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THE NEW NOVEL STARRING
JAMES BOND
THE KILLING ZONE
JIM HATFIELD
JAMES BOND
007 IS BACK!
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In this new high voltage spy thriller, Secret Agent 007 must "liquidate" ruthless billionaire kingpin Klaus Doberman. But James Bond has his hands full as he battles a lucious lady assassin who offers lethal love Russian style and a slit-eyed Oriental sadist who is an elusive and deadly Ninja. Aided by his sex-galore confederate Lotta Head and his old CIA buddy Felix Leiter, 007 is pitted against Klaus Doberman in his heavily armed fortress high in the Mexican Sierra Madres... in the most bloodcurdling death duel in the great Bond saga.
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JAMES BOND IS BACK!
Millions of readers and countless filmgoers the world over have met British Secret Service agent James Bond 007 the superhero with a enormous appetite for the good things in life - food, women and international intrigue.
This time Bond's assignment is more awesome. His weapons are more potent. His foes are more fiendish. His women are more willing. And James Bond is better than ever!
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THE KILLING
ZONE
Jim Hatfield
A CHARTER BOOK
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All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
THE KILLING ZONE: A James Bond Adventure
A CHARTER BOOK, London
Copyright 1985 by Glidrose Publications Limited and Jim Hatfield
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the Publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
0-425-06534-0
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For my parents with love
and to the memory of Ian Lancaster Fleming.
And You and Me Only.
"I write for warm-blooded heterosexuals in railway trains, aeroplanes and beds."
-Ian Fleming
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I owe deep gratitude to so many people for their help with The Killing Zone that numerous pages would be required simply to list them all. The following are pre-eminent:
Norma Rodriquez, one of my best friends for many years, journeyed with me - not just once - but three times to the Mexican resorts of Puerto Vallarta and Acapulco. Her invaluable command of the Spanish language and dedicated research assistance supplied much of the cultural material that I have woven around the lives of the people in this book.
Obviously, The Killing Zone could not have been written had it not been for Larry Burk and Kay Burrow of CFC for allowing me unrestricted time away from the company to describe the sights, sounds, and textures of Mexico. I would also like to express my personal gratitude to them and everyone at CFC for their kindness and faith in this book's eventual worth. I owe all of them a great debt for sharing and salving my frustrations throughout the sixteen months of this novel's research and writing. For his help, good counsel and general "Godfathering," a special note of thanks and appreciation to Sam Wolfson. Though I did not adopt all of her suggestions after careful reading of the manuscript, Corrie Harrison's contribution to a clearer and more accurate text has been indispensable.
Special thanks would not be complete without reference to Rhonda Traylor and Marie Van Wey, the most lovely and competent typists an author could ever want or need; Dale McFarland typeset the final draft of the manuscript for publication with exemplary thoughtfulness and meticulous care. Dana Conley, my capable and efficient secretary, beat the clock with her rewarding research assistance, which saved me the embarrassment of requesting a deadline extension.
Jake Jatras and John Donovan of Soldier of Fortune magazine stand in my particular debt for their unending quest to put the most accurate weapons in James Bond's possession. I must also thank the men of the Cotton Exchange Breakfast Club: Jack Allen, George Drewery, Alton Gardner, John Duncan, Les Lewis and John Garner, for their invaluable opinions, advice and companionship at the crack of dawn. The Killing Zone exists in its fullness because these men suffered and sustained the author during the throes of composition.
I would like, especially, to thank the Board of Directors of Glidrose Publications Limited, the owners of the James Bond literary copyright, for inviting me to follow in Ian Fleming's somewhat daunting footsteps. In particular, my thanks to Ms. Janet Dailey of Bronson, Missouri, the bestselling female author of all time, for acting as the "Go-Between." Great acknowledgement must also go to my literary agent, Irving Weintraub, without whose patience and guiding hand this book could not have been written. And finally, my deepest thanks to "three wise women" of Dixon Travel - Linda Tabell, Connie Carlson and Adriane Strauss - who always make the time, no matter hour busy they are, to send me on some adventurous trip to the ends of the earth.
All the others who helped me transform 007 from a cardboard automaton of the movies to a living and breathing British spy with a license to kill, are entitled to my heartfelt thanks, and if I omitted your name please forgive me.
