whether it would be possible to take Hargreaves alive. After all, that would technically be fulfilling the instructions he had been given. Yet even as the thought flashed across his mind he dismissed it with a quick impatient snap of anger. London wanted this man dead. So that was how he was going to proceed. There was no alternative; if the Americans had wished to question Duberley they would have gone to the trouble of filing an extradition request. Barbados, for all its faults, was a friendly enough state and its government would have complied like an eager terrier. No, there was not the slightest doubt about the implications of his orders, no room for ambiguity. Like it or not, Bond was here to kill and that was the end of the matter. So why did he feel such crippling malaise, like a black cloud of depressed fury settled watchfully above in the fashion of a wheeling vulture? Get out of it, he told himself. Concentrate. Bond could not understand what was happening. He had been responsible for more deaths than he cared to admit, many more. Yet now he was experiencing pangs of unease at the notion of dispatching a drugs mule, someone responsible for the passage of tonnes of heroin into the Western nations, a constant flow of wretched poison into the hearts and minds of millions of young people. The man deserved punishment, though Bond couldn't shake the feeling that this should come in the form of a prison cell instead of an assassin's bullet, the same ammunition that nestled coldly by his own trembling arm. Then he banished the temptations with a final decisive draught of sugar-tinged rum. Was he going soft? Of course not. If he could no longer carry out the basic requirements the job demanded he wasn't fit for intelligence work, let alone the double-0 section. Bond would prove the treacherous doubts wrong through vanquishing this foe, restoring the Manichean balance to his life that had been absent from months of dull paperwork in the Chelsea flat, rounded out by late nights gambling or conducting empty affairs. No, this evening James Bond had demons to slay. He was looking forward to the challenge.
The sun was drawing in when Bond abandoned the last dregs of rum and thought about striking back towards the Hotel Victoria. He didn't know where Hargreaves was, though at this rate he didn't much care. Bond set his heart on three simple ambitions for the moment: a dinner of grilled swordfish with sweet potato, a bottle of Mouton Rothschild '58, and the key to the presidential suite, all silk sheets and French mirrors. He was just wondering whether to dash off a short telegram reporting his apparent failure when he became aware of a huge bullnecked man looming over the table. "Can I help you?" Bond said politely. "Ya' Mistuh Bond?" the reply was coated in layers of impenetrable Brooklyn sneer, while the small black eyes darted with a start of recognition to the Beretta slung at Bond's elbow. There was no mistake about it; here stood a professional gangster, probably a low-caste Mafioso hoodlum.
"Who wants to know?" Bond tried to match the note of lazy indifference. "My boss, Mister Hargreaves, he tells me to get some Limey up to his house. Ya happen to be the guy?" Bond nodded. "Fine. Ya just follow me, sir, that's okay. I'm Giuliano." Giuliano beckoned to a waiting car, a beaten-up old cream Ford. Bond got in and his new acquaintance started to plot a rickety course around the bustling docks. "Are you Hargreaves' chauffeur?" said Bond. Giuliano shook his head, displaying valleys of swarthy fat around the stubbled chin. "Nossirree. Naw. I'm employed as a confidential secretary, of sorts. Jobsworth. Bodyguard, kinda." Bond pondered the vague evasions, trying to guess the exact line of work a six-foot-four mountain of a New Yorker would be called upon to perform for an infamous purveyor of drugs. Nothing legal, he'd bet. That was when Bond first noticed the jeep, a surplus kharki vehicle that always seemed to be ballooning vastly in the rear-view mirror. "Must be a fascinating man to get to know." Bond cleared his throat. "If I didn't know better, I'd say we were being followed." Giuliano laughed in a tough, hoarse staccato, the manner which detective novelists term a 'guffaw'. "Oh, ya mean the toy soldiers? They're from the local police, if ya ask me. Those half-wits have been trying to build a case against the chief for years. Doesn't help that half the bunch are under Hargreaves' thumb." Bond filed this piece of intelligence away and sat back again, watching the skeletal forest of gunmetal cranes recede as the harbour itself shrank to a dark lump of coal on the horizon.
Eventually Bond noticed that the jeep had vanished. The Ford was now struggling along an unkempt dirt track, mud churning and spitting from the tyres. Then the car rounded a sharp bend and Bond found himself visibly shocked. For Hargreaves was evidently rich-very rich. He was facing a grandly palatial eighteenth-century mansion, a relic of colonial rule framed against the broad swathes of moonlight under which the palm trees stooped and wavered like Atlas carrying the world. "We've arrived." Giuliano said redundantly. The master of this mysterious domain had appeared and was striding forwards to shake Bond's hand. Hargreaves was a seedy-looking Englishman with a weak, scattered film of moustache decorating his top lip, and watery brown eyes that shone with the controlled fervour of an alcoholic. Hargreaves wore a white shirt and beige trousers, while at his waist a Colt. Special revolver drooped from a leather holster, lending a piratical air. Hargreaves did not muster an outstanding first impression, his handshake like grasping at wet towels. Bond could picture him as the sort of incompetent rogue who had failed to progress past the rank of major and left the forces to permanently haunt the gentlemen's establishments and golf courses of Surrey, all public-school ties and entrenched contempt for foreign travel and jet aircraft. "Welcome to my humble abode, Mister…" Hargreaves began. "My name is Bond, James Bond. You know why I am here, I imagine?" Bond was all business. He had no desire to spend a night as this man's guest.