Jim Hatfield
Puerto Vallarta, 1986
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Contents
1. Suddenly a Corpse [6]
2. Welcome Back, Mr. Bond [10]
3. Dossier of a New Enemy [20]
4. Hide and Go Die [29]
5. The Woman in the White Spyder [37]
6. Lotta Head [46]
7. Twice Removed [56]
8. Old Enemies Are Hard to Break [73]
9. Love Is Never Enough [91]
10. The Last Good Kiss [110]
11. Things That Go Bump in the Night [124]
12. Double-Crosses and Cross-Outs [145]
13. The Long Hard Scream [155]
14. Some Guns Listen, Other Guns Speak [170]
15. The Long Harm of the Law [183]
16. Out of the Frying Pan... [196]
17. ...And Into the Fire [215]
18. Sudden Death [246]
19. A Far, Far Better Rest [249]
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AUTHOR'S NOTE
In an effort to accommodate each reader's familiarity with their particular country's phraseology, both British and American spellings or forms of measurement have been used alternately in this binational edition; for example,
The blue-grey colour of his eyes sparkled (British)
The yacht was fifty yards away and closing (American)
J.H.
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-1-
Suddenly a Corpse
BILL TANNER, CHIEF OF STAFF OF HER MAJESTY'S Secret Service, paced impatiently back and forth on the cobblestone sidewalk outside of the British Consulate in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. He gazed up and down the street. It was virtually deserted from the earlier sights and sounds of commuters hurrying home to their families and dinners; the stillness was somehow ominous. It was as though he stood in a vacuum, the very air holding its breath.
Tanner studied the darkening sky as a natural ocean breeze began to rise. A quick glance at his watch revealed that his driver was now twenty-seven minutes in the arrears.
Faintly, he began to hear sounds. They were distant at first, almost subliminal, gradually growing in intensity until he realized they were footsteps.
"Senor Tanner?" a thick, heavy accent startled him from behind. Tanner whirled. A tall, moose-like Mexican dressed in a faded blue State Police officer's uniform stared down at him through mirrored sunglasses.
[6]
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Tanner backed away from the officer's intimidating form, but the Mexican grabbed his arm, halting his progress with a grip of steel.
"What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm a diplomat," Tanner argued as he felt the fingers bite painfully into his bicep.
The Mexican nodded towards an approaching white Mercedes-Benz 1000SEL limousine. "Someone is anxious to meet you, Senor Tanner."
"Tell him to make an appointment like everyone else," he answered sharply, pulling away from the large man's painful clutch.
Tanner didn't see the knee come up. But he felt it, and a split second later he had caromed off the side of the limousine. On his way down, the knee delivered again, this time in the center of his gut. He was helped to his hands and knees by a vise-like grip around his neck. Simultaneously, a backhanded blow made contact with the side of his head, so hard he could not believe the pain that shot through his skull. His knees felt like rubber as they lost all feeling of motion and sensation. On his way down, a highly polished boot caught him flush in the mouth.
Adrenalin is produced by the adrenal glands, two small bodies situated on the upper surface of the kidneys. Because of the circumstances which cause its release into the circulation, and its effect on the body, it is sometimes known as the drug of fright, fight and flight. Now at the sight of blood trickling down from the corners of his mouth, Tanner's adrenals fell into their primeval work, pumping their secretion into his bloodstream and thus quickening respiration to fill his blood with oxygen, speeding up the heart's action to improve the blood-supply to the muscles,
[7]
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closing the smaller blood vessels near the skin to minimize loss in case of wounding, even causing the hair on his scalp to lift minutely. And while Tanner was still paralyzed, there came to him from somewhere or other, perhaps from the adrenalin itself, a strange exultation. He knew instantly that he had not gone soft from too many years in an administrative capacity, that at need he was the same efficient fighting machine. He quickly spun on his own hip, connected solid with his assailant's legs. The Mexican went down, and Tanner was on his feet lunging, lunging toward the iron gates of the consulate's compound...
Tanner's arms were seized from behind and jerked backwards - he had not thought the Mexican could recover and resume the chase so quickly. Before the nelson grip was complete, Tanner had lashed backwards with his heel and made contact causing one arm to become free. An elbow jab that just missed the groin brought the top of Tanner's body forward. Before he could recover, ten fingers that felt like steel bolts had sunk into the ganglia at the base of his neck, rendering Tanner unconscious immediately.
When he awoke, he was in the back of the traveling limousine with the giant police officer seated on his left and a muscular Chinese man in a black yukata to his right. Sitting directly across from them in the jump seat was a long-haired German with a black patch over his right eye, who Tanner immediately recognized as Klaus Doberman, a much-wanted billionaire narcotics overlord.