"Of course. You stipulated four kilos of finest black tar product, exact to the letter. But let us take supper first." Hargreaves said with abrupt stiffness, and conducted Bond to a dining room laid for two. The expansive windows faced out onto the road, and beyond that wide strip of gravel lay a haze of perfect yellow sand, dividing land from water. After that was nothing save for the Caribbean, a dark cool shadow dappled by pools of white, like the belly of an orca whale. Hargreaves clicked his fingers and a bald-headed butler, dressed in the pale jacket and bow tie of a steward of the ancient Cuneo Line, brought plates of flying fish steaks, cooked to a searing medium-rare and garnished with buttered root of cassava in a spiced pepper sauce. To drink there was a choice of warm crimson hibiscus tea or Bollinger Grande Annee '60, which was the option Bond selected. The conversation never left the same revolving topics of Hargreaves' exploits, his career, his fantastic accumulation of profits, and his hobbies of choice, fishing and sailing. Only when the antique grandfather clock chimed eleven did Hargreaves put forth a dangerous question. He was standing by the open window with a fluted glass of champagne in one hand and a Havana cigar in the other. Thin mists of sour smoke coiled like a hangman's noose in the air. "Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Bond?"
"I suppose you could say that." Bond said carefully. "The drugs trade in Britain has its advantages, for a skilled connoisseur of the market." Bond tried to read the implacable features, searching for a spark of intellectual curiosity, jealousy, suspicion, an artfully concealed trap. But there was none. "Are you," Hargreaves persisted, "a gentleman of high means?" Bond almost laughed at the old-fashioned codswallop, yet there had to be a deeper subtext to this strange interrogation. "Could you be a little more precise?" Hargreaves paused for a second, collecting his words. "Would you describe yourself as someone possessing in excess of…say, for example, ten million pounds?" His casual manner failed to hide the galloping pace of speech, the voice twisted to a higher octave by sheer exhilarated greed. Bond decided to play along. "You've a rather blunt way about you. But you are essentially right. I am, by all conventional measures, a millionaire." At this the shallow eyes became truly animated for the first time, blazing with keen interest. "Mr. Bond, let us consider two important facts. You have money to spare, and you are familiar with participating at all levels in the structure and activities of a criminal organisation. Now let us move to a supposition. You are bored, that much I can guess. Taking all this into account, would you be interested in donating some of your time-and funds-to a great enterprise, the likes of which the world has never seen before?" Bond was starting to guess what was going on. Hargreaves had taken on the role of recruiting sergeant for an illegal gambling ring, or something similar. "If it's the Salvation Army you want me to join," said Bond, "I'm not interested."
"No, no, Mr. Bond." Hargreaves kept his gaze fixed on the unbroken line of foliage, swaying in the tropical breeze. "You misunderstand. The scheme which I am inviting you to become a part of is a plan masterminded by one of the most cunning and subtle men I have ever met." Bond froze, uncertain of how to react. This conversation had certainly taken an intriguing turn. Hargreaves was just a heroin trafficker, yet he talked now as someone suffering from a serious case of megalomania. Bond remembered that he had been sent to kill his host, and he felt a firm resolve building in his nerves to get the deed over with as soon as he could. "I would definitely be interested in your proposal, Mr. Hargreaves." Bond said, as if they were cheerfully discussing taking out a mortgage instead of what appeared to be some kind of terror plot. " I am sure our leader will welcome your support." Hargreaves was frowning now, gradually picking out the shrill motor of an approaching vehicle. "How many others are involved?" Bond said urgently. "Twelve." The diesel whine was getting stronger. "You're the thirteenth. One more thing to think about, and I do hope you aren't a patriotic sort, is that the British government may well be impacted." Bond was losing a battle to hear the words over the bellowing stutter of acceleration, which ricocheted very close. "What do you mean-" That was as far as Bond got before he became aware that something had drastically changed in the room. The mechanical roaring reached a marching climax, a dull-brown jeep swept past, there was the steady pulverising clatter of rifle fire that always wrenched Bond back to crouching in a filthy dugout trench in the Ardennes, and then he heard a long, low babbling gurgle. Hargreaves took one step away from the shattered windows, his shirt a torn canvas on which a swollen pink crescent was painted. His eyes dwindled rapidly into marbles and he crumpled to the floor.
"Murdered?" repeated an incredulous voice for about the fifth time. Bond paced the cramped office, looming over the policeman. "Yes, that's what I said." Bond spoke wearily. Superintendent Marshall was anonymous, shrunk behind his desk as if hiding from all the world's problems. His hair was flecked with premature grey, while dark grey eyes as cold and hard as bullets studied Bond without emotion. A fan tilted with a loud whirring, mosquitoes buzzing with an eternal whine. A brilliantly coloured purple-and-blue hummingbird flashed past the window and was gone.
Marshall drew the blinds. "I am afraid, based on the account which you have just provided, that we shall have to detain you as a suspect in this case." He said. "You are a foreigner, a stranger to this island, one who openly consorts with drug-dealing lowlifes." Bond remembered what Hargreaves had said about the endemic corruption within the police force. "I am a British agent working to apprehend the larger narcotics producers. I give you my word." The Superintendent avoided Bond's eye uncomfortably. "I think I shall need a more lasting guarantee of your good faith. Something, perhaps, more inherently valuable, yes?" Bond sighed and fished a clasp of dollar bills from his wallet. "This will be more than sufficient." Marshall grinned. He pointed to the door. "You can see yourself out. The Barbados constabulary force has more important tasks than helping lost tourists." Bond said, "What about the murder?" Marshall fell silent, obviously conflicted. At last he made a choice. "Do you truly wish to see it investigated? This dirty affair is none of your business, Englishman." Bond tried to glean whether there was a direct threat contained in the bitter warnings. "You ask whether it is my business. I think it is." Bond said with unambiguous finality, his tone leaving no room for argument. "As you wish. I will assign Inspector Weekes to the case at once." Marshall picked up his desk telephone and delivered a series of instructions in fast jabbering patois.
Bond stepped out into the corridor and used the international telephone in the lobby to place a call directly to Service headquarters in London. A familiar voice came on the line. "James? We were about to send someone after you. Why haven't you reported in?" It was Bill Tanner, the disciplined Chief of Staff who served M's caprices with the loyalty of a gundog. "The old man's in a right blue funk, I can tell you. All sorts of threats being hurled around at our end of things. What happened?" Quickly Bond explained all that had transpired since his encounter with the tough lackey Giuliano by the harbour. "You say the local police have put a detective on to this investigation? Weekes, you say? Well stay by him, James. Stick to that inspector like a limpet. Understand?" Bond nodded and put down the telephone.
Bond returned to Marshall's office to find that a newcomer had joined the gathering. A lean red-haired man, with the rugged trench coat and bulky jutting Smith and Wesson of someone who had been in a fair few scrapes, Alasdair Weekes spoke with a collected authoritative manner, a man in control. "Good afternoon, Mister Bond. Now the Superintendent here tells me you've been stirring up a real hornets' nest around the Hargreaves killing. I've been reading through your witness statements, piecing questions together, and based on what I've learnt about this neighbourhood I think we can put the finger on your gang of murderers with almost total certainty." At this point Marshall opened his mouth to protest, Weekes interjecting sharply. "If you have anything valuable to say, rather than the usual middling bureaucratic pretensions, then let's hear it." A palpable dangerous tension fizzled between the two men as the Superintendent goggled haplessly.
"I thought not." Weekes turned his attention back to Bond. "I happen to know that there is an evil and ruthless leader on this island, a master smuggler and bandit chief. The locals call him Blackbeard, All a bunch of mystic rubbish really, but with a kernel of truth. For this man does exist, and he controls a majority of the drug export lines out of Barbados and into North America. Our unfortunate friend Hargreaves owned a minority stake, perhaps ten per cent or thereabouts. Nevertheless, it was enough for Blackbeard to take more than a passing interest, become greedier by the day and then…" The Inspector trailed off with a scything finger drawn across his throat. "What do we do?" Bond said. Weekes looked at his watch with renewed concentration. "At midnight tonight our intelligence suggests that there will be an outgoing shipment from a hidden cove about three miles up the beach from the town. We, Mister Bond, are going to be there."
"How long have you been out here?" This was from Bond. They were driving a rickety police Land Rover in total darkness along a ragged coastal path. Weekes kept his eyes on the road. "Long enough." He said curtly. "What are we going to do with these people when we catch them?" Bond suspected he already knew, and in grim confirmation Weekes flicked back the layer of tarpaulin in the rear compartment to reveal a stack of old bolt-action Garand rifles. This was more than an act of justice. This was going to be filthy revenge, pure and simple. Bond groped for his Beretta, the full assemblage of eight cartridges present and correct. He was ready.
The Land Rover pulled up alongside a dock at which a rusted fishing trawler was moored. Bond's hackles were raised; this wasn't the picturesque cave of history books but a deadly mechanised operation. "This isn't right." Bond said slowly. "Make another move and you die, Mister Bond." Weekes was pointing his Smith and Wesson into Bond's cheek. "Get out of the car and put your hands above your head." Bond did as he was told. There was silence except for the gently lapping waves and the regular grinding of the boat's engines.
By this point men armed with a mixture of revolvers, spear guns and squat machine-pistols were moving in to surround Bond. "You're a traitor." He aimed this remark at Weekes. The Inspector said, "I have nothing to betray. This country is founded on lies, riven with the taint of slavery. The future for what your government euphemistically terms 'the Commonwealth' awaits behind the Iron Curtain. Our streamlined drug smuggling will only hasten that process." Weekes raised a hand to his face. "You're a K.G.B man." Bond said, damning his own carelessness.
"What about Blackbeard? Your leader?" Bond tried, playing for time, any hope of distraction. "You're talking to him." Weekes said. "A very useful disguise at the best of times. The late lamented Mister Hargreaves could not keep his prying nose out of my affairs, nor could he avoid the opportunity to sell shares which allowed an individual to buy into my conglomerate. As a result of this another twelve people have had to die. An unfortunate charade, I think you'll agree, Mister Bond."
Alasdair Weekes clapped his hands. "Enough." He said, his voice a sudden commanding bark.
"I can't imagine you would be so foolish as to try and shoot me here, Mister Bond."
Bond tightened his grip on his Beretta. "Don't be so sure."
He was stuck at the point of decision when the fat lead-lined cosh bounced off his neck with a rubber slurp. James Bond let go of the pistol and slithered into a swirling black void.
"Take him." Weekes' empty eyes smouldered, his yellowed teeth bared in a sloping arch of cruel anticipation. James Bond reeled back and crumpled to the floor.
"Wake up!" The guttural Teutonic voice registered at nothing more than a faint echo yet its owner was very near. A glaring thug loomed large, one arm raised to strike if Bond didn't respond. "I'm…I'm listening…" Bond slurred. "Somebody wishes to speak with you." The big German wore a navy sweater and a silver pistol at his waist, while the two hard-eyed thugs who flanked him carried black-market Czech rifles. Bond tried to speak again, yet found his tongue crushed by the hundred-tonne anvil lodged in his brain. He was aware of a slightly sour aftertaste, as though of lemons.
Bond struggled, and became conscious of the medieval manacles that bound his body against a chilled stone wall, a sinister atmosphere of barbarism sinking through as the metal cuffs bit like enraged rats, carrying repressed memories of sweat, terror and death. There was a vibrant palette of crimson shades staining the rough steel, the last relics of someone else's suffering. The stone barricade faced onto a far more modern space, a vast hangar built from glinting aluminium. This surrounded a triumphal centrepiece, a huge black cargo aircraft larger than any design Bond had yet seen. It expanded to almost fill the room, yet was set low into the ground so that Bond's eye level was with the bulbous cockpit and the two jutting turbines. a ridiculously oversized and at the same time still impressive feat of engineering.