The German rapped his knuckles on the glass plate separating them from the front seat, and the driver turned the car down an isolated and narrow dirt road.
Tanner suddenly felt a burning ache in his gut and his
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neck felt as though it had turned into a thin stream of cold mud. "Where are you taking me, Doberman?" he asked, his eyes straining to focus on the German through a veil of blurred vision.
The limousine abruptly came to a halt. Doberman could hardly contain his glee. "To meet your God, Mr. Tanner," he replied, stroking back a white mane of hair from out of his good eye.
At that point the Chinese man's mouth split expansively as he produced a .38 caliber Smith & Wesson revolver from inside his black clothing and pointed it to the side of Tanner's head.
Tanner smiled sardonically. "I'll tell my God to leave the pearly gates open since you'll be joining us soon."
Doberman frowned and nodded to the Chinese whose smile closed the almond eyes to slits - slits that glittered. Then he pulled the trigger, effectively covering the rear windshield with the head of Lieutenant-Colonel William "Bill" Tanner, second highest-ranking member of the British Secret Service and, incidentally, Commander James Bond's best friend.
[9]
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-2-
Welcome Back, Mr. Bond
THE FIRST LIGHTS OF THE VIRGIN ISLANDS GLEAMED below TWA Flight 123B in the darkness. The air brakes grumbled down, the undercarriage thudded into place; St. Thomas lay straight ahead.
A little earlier, Sir Miles Messervy, known only as M., Head of the British Secret Service, had been reclining, apparently relaxed and at ease in an aisle seat on the starboard side of the first class area.
In fact, the ex-Admiral was far from relaxed. Anyone looking closely would have seen the strain behind the damnably grey sailor's eyes. His mind was in top gear as it relived the disappointing events of the past year which eventually led to James Bond's resignation from the service.
During this period the Secret Service was under fire from the politicians and there was fresh talk on purges from security. The Double-0 section had come under
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frequent criticism as a source of provocation to the enemy, and M. was tired of defending it. The rumors of disbanding the section naturally irritated M. and worried Bond: without his Double-0 rating, it was doubtful whether he would wish to stay within the Secret Service. Then on top of this came the big reshuffle at the Regents Park Headquarters just after New Year's. For Bond, a true conservative at heart, the shake-up was far more disturbing than he cared to admit.
M.'s office was moved up from the sixth to the seventh floor, and Bond, to his horror, found himself divorced from his office which he shared with 008 and 0011, and relegated to a small, grey-painted hencoop of a place. In the circumstances, the move seemed ominous.
Then came the so-called Ides of March Massacre, in which large numbers of loyal agents and operatives were forced to "resign" or were directly dismissed, literally overnight. Finally, as Bond had feared, M. broke the news that the elite Double-0 section - which meant being licensed to kill in the line of duty - was being abolished. For Bond, who relished the dangerous lifestyle associated with the Double-0 status, this was the last bloody straw. So Commander James Bond, Agent 007 of Her Majesty's Secret Service, resigned and relocated to the Caribbean.
[* * * * * *]
The night air was warm and scented. Stepping down the aircraft was like the beginning of a dream for M. There were palm trees beside the airport building, hibiscus and azaleas in bloom. For the first time, M. actually envied Bond. One really couldn't blame him for settling for the soft life at last. He'd earned every bit of luxury he got.
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In immigration M. produced his passport. The official expressed pleasantries, then signaled to someone behind him. An attractive young black woman came over to M., smiled, said she hoped he'd had a lovely trip and would he come this way? Outside the airport concourse a large, equally dark-skinned chauffeur had just finished putting M.'s luggage in the trunk of an old-model, bright-red Cadillac. He saluted lazily, opened the rear door for M., then drove him effortlessly along a road beside the clear, sparkling, moonlit waters of the Caribbean. M. tried making conversation, without much success. M. finally asked when they would arrive.
"You'll see," the black man answered. "We'll be there soon."
M. grunted contemptuously.
They purred across a causeway. There was a glimpse of palm trees, lights that glittered from the ocean. Then they drove through high gates, along a graveled drive, and there before them, floodlit and gleaming stood the hotel - the old-style colonial, pink walls, white louvered shutters, pillars by the door. The pool was lit up, too. People were swimming, others on the terrace. A doorman in top hat and wasp-coloured waistcoat took M.'s distinctly meager luggage to the lift.
M.'s bath was already steaming with great fruition, drinks were waiting on the table and a discreet manservant asked if he had eaten or would like something from the restaurant.
"No, thank you," M. told him.
"Shall I make you a vodka martini, sir?"
"Rot-gut!" M. answered sharply. "I'll make my own drink, good man." Then he proceeded to pour a whiskey
[12]
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and soda. "Thank you just the same," he added hesitantly.
"Commander Bond asked me, sir, to kindly welcome you and tell you to treat this place as your own home. When you are ready, sir, say in half an hour, please ring for me and I will take you to Commander Bond."
M. bathed luxuriously, changed into a lightweight dark-grey suit, stiff white collar, dark blue bow tie with spots, rather loosely. After another whiskey and soda, he lit his pipe with a match and rang the bell. The manservant appeared at once, led M. along a corridor, and then unlocked a door which led to a private lift. Before starting it the man picked up a red telephone inside the lift.
"Augustus here, sir. Bringing your guest up now."
M. heard a faint reply from the telephone. The lift ascended slowly.
At the top there was a slight delay, as the doors evidently opened by remote control from the other side. When they did M. walked straight into an enormous room, most of it in shadow. On three sides long, plate glass windows looked out on the dark night sea. The lights were low, the shutters were drawn back and M. seemed suspended high above the Caribbean waters. Far to the right the lights were glittering along the coastline of Magen's Bay.
From the slightly eerie shadows of the fourth side of the suite a figure that M. immediately recognized emerged. His was a dark, clean-cut face, with a three-inch scar showing whitely down the suntanned skin of the right cheek. The eyes were wide under straight, rather long black brows. The dark hair, with grey streaks in the temples now, still fell in a thick black comma over the forehead. The longish straight nose ran down to a short
[13]
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upper lip below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth. The line of the jaw was straight and firm. He was physically fit, bright-eyed, no sign of tension or wariness positively breezy. He was wearing white cotton trousers and a dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt which showed off the width of the shoulder and solidity of chest. There was no hint of a paunch or thickness of hips. James Bond reached out to shake M.'s hand in a gesture of deepest respect.
["]The same warm, dry handshake, James," M. said cheerfully. Gone was the crabbiness that had characterized him in previous years.
Bond laughed and produced a familiar object from a gun-metal cigarette case. "The first today," he said. "I hope you weren't expecting Morlands Specials. Officially I have given up, but one can't be too strict about these things. They are the latest denicotined and absolutely revolting."
"Miss Moneypenny sends a loving kiss."
"Pity you didn't bring Penny with you."
"You two would be flirting too bloody much."
Bond laughed deeply, then asked, "How's Bill coming along without me as his golf partner. I'm sure he's become fat and lazy on dry martinis and white bread."
There was an uncomfortable pause, and M. suddenly looked awkwardly towards his feet. "That's why I'm here, James. I'm sorry, but Bill is missing, believed killed, while on official duty in Mexico."
Bond's face suddenly went white and an air of tension surrounded him. He had the look of someone who had suffered and who was wary of the pain's return.
The metamorphose would have continued, but at that
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moment Augustus appeared. "Are you gentlemen ready for dinner, Commander?" he asked politely.
Bond nodded.
"Customary table, sir?"
Bond grunted his assent. M. checked an urge to smile.
"Forgive me, sir," Bond said to his former employer. "I am now a creature of routine. A dangerous thing in our profession, but now that I am retired I feel it does no harm."
The customary table proved to be the best in the hotel - set close enough to the pool so that Bond could closely observe the scantily-clad women. As always, the sight of female flesh clearly relaxed him. With most women his manner was a mixture of tactiturnity and passion. The lengthy approaches to a seduction bored him almost as the subsequent mess of disentanglement.
"Something to quench the thirst, sir?" Bond asked M., his blue-grey eyes following the shapely rears of women coming up from the beach for dinner.
M. relit his pipe and nodded.
Bond gave the order to Augustus in the precise, clipped voice of the man who knows exactly what he wants and is used to getting it. "The Admiral will have a half-bottle of a twenty-year-old Mouton Rothschild and I'll have a small carafe of Stolichnaya vodka resting in a bowl of crushed ice."