"Admiring my grand hobby, Mister Bond?" Weekes was dressed in a tan jacket and silk cravat, with leather gloves completing the look of a raffish European of the last century about to embark on a colonial safari. "This is the Veldtmaster 201, built under conditions of total secrecy. The result, believe it or not, is the fastest freight airliner in the world. I could make millions licensing this prototype to one of the American firms- although I have made several million dollars more by hiring her out to those customers who require fast, efficient and discreet cargo transportation- without any complicated legal questions. In this way I have humbly aided a number of the globe's most feared and wanted men. The Gambino and Siciliano Mobs? The Palestinian Liberation forces? The Irish Republicans? Merely a sample of my esteemed base of clients, Mister Bond." Weekes said with a proud sneer, his mouth tracing a series of bubbling welts deep in the skin.
"You are a remarkable man, Mister Bond. It is a pity that you have chosen to make yourself an adversary. Perhaps in some way, we might reach an arrangement concerning your survival. Perhaps, one involving the identities of all British agents embedded in the Soviet diplomatic corps?" Bond informed Weekes of where exactly to take his proposal, and he sighed with fresh irritation. "I thought not. It is a rare coward who breaks before the first implements of torture have been revealed- yet very soon, you will beg with every sinew for me to finish your journey of misery."
"Just get it over with." Bond said. Weekes gave a nod, and the huge aircraft began to lumber forwards, getting closer to the platform where Bond stood. The roar of the engines increased to a low rumble, gigantic propellers spinning in a hypnotic whirring pattern. Weekes retreated to a safe distance, and Bond had to crane his neck to see the expression of mockery.
The aircraft turned in an arc, swinging the near propeller onto a collision course, and now Bond was facing an infinite silver vortex, a churning spiral of devastation that glittered like points of saliva on the fangs of a jaguar lost in a haze of jungle. The droning clattering was becoming intolerable. "Can you hear me, Mister Bond? Excellent. You are about to take a voyage to the outer limits of our collective experience. This path will push you to the brink of mortality. Do you understand?" Bond did not react. He wasn't going to give any hint of discernible emotion to latch onto.
Weekes said, " It will not be long before you are permanently rendered deaf. A tremendous force will compel you inexorably towards the blades, which spin at around three hundred miles per hour. The manacles binding you will pull tighter until your wrists shatter. After this, you will begin to fall peacefully towards the propellers. At this stage, the blood vessels tend to burst, and the lungs may collapse. The skin turns white, and the retinas are badly scarred, resulting in blindness. If you have not already let go, the random gravitational drag could well crush your ribcage or your legs. Finally, you will float into the path of the turbine itself, every single blade acting in concert to shred through flesh in less time than it takes for you to sneeze. Unfortunately," here he lingered, "by that time you will not be able to sneeze, nor do much else. For at that point you will be nothing but a cloud of scattered acidic gases and protein molecules, making your way towards the skylight to be dispersed as raindrops during the storm this evening." Bond spat a foul curse. "Try to enjoy the next two minutes of life, Mister Bond. I know I will. Good day." Weekes said, and vanished from Bond's field of view.
Bond knew he was finished. The propeller, a shining yet hideous behemoth, was still approaching, ten metres away, nine, eight. Already he could feel his shins wanting to buckle, his spine straining to rid itself of the forbidding restraints and leap into oblivion. His toes would be the first to go, his feet starting to lean into the chill breeze, the cold clarion call of death. The sound of the aircraft swelled to a long war cry, the furious screech from a harpy's wings. The whirring silver surface was an antique coffin-plate, then an ancient gladiator's shield, and now it was transforming into a mirror on which Weekes paraded, gloating, his warped skull a silhouette that heralded nemesis. Now M looked over his desk reproachfully, and now there was just the empty disc with its constant drilling whine, like a grotesquely enlarged mosquito. Bond was on the edge, his vision was fading, his eardrums no longer existed. His forearms were about to snap like matchsticks, a blaze of layered pain built on foundations of sheer dread. This was not how anyone wanted to die.
Bond barely heard the sharp interjection. "Who are they?" He tried to talk, finding only the embrace of the endless knives digging in, tearing and uprooting, the stabbing sensation that was both past and future, everywhere and nowhere. A perfect equilibrium, a calculus which subtracted all except the grasping agony that stretched far beyond the room itself. "Give us the names. The British agents in the Soviet Union." Bond was certain he was dead, trapped in a circle of hell in which people shouted questions to which he no longer had the strength to reply. No, that was wrong. He had the will- but he could not speak. Not about this subject. "Tell us." Bond swore bitterly, a sudden animation of rage, and the propeller returned, snapping, punching, near and far. "Tell us and you will live." There were five metres, four, an easy walk to annihilation. "Cooperate." Bond sagged, the lure of sleep tempting as the great monster returned, its hot hissing breath on his throat, the creature's thunderous howls clawing the air. "Do you know why I am torturing you, Mister Bond? Why I do not award you the luxury of a quick death? It is because of an Austrian proverb, Die Kirche in Dorf Lassen. Leave the church in the village. It advises caution, favours predictability, counsels against taking risks." Bond heard white noise. "In a sense, this is exactly what I am doing. For if I were to have you killed, I would have no way of knowing if you had reported your findings, if a gang of armed men were on their way. However, if I act as I am now, I am being certain. I am eliminating risk. For under these conditions you will tell us every last scrap of information, and only then will you perish."
Bond was aware of coloured shapes, strings of gibberish. The propeller began its remorseless drive and Bond was shocked back to life, an essential instinct for self-preservation focusing his gaze again. Weekes was watching expectantly, standing very close. He frowned. Bond squinted, trying to concentrate. He was looking down without sympathy at his own pathetic suffering, severed utterly from the assortment of bones and muscle that writhed in terror, a jumbled portmanteau of humanity reduced to the basic awareness of its overwhelming, petrifying failure. Yawning valleys of time passed, a stupefied blur of indistinguishable blaring commotion, and there was quiet. A silent chasm opened beneath his feet, a primordial deity demanding sacrifice, the tainted offering of his will to live that drained like blood from a slaughtered calf. James Bond at last closed his eyes and tumbled headlong into the staggered grip of darkness.
At that moment all hell broke loose. There was the chittering report of heavy gunfire, an explosion. Bond was alert, alive to every sensation as Weekes stepped forwards and raised his pistol. "It appears we are discovered. Your friends have arrived." Weekes said, as there sounded a more powerful detonation, very near. "This is the end of the line." He lifted the weapon with implacable resolve, his arm shaking. "No-" Bond gave a shout as Weekes dug the barrel slanting into his own jaw and fired. Bond saw a glistening scarlet cleft of skull caught in a mangled shudder, hot churning death. Then Weekes fell with a long scream. Bond ran from the building, which faced onto the harbour, where a ferocious melee was taking place.
Black-uniformed troops, professionals, were closing in from all directions, cutting down the smugglers where they stood. Bond rushed headlong into the fray, shooting with a cool and deadly accuracy. Two men dropped to the ground while another was blasted backwards in a wrenching somersault. At last the quay fell quiet and a familiar face marched up to Bond. "Bill Tanner!" He exclaimed. Tanner spoke urgently. "These men are the second airborne division, SAS. We came as soon as possible once we realised where you were headed. Yes, we suspected there was an opposition mole in the Barbados police force for some time. It just took you to crack the chain right open. You've smashed a big Soviet arrangement here, 007." Bond spun away from the devastation and watched the twinkling harbour. It was going to be a beautiful dawn tomorrow. His eyes became tough as he reflected on the necessary killing. It was life or death, as simple as that. To fall in a hail of bullets, swallowed up by a total suffocating oblivion- those were the penalties of dying. But to bear the guilt and remorse, to stare across a black field of chaos unscathed, to know the scale of the responsibility one carried every lengthening day- that was the cost of living.
James Bond turned and began to walk back towards the lights of the town on the hill.
THE SPORT OF KINGS
The vintage black Bentley S3 took the sharp turn at Clewer far too quickly, its 6.2 litre engine shuddering as James Bond steered onto another narrow long stretch that pointed the way forwards to a widening dual carriageway, slick with the scattered oil of slower cars that had met their match on this treacherous system of switchbacks and hairpins. With a familiar thrill Bond coasted the protesting saloon for a few miles of straight course, the speedometer wavering at seventy before he hurled the winged nose down an empty lane, flirting recklessly with the cavernous ditch that yawned lazily to the right. On the horizon, beyond acres of relatively flat open country, the summit of Windsor Castle hunched like an upturned bucket abandoned at the seaside. As a low sun picked out the silhouetted battlements Bond felt an unpredictable surge of nostalgic longing for the stiff tailcoats and freezing stone dormitories of Eton, the vaulted ceilings and cobbled courtyards. Then he dismissed the old place and guided the Bentley onto a sloping bypass that skirted the narrow city for a couple of kilometres to disappear into the forest where the polo club lay.
The Bentley growled softly, a not unpleasant noise. Bond cast his mind back to when his beloved Mark II Continental had given up and had to be consigned to bricks, gutted by blowtorches and stripped of every last component by teams of men in overalls who left a shattered corpse in their wake. Bond mourned inconsolably for a few months until Bill Tanner had the forethought to tip him off about the brand-new S3 waiting in the showroom at Park Lane. "She's all yours, James." Tanner had said, "for a cut above six thousand pounds. If I had the money, I'd buy her straightaway." Fortunately, Bond did, and promptly emptied his wallet to the beaming young proprietor who gladly sold him the thing that same day. It was a Continental model, of a pared-back Mulliner design adapted to offer four-speed automated transmission and powerful hundred-and-fifty-watt twin bulbs. Admiring the red leather façade that hid an oak dashboard under which sheltered larger American-style carburettors capable of pushing the top speed to one-hundred-and-fifteen miles per hour, Bond was hooked. He wondered idly, gunning the motor as the first ridge of trees became visible, why men were tempted to kill for wealth, for power, for the love of a beautiful girl; but not, it seemed, for a car like this one.
As the wind whipped through his hair Bond considered the facts of the task as they stood. It had been sweltering in M's office this morning, a thick impenetrable August heat that wafted lazily up from the railings of Regent's Park and induced a brusque edge, a general veneer of irritability to anyone who happened to be cooped up at a smoky desk for ten hours a day. The old man was clearly no exception to this rule. "Well, sit down. We haven't the time to go through the usual chit-chat. You've got a busy day ahead of you, 007. Understand?" M glared reproachfully over his pipe. Bond said, "Well as a matter of fact, sir, I was just observing how-" M cut through his rambling with a slashing wave of the hand. "A simple yes will do, 007." He snapped, his battleship grey eyes roving over the stacked files in front of him. Eventually M reached out and selected a thick cream folder. "Details are all in here. Proper accreditation, access-all-areas pass, that sort of thing. Have a read on the way down." Bond said, "On the way down where, exactly, sir?" M shot back quickly, " The Royal Berkshire Polo Club, of course." Bond stifled a laugh of sheer ridicule. "I'll thank you not to mock your assignments, 007." M said gravely. "Now let's get the essentials covered. Markus Von Schlager, society don, millionaire industrialist, a big name where it counts. Everyone thinks he's a West German naturalised citizen but he's not. Von Schlager's an East German spy working directly under the pay of the K.G.B. The trouble is he keeps it under his hat, and we haven't dug up anything conclusive. This is where you come in, 007. You will go to the annual meeting this afternoon, make contact with Von Schlager and attempt to unmask him as a Soviet plant. You will use an Eastern Bloc codebook which we have stolen. This will convince him that you are on his side. If he reacts in any manner which shows the faintest recognition of that code, we'll have Special Branch swoop and grab the fellow immediately. A simple operation, 007. Understood?"