After drinks arrived, M. had a chance to observe Bond more carefully. He was, if anything, taller and slightly thinner than he had remembered him a year before; the arms below the short sleeves sinewy rather than muscular. What would one have thought of him from first impressions? A colonial administrator here on convalescent
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leave? An aging playboy between marriages? Only the face might make one wonder - that bronzed Scottish face whose hardness seemed so out of place among the lush surroundings; a hardness made up of new walls built around himself since his traumatic ordeals of the past years. The death of his wife, Tracy; the fight with Blofeld in Japan; the subsequent year of amnesia; the brainwashing ordeal in Russia; the assassination attempt on M.; and the fight against death after Scaramanga's poison-tipped bullet almost eliminated the agent forever - all had a toll on Bond. He was in a new cycle of his life.
Bond's sardonic mouth relaxed, the cruel eyes softened and he asked M. to explain the tragedy concerning Bill Tanner's disappearance.
M. leaned back in his chair, massaging his neck, then poured himself another drink. He began speaking very calmly then - one could detect an ordered mind, the logical delivery of the well-trained military intelligence. Bond listened intently.
"During your absence, James," M. began, his grey eyes clearer and brighter than Bond ever remembered them, "the drug war has moved onto the offensive and the Secret Service has been doing its best to meet the challenge. Operation `Snow White' extends from the coca fields of Peru, Bolivia and Equador to the jungle refineries of Colombia and Brazil. Its outposts are remote piers and airstrips in Mexico and right here in the Caribbean; its ports of entry dot the American South and Southwest. With profits running into billions of dollars, the cocaine lords vie with Third World governments in wealth and power. The traffickers tried to blow up the British Consulate in Guadulajara last November, and our allies fear
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that they are undermining the fragile political systems of Bolivia, Peru, Mexico, Jamaica and the Bahamas. There is no greater destabilizing force for democratic government than the power of the narcotrafico."
Bond noted M.'s commanding voice was calm. Only the way he gripped his pipe revealed a little of the tension that he felt. "Until recently," he continued, "many Latin American countries shrugged off their drug traffickers, partly because they viewed narcotics as other countries' problems, and partly because they were more worried about left-wing terrorists and guerrillas. That attitude is giving way to a sense of alarm. There is hardly an area of political activity or institutional life that in some way has not been affected by drug corruption. The drug lords have vowed to kill Colombian officials from the president on down and we have recently learned that they've offered one million dollars to anyone who will kidnap our own Prime Minister or other Cabinet Members. Evidently, the kingpins want to exchange the PM for six Colombian accused traffickers now in custody in London."
M. absentmindedly refilled and relit his pipe, which had died. "The empire grows like a poisonous weed. So great are its profits that every local victory against the cocaine lords only seems to open markets in other areas. In many rural areas, the drug kings are seen as Robin Hoods, spreading wealth in countries that are desperately poor. Snowy riches have corrupted officials and produced strange alliances. Neo-Nazi drug lord, Klaus Doberman, has offered to cast his lot with the leftist M-19 guerrillas, while peasant coca growers in Peru are tied to Maoist Shing Path guerrillas. In addition, we've learned that the governments of Nicaragua and Cuba wink at drug dealing
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that brings in badly needed Western currency."
Bond lit another cigarette, half-filled his glass with ice and added three fingers of vodka. He then drank it down in two long draughts, feeling its friendly bite at the back of his throat and in his stomach. "Where did Bill figure into all of this?" he asked M. through a veil of pipe and cigarette smoke.
"The new cocaine traffickers selected the coastal resort city of Puerto Vallarta as their headquarters. It was bordering on the Sierra Madres mountain range which runs the length of the country, the Pacific Ocean for access to other other countries by boat and two major highways connected to the United States. Its booming economy and real estate market made laundering money relatively convenient. Most important, however, was its proximity to the marijuana and poppy fields of Northwest Mexico - and the families who had developed drug-running experience in exploiting them. To crimp those families, we organized Operation `Snow White,' the investigation to which Bill was assigned. The drug runners suffered extraordinary losses. Because of Snow White and other operations, one ring alone had lost some twenty-six million dollars and six thousand pounds of cocaine. There was a six hundred million dollar bust in Miami a week before Bill was kidnapped and agents broke up a smuggling ring in Mexico City which was shipping Cocaine in film cannisters from the international section of the press office. But there have been losses on our side also. 008 was found floating face down on the American side of the Rio Grande River; three weeks later, 0011's body was found decapitated and stuffed in a steel drum at an abandoned cocaine refinery in the jungles of Tranquilandia, Colombia; 003, one of the
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most experienced senior agents, had been dragged from a blazing car outside of Acapulco. He will live - for a while at least - but his days of usefulness to the Secret Service, or to anybody else, are over."