Bond parked the Bentley in the shadow of a tall cluster of white wood-framed buildings that faced onto an expansive lush field already marked out with flags for the upcoming game. There was already a strong crowd flocking towards the stands that fanned in a concentric orb from the clubhouses. A short distance away sat a ring of nondescript brick sheds, which Bond guessed hid the stables. At the gates Bond presented his official access-all-areas pass to a man dressed in a navy double-breasted suit and regimental cufflinks. "Up the stairs, first door on the right." Bond followed the instructions and found himself facing a tougher-looking obstacle, a man who resembled a hunting wolf, poised to leap on the neck of weaker and exhausted prey. His hair, which had once been a raven black, had mostly surrendered to streaks of monochromatic grey, the same tinge that ravaged the fleshy face with its grin of thick indolent pleasure like a fattened pig. Yet the figure beneath was well-built and athletic, at odds with the features which Bond would have placed at around fifty. The strangely mismatched apparition reached automatically for the hilt of a US army Browning, at the same time regarding Bond with eyes as black as a Caucasian oil reservoir. This was not someone to cross lightly. "You are Mister Bond?" He spoke with a rustic twang of Austrian blood. "That's right." Bond said coolly. "I am Helmuth. I am Herr Von Schlager's personal head of security. You have been officially invited, I take it?" Bond continued to return the hostile glower with interest. "I can see nothing gets past you." Helmuth shrugged indifferently and stepped aside.
Bond walked into a room filled with people, almost all male, and almost all surrounding a table elaborately piled high with canapes. Around the edges of the gathering men in winter greatcoats and sunglasses stood guard quietly. Through a rectangular window Bond could see down into a paved space flecked with straw where magnificent horses trotted in various stages of preparation, their impatient neighing and whinnying blending with the low babble of the crowds. Bond plucked a cold magenta concoction from a passing waiter, which turned out to be a strawberry martini. Sipping this delicious offering, Bond took the opportunity to scan the sea of faces, trying to see who else was among the privileged few accorded the honour of Von Schlager's company. He recognised a feared Japanese Yakuza gangmaster and an equally infamous Sicilian hoodlum, who was known in professional circles for severing the index fingers of his victims. All of these individuals were, in their native environments, murderers, rogues, pirates or thieves; so what had brought them to the very heart of England, mere miles from the ancestral seat of the royal family? It was like displacing a polar bear to the burning wastes of the Saharan desert.
James Bond did not have to consider these mysteries for much longer . "Good afternoon. I am Herr Markus Von Schlager, and you are…"
"Bond, James Bond." Bond almost recoiled in shock. From afar, Von Schlager was the type of figure his country's leaders might have glorified thirty years ago; bright blond hair and clear blue eyes sat above an arrogantly proud jaw thrusted obscenely forth, the vulgar sign of Habsburg ancestry marring the otherwise narrow symmetrical face. Bond's eyes were drawn irresistibly to the cavernous swell below the mouth, reddened with welts like some horrific birthmark.
"Welcome, Mister Bond. What brings you here?" The question was casual. Bond said, "Natural curiosity, I suppose. I couldn't resist the temptation to set some time aside and see what a round of polo is really like. I've never dabbled in it before, so to speak, and today seemed like the perfect opportunity." Von Schlager gave a satisfied smirk. "An enthusiastic amateur, Mister Bond? Very well. Tell me, what is your line of employment?" Bond thought for a moment. "I'm in import-export myself. Let's say that I deal with some especially rare and sought-after substances. It's a lucrative trade, but constantly under pressure from governments across the world. An unfortunate situation." Von Schlager grinned, a hidden signal exchanged. "I understand your meaning perfectly. Now this is rather awkward-forgive me-however, I don't remember inviting you." The contrived show of politeness masked a dangerous interlude in the conversation. If Bond didn't respond in the correct manner, he had no doubt that his punishment would be rather more severe than a lifetime's exclusion from the club premises. "You're absolutely right, Herr Von Schlager. You never invited me. But as I understand it this is a public event, and I happen to possess the white card, the sign of unfettered access to the grounds." Bond spoke confidently. Von Schlager's blue eyes glittered, unfazed. "Interesting. I should have been more careful with the venue, perhaps. No!" He chuckled. "I jest, of course. The more the merrier, Mister Bond. And maybe now we shall see where your talents really lie." Von Schlager laughed harshly a second time, before clapping his hands together briefly and raising his voice to the assembly. "Can I have your attention, please?"
There was a murmur of talk, which swiftly faded. All the party was now fixated on Von Schlager with a reverent and total silence, a crackle of nervous tension making the hairs on Bond's neck stand erect. Then he realised. These people not only respected Von Schlager. They were scared of him.
Von Schlager cleared his throat and began to speak, his twisted mouth warping like putty in the grip of a destructive child. "As you are all aware, we have been brought here by a single purpose. A sole aim that unites and binds us. Together, we will succeed; I promise you that. But to divide, to splinter, to willingly betray this organisation by one word or gesture-then I can guarantee that you will discover the darkest depths of failure." At this there was a collective shiver, and Bond thought he could imagine the German's gaze rooting him to the spot. Von Schlager threw back his misshapen skull, drained his glass and continued. "Enough." He said. "Let us cease this talk of business, and instead proceed to the real highlight- our little auction." There was a cheer.
"It is quite simple, ladies and gentlemen. Whoever pledges the most for our charitable fund gets to play against yours truly in a sporting game of polo. We'll start the bidding at five hundred pounds. Any improvements on that sum?" At once there was a chorus of voices, which soon hushed to a duel between the Yakuza boss and the Sicilian.
"Seven hundred pounds."
"Eight hundred."
"Nine hundred pounds."
There was a pause and the Italian appeared triumphant, Von Schlager ready to finish the bidding. On impulse, Bond leapt in. "Two thousand pounds." There was riotous confusion for a moment before Von Schlager snapped out an order and there was quiet again. "It seems you have won, Mister Bond." His hideous jaw trembled as Bond felt the accumulated displeasure of eleven of the globe's most deadly criminals, radiating with electric menace throughout the room. "I think congratulations would be appropriate, Mister Bond." Von Schlager tried to exude generosity with a shrivelled rictus grin, pouring Bond a large double brandy. "Shall we take to the field?"
"How are you with horses, Mister Bond?"
"I'm a keen rider myself." Bond was inspecting a large bay charger, while Von Schlager had selected a powerful chestnut mount. "Good. Why don't you lead Eunice here onto the field of play, and I'll join you in a moment?" Von Schlager said warmly, pressing another brandy into Bond's hand before walking some distance away to confer with Helmuth. Helmuth murmured something too softly for Bond to hear, Von Schlager nodding decisively and pointing directly at Bond. Then Bond and his opponent stepped out onto the grass, preceding the approach of the two horses. The crowd cheered.
Bond gulped the brandy and struggled to remember the standard rules of polo. The "line of the ball" is a hypothetical line that tracks the path of the ball, and reaches past the ball along its current trajectory. The line of the ball governs how players are permitted to move toward the ball. The player who hits the ball has an automatic right to passage along the line of the ball, and no other player can cut in front of them. As players near the ball, they ride on either side of the line of the ball. A player defending possession of the ball can steal the ball back from his opponent or force him away from the line. When a player forces another to move away from the line, this is referred to as a "ride-off" or "bump." As a last resort, a player can defend by "hooking", or using his mallet to entangle the mallet of the player in possession of the ball, although the "hooking" player cannot touch the opponent's body, horse, or saddle. A foul involves endangering the player or their horse's safety during a ride-off, or alternatively making contact with the opponent or their horse during an attempt to "hook". A typical outdoor game can last for about one-and-a-half to two hours, and consists of four to eight seven-minute intervals of play known as chukkas; in this case Von Schlager had set the number of rounds to three. The overall object of the game is to score goals by hitting the ball between the white goal posts, which rested towards the north edge of the field.
There are four positions; number one acts as the most offensive player, number two similarly focused on scoring goals, number three feeds balls through to number one and number two, and number four the most defensive player. Bond was assigned to number one, while Von Schlager took the role of number four on the opposing team. "Our team mates are Schlager Corporation workers. They'll try not to show you up as best they can." Von Schlager laughed, giving a signal for the umpire. Bond tensed, weighing his hardwood mallet and wondering how seriously to take this encounter. On the one hand, it would probably anger Von Schlager if Bond managed to win; on the other, it had cost two thousand pounds to secure his place here and he was going to try and make the best of the situation. "Good luck, Mister Bond." Von Schlager's eyes narrowed. The crowd quietened. The umpire blew a shrill note on his whistle and the match began.
The ball beckoned from the centre of the pitch and Bond set his steed at a loping canter, ignoring the formations of his three colleagues. The small orb was close now, and Bond tracked it with one eye while preparing to take an experimental swing. He readied for the stiff clunk of wood on metal, and was met by a gaping rush of air as Von Schlager's number two, a thickset barrel-chested man, made a fast intercept to send the ball roving towards the goal. Bond, startled, wheeled round; it was an aggressive though not illegal ploy. Bond traced the dividing line along the ground and set off again at speed, keeping dutifully to his own side as the enemy number two did the same. He was quick but Bond was better, and managed to deliver a smashing blow that despatched the ball hurtling with finesse into the goal. One-nil to Bond. His gaze lifted to catch Von Schlager's face, seething, as the German spurred his horse into action. Bond gave chase, though Von Schlager had moved first and delicately tipped the ball from a corner to make the match equal.
The ball shone in the sunlight, hidden under the legs of Von Schlager's number three. Bond circled gingerly ,hoping to force his opponent to move, but Von Schlager knew his mind and dogged Bond's heels as he shifted the mallet in a perfectly timed move that barely missed the number three thoroughbred's ankles to sweep the ball in a wide turn across the grass, carrying the 'hook' with exacting finesse. Number three lurched out of the way as Bond fixed the angle of a light tap that would knock the ball sideways to secure a second goal, and as Bond swung Von Schlager's horse lumbered directly into his path. Bond's mallet just missed his host's skull as Von Schlager's mount threw him, and he fell in an awkward tangle of limbs. There was a gasp from the crowd, and the umpire gave a blast on his whistle. "Foul!" Bond had to admit, it was a foolish move to wander into the line of the ball so blatantly, resulting in an obvious infraction of the rules. What the hell was Von Schlager doing? There was a brief heated discussion between Von Schlager and the referee before the next announcement was made. "Penalty against Schlager team!" Served the idiot right, thought Bond. He timed the free shot carefully to carry out a long gliding manoeuvre that raised the score to two-one.
There was a break between rounds. Bond saw Von Schlager and Helmuth speak again before Von Schlager offered Bond a third brandy. "Shaken, not stirred." Bond mused. "You surprise me, Mister Bond. Rather to my chagrin it seems you have a habit of winning." Von Schlager was polite, yet his voice had become distinctly colder. "I am sorry that polo is not more practiced in Germany, otherwise I might stand a greater chance." A voice interrupted. "You played polo in Berlin last year, didn't you, Markus?" Bond found himself facing a blonde-haired woman of about twenty-five wearing a blue summer dress, the same deep shade as her large periwinkle eyes, as intricate and labyrinthine as the patterns of the seashell. For a moment Bond was lost in her searching stare before he collected himself. "I don't think we've been introduced, my name is Bond, James Bond." He said cheerfully, shaking her hand. "This is Miss Penelope Chalmers, my personal secretary and assistant." Von Schlager said. "Pleasure to meet you, Mister Bond. My friends call me Penny." Bond gave an insolent smirk. "I'm sure they do. Mine call me James." Penelope smiled pleasantly. "I've heard all about you from Mister Schlager. You're in import-export, aren't you?" Bond noticed Von Schlager's twisted scowl. "That's right. Pretty lucrative business." Bond said, wondering what the exact nature of Von Schlager and his secretary's relationship was. Von Schlager clapped his hands. "We must be returning to the field, Mister Bond. Time grows short." Bond nodded. "Good afternoon, Miss Chalmers." Penelope smiled again. "Goodbye, James. I hope we meet another time, someday." Von Schlager hissed. "I doubt that will happen. Please, Mister Bond." Bond allowed himself to be conducted back to the stables. There was one more round to go, and he wasn't going to let this strange man get the better of him.