Bond drank the cigarette's smoke into his lungs and expelled it slowly through his nostrils. "Do we have any leads to Bill's whereabouts?"
M. shook his head. "Our sources have informed us that Bill drove the last nail in the coffin when Klaus Doberman lost twenty million dollars in Snow White's detonation of a huge marijuana warehouse in Chihuahua. Accounts of witnesses state that the following day, Doberman agreed to organize a kidnapping of Bill, using assassins posing as State Police officers. Two days later, Bill was abducted from the British Consulate in Puerto Vallarta and no one has seen or heard from him since. Unfortunately, we can only draw our own conclusions."
Bond's narrow eyes squinted with a hint of anger. "Who is this bastard Klaus Doberman?"
M.'s eyes ceased to focus on Bond. For a moment they were blank, looking inward. Then he slowly reached inside his suit coat and extracted a thin file with the usual top-secret red star. He placed the file squarely in from of himself and pushed it gently across the table to Bond.
The red sans-serif letters said: FOR YOUR EYES ONLY.
Bond said nothing. He nodded and tore away the seal and began to read.
[19]
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-3-
Dossier of a New Enemy
TO: Special Services Agent, 007.
FROM: M.
SUBJECT: Klaus Doberman is the narcotraficante numero uno - a long-haired one-eyed cocaine smuggler who bought an entire in the Bahamas. He is a "Robin Hood" to his neighbors in Central and South America, where he built housing for the poor. Informed sources say he rose from dealing small bags of cocaine to amassing a two billion dollar fortune. He is a cocky adventurer who flaunts his billions, buying everything from banks and hotels to soccer teams and fighting bulls.
DESCRIPTION: Age about thirty-five. Height six foot, three inches. Slim and fit. Eyes blue, right eye
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blind since horseback riding accident at age twelve: Hair, white-blonde, shoulder-length, worn sometimes in ponytail fashion. Gaunt, sombre face. Ears very flat to the head. Ambidextrous. Hands very small and immaculately manicured. Distinguishing characteristics: wears black patch over right eye at all times. Is an insatiable but indiscriminate homosexual who invariably has sexual intercourse on a daily basis.
BACKGROUND DETAILS: Doberman has become Colombia's cocaine overlord and almost as rich and powerful as the Colombian government itself. From a heavily armed stronghold deep in the Andes Mountains, he refines and smuggles two billion dollars a year in cocaine to the United States and the rest of the world. To protect his extensive interests, Doberman has formed his own cartel, buying as many opponents as he can, murdering some of those he can't.
Doberman started small. The son of a German SS officer who later fled to Colombia, he left home at the age of eighteen, bound for the United States. In 1973 he was arrested in Detroit for smuggling stolen cars from South America. He skipped bail, but was arrested again in Miami for possession of two hundred pounds of marijuana. He served nearly two years at Danbury Correctional Institution, then in 1975 was put on a plane to Bogota.
In 1979, we learned that Doberman had purchased Norman's Cay in the Bahamas. He was listed as the president of Air Montes, a Bahamian
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corporation; but we were convinced that his real business was ferrying marijuana and cocaine from Colombia to the United States. He built a 3,300-foot runway protected by radar, bodyguards and namesake attack dogs. He also commanded a fleet of aircraft - some bought, according to an informant, through an associate of the Bahamas' Prime Minister. The allegation has not been proved, and the PM has denied any involvement with Doberman. While in the Bahamas, he lives in a sprawling villa. He owns a yacht, nineteen cars and four motorcycles. Another informant states that Doberman spends his time there with fugitive financier Robert Vescoe, wandering around Norman's Cay shooting automatic weapons at lizards and coconuts.
In 1981, he was suspected as the source of 1,197 pounds of cocaine seized in New Iberia, Louisiana. When Customs officials in Miami made the largest U.S. cocaine seizure ever - 3,800 pounds found in a shipment of blue jeans on a plane from Colombia - Doberman was once again suspected. In 1982, he and five other men were arrested in Cartegena for selling 6,450 pounds of cocaine paste. They were never convicted: two of the policemen who apprehended them were assassinated, and the arrest record disappeared from the courthouse. About that time he purchased a farm at La Tebaida, just outside the Colombian city of Armenia. He bought out a local newspaper, the Quinidia Libre, which he used to make strident attacks on U.S., British and Colombian officials. He also indulged
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his taste for wild parties and young men. At his private resort, the Hotel Posada Alemana, he built a discoteca dedicated to John Lennon; its centerpiece was a statue of Lennon, nude except for a helmet and a guitar - with a bullet hole through the heart. Young men flocked to his side, attracted by his movie-star looks and charisma.
Doberman has another bizarre obsession - Adolf Hitler. He recently called Hitler "the greatest warrior in history"; he also stated that all Jews killed by his father and other Nazis during World War II had "died only working in the fields and the factories." To forward his views he formed a fanatically nationalist political party, The Order. Hundreds of people went to Doberman's "patriotic Saturday" rallies - drawn, according to some reports, by five hundred and one thousand peso notes handed out at the gate. Doberman is also responsible for funding a right-wing paramilitary group called The Legion of Doom, which is charged with killing dozens of leftists and labor organizers; it is also said to number former police and military officials among its ranks.
After the Colombian President vowed to begin enforcing a two-year-old extradition treaty with the United States and England last spring, Doberman went underground. For two years the Colombian President has ignored the extradition treaty on the ground that it violated national sovereignty. But Doberman made the costly mistake of having the Colombian Justice Minister assassinated because of his public crusade against his drug
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smuggling. In April, hired killers headed by a Chinese hitman named Fuji Chen, machine-gunned the Justice Minister to death on a Bogota street. Doberman never claimed responsibility, but he is universally believed to have financed the assassination. The murder outraged many Colombians who had seen Doberman as an appealing hero battling against the country's entrenched elites. More important, it enraged the Colombian President, who at the Justice Minister's gravesite, vowed to uphold the treaty. He declared a state of siege and went on television to proclaim "a war without quarter" on Doberman.
Doberman has grown increasingly wealthy over the past few years - ostensibly in the "tourist development" business. He acquired extensive land holdings, built a huge soccer complex and collected a personal zoo. His mountaintop ranch in Puerto Vallarta features a small airstrip for shipping cocaine, along with several swimming pools, a fleet of motor launches and a bullring. He raises prize fighting bulls and was charged with smuggling 120 of them from Spain. Forced to retrench from Colombia, he has begun spending more time at his Puerto Vallarta ranch in Mexico, where he has acquired political influence. He has donated one million dollars to two main political parties and "owns" many of the officials, judges and policemen in Mexico.
In May, police and soldiers raided a hideout in the Llanos, Colombia's eastern plains, and found evidence that Doberman had been there; they also
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found bulldozers, barracks and laboratory facilities capable of processing six to ten tons of cocaine per month. Doberman was next sighted on May 28, by a drug pilot working undercover for the C.I.A. in Colombia. The agent said he saw Doberman and crew load more than six thousand pounds of cocaine onto a plane bound for Nicaragua. When that aircraft crashed, Doberman provided a Titan plane, according to the agent. The pilot flew the plane to Managua and handed the cocaine over to an aide to Nicaragua's Minister of the Interior.
Last month, Doberman brazenly invited a British Broadcasting television crew to meet him aboard his private yacht anchored in Puerto Vallarta's bay. He was surrounded by machine gun-toting bodyguards and looked eerily cool and self-confident in a sleeveless black shirt. He didn't deny being Colombia's premier drug trafficker, but he tried to portray himself as a revolutionary with a vision. He referred to cocaine as a "Latin American atom bomb" that would win respect from imperialists. He made a vague - and ideologically ambiguous - threat to join forces either with disgruntled military officers or with Colombia's Marxist M-19 guerrilla movement. He also bragged of escaping a recent government sweep through the inland.
PROPOSED PLAN OF ACTION: In conclusion, even if life has become a bit harder for Klaus Doberman, the odds against shutting him down remains overwhelming. We can only concede that at most, we can hope to keep Doberman off balance and
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prevent him from enlarging his empire. But as long as he can sell billions of dollars' worth of coke abroad - and as long as the domestic market for cocaine keeps expanding - he will have the money and clout he needs to fend off the government's attacks, which would most definitely be a long, costly and probably very bloody war.
Therefore, as the Head of the British Secret Service, I strongly recommend that Klaus Doberman be immediately "terminated" with extreme prejudice. (Signed "M.")
James Bond closed the file and pushed it back across the table to M., who immediately returned it to the inside pocket of his coat. "007, I'm at a stalemate, and you are our country's only hope in neutralizing the threat of Doberman."
Bond was flattered and warmly pleased that M. had come to him in this matter. But he shrugged his shoulders. "Doberman's a no good son-of-a-bitch without a doubt. But the Double-0 section has been disbanded and London knows quite well I'm retired."