When play resumed Bond made a dash for the ball, coaxing his horse to a near gallop, and took possession with a twisting spin of the mallet. It was a long route to the goal and Bond paced himself slowly. He had almost made it when Von Schlager bore down on him, trotting to a level speed alongside Bond's right. Schlager made an inelegant flourish, nearly scraping Bond's horse and missing the ball entirely. It was ten metres to the goalposts. Bond was winning again. At this point the mood of play changed. With military precision, Von Schlager clicked his fingers and his second rode up on Bond's left, both opposition riders forming a sandwich that hemmed him in, trying to force him to pull back and miss the goal.
At least, that was what the umpire would have assumed. In fact Von Schlager and his subordinate were marshalling dangerously close in a V shape, completely cutting off the path forwards. "What are you doing?" Bond shouted, but no one could hear over the crowd. Bond turned in the saddle and felt a jolt of surprise, for Schlager's number two, he realised, had been replaced by Helmuth. On his other side, Schlager gave the mallet a wild coursing jerk, there was a swish like a plunging dagger and the great lump of wood and metal missed Bond's leg by a hair's-breadth. An inch more and Bond's knee would have been crushed to a wrecked pulp. He dove his heels tight in the stirrups and hugged the beast's mane as the German sent his makeshift club flying like a tomahawk over Bond's head. Bond dared to look up to Schlager's horrifying distorted glare, a surging primeval hate. The hollering throng was now the pummelling throb of Bond's own heartbeat, an alarm warning of the stalking motions of death. Schlager gave an order and Helmuth, still keeping pace, reached down with a free hand and jabbed a small pistol towards Bond's thigh. It was incredible. But it was deadly serious, and Bond had to react. If he were to be shot, nobody would hear a thing and Von Schlager could claim that he had fainted in the summer heat. Instead of leaning away from the muzzle Bond grabbed hold of Helmuth's arm and dived towards the ground in an exaggerated crash. Bond heard the gun crack, very near, and then he struck the field and rolled. He saw Helmuth slam hard into the mud without a helmet to break his fall. Whatever else happened, the big Austrian would be in no fit state to use anyone as target practice for a long time.
Bond stood slowly, his ears ringing. By some miracle he was still conscious, and unharmed save for a ridge of dull bruises across his ribs. He dimly heard the umpire's announcement, "The remainder of this tournament has been cancelled. Let the score then stand at a two-one victory for Mister James Bond." There was a weak cheer, and in the royal box Bond thought he glimpsed the Duke of Edinburgh in full gold braid and naval regalia applauding. Von Schlager was striding towards him. "I'm terribly sorry, old chap. I told you I was just an amateur, so you might say some kind of accident was inevitable." Bond gabbled. "I should have been more careful. Please, let us say nothing more of this unfortunate incident." Von Schlager shook Bond's hand, beaming. Why, Bond wondered, was it always the ugliest of men who compensated through overbearing charisma? At the last second Bond remembered his professional assignment. He leaned close to the man's ear and whispered, "The moonlight on the Danube is silver." It was as if an electric charge had been applied to Von Schlager's fingertips, for he stiffened, eyes hardening to a cool glare, and mouthed a reply. "But only at midnight on Thursday." That was it. That was all the evidence Bond needed, and even as he turned away he gave a prearranged musing stroke of the chin and men flooded onto the field, dozens of athletic constables who possessed special permission from their commissioner to wear the brand-new semi-automatic Walther Polizeipistole. Bond himself preferred the lighter Beretta 418, which he poked through the lining of his worsted shirt to cover Von Schlager as he said the words.
"You're going to come with us, Herr Von Schlager." The German's small eyes darted fearfully, seeking out any form of protection. Bond guessed that this was the type of situation which called for Helmuth's particular expertise, but the chief of security was racing away in an ambulance at this stage. "Helmuth told me you were a spy," Von Schlager said, "so I tried to have you eliminated. Yet I was wrong- you are from my own service." Bond shook his head as tall gentlemen began to bundle the German off to a waiting car. "Not quite. You've been the victim of an elaborate game. Tell me, how long have you been using this place as a neutral go-between for the K.G.B. and the world's criminals?" Von Schlager's shoulders slumped in defeat as handcuffs clicked sharply onto his wrists. "Three years now." Bond was left to his own thoughts as Von Schlager was wrestled out of sight. Espionage was a tricky business, an artful sequence of move and counter-move where the only piece on the board was a humble pawn.
Bond was interrupted by a female voice. "Are you alright, Mister Bond?" Penelope Chalmers' deep blue eyes were full of concern. "Much better now." Bond said, regarding her with interest. "Thank heavens for that. It's all rather a shock, seeing something like that happen in front of your eyes. I just don't know what to do." Bond looked around at the fresh summer grass, the swathes of azure sky, the surging rumble of the crowd. "You need something to calm your nerves, Miss Chalmers. A drink, perhaps?" He gave a cruel smile. Penelope Chalmers said, "I'd like that, Mister Bond." With the supreme confidence of someone with the world lying vanquished at their feet, Bond turned and obediently led her towards the pavilion.