For years, Bond's most important function in the British Secret Service was to perform the role of executioner for the government. The privilege of holding a Double-0 number meant that Bond had to kill people in the line of duty. It was something that he had accepted and was expected to perform without regret. Many times an assignment involved nothing but the elimination of an enemy operative. He had never liked killing people and when he had to he carried out the unpleasant task as best
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he could without second thought - but even Bond was not immune to the repercussions of this burden on his psyche. Luckily, Bond had a strong sense of patriotism and his loyalty to England was a strong motivating force in his attitude toward his profession.
M. crammed his pipe with fresh tobacco, lit it with a match and leaned forward in the bamboo chair, staring uncompromisingly into. Bond's eyes. "As far as I'm concerned, 007, you will remain 007. The Prime Minister has granted me full responsibility for your actions, and you will, as ever, accept orders and assignments only from me. There are times when our Queen and Country need a specialist and now is the time. Those damn fool politicians in Parliament can abolish the Double-0 section, but we'll simply change its name. It will now be the Special Services section and you are it. Understand, 007? Doberman can't do this to our agents and live to brag about it."
Bond was in an elated mood. To him, M. was the Service, and the Service was Bond's life. More importantly, Bond loved M. as a father. "I will hunt this man Doberman down and destroy him. If he finds he can get away with this kind of thing he'll decide the English people are as soft as some other people seem to think we are. This is a case for rough justice - an eye for an eye."
M. went on looking at Bond. He gave no further encouragement, made no further comments. What Bond would do was left unsaid. It was always left unsaid.
By the telepathy that marks the finest waiters in the very best hotels, Augustus was waiting for their order just as it appeared that they had completed their business.
Once more, Bond did the ordering - "I always have lobster done with coconut and lime juice, and avocado
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salad. Suit you, sir?"
M. nodded his approval.
"The usual, twice, Augustus. And bring us your best bottle of Dom Perignon with a side dish of Beluga caviar. We have some celebrating to do." Bond was as determined as ever, but with a renewed strength.
M grinned with a rare smile which seemed to light up the deep grey eyes and said with a sigh of relief, "Well, that's that. The bastard's back."
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-4-
Hide and Go Die
TURQUOISE BLUE WATERS WAVED WHITE GLOVED hands as they rolled onto the sands of Puerto Vallarta's coastline. Voluminous clouds frolicked across the sky and headed toward the Sierra Madres. On board his sailing vessel in Banderas Bay, Klaus Doberman meditated on what was truly a picture-postcard day.
The motor yacht, Buenaventura, was one hundred and twenty feet of luxury, built for Doberman with cartel funds, by the Italian constructors Picchoitti and Viareggio. With a hull of aluminum and magnesium alloy, two Baudoin seven-hundred-and-fifty horsepower diesel engines, Kohler generators, Naid stabilizers, the Buenaventura could move her seventy tons at a continuous running speed of sixteen knots. Superb electronics included: Sat-Com with Telex, autopilot, on-board computers that assisted the ship's management and relayed data to and from anywhere in the world.
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From the bridge of the yacht, Doberman watched as members of the cartel arrived for an emergency meeting called for seven o'clock in the evening. The men, for they were all men, came from all over Central and South America, ferried from the shore by small motorboats. They came singly and in pairs, at intervals during the late afternoon and evening. Each man had his allotted time for arriving at these meetings - so many minutes, up to two hours, before zero hour.
They dined magnificently at an elaborately set table. Pink and white Limoges china serving pieces held bacon-wrapper filet mignon, pommes au beurre and julienne carrots. Later, after the liquers and coffee, the twelve men who made up the cartel went into the spacious stateroom on the main deck.
The long room was decorated in soft blue. Heavy matching drapes covered the portholes which looked out onto the Pacific Ocean. The drapes were closed by the time the men strode, lounged, or sidled, each according to his character, to the polished oak table occupying most of the center of the room. It was set for twelve people, complete with blotters, drinks, pens, paper, ashtrays, and agendas.
Doberman took the place at the end of the table, while the others filed to their seats all marked with number cards, which were their only names. No greetings were exchanged. They were ruled by Doberman to be a waste of breath. They did not sit until their leader had taken the chair and then they sat still with expressions of sharpest interest.
And now Klaus Doberman gazed slowly around the faces of his eleven men, and looked for eyes that didn't
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squarely meet his left one. The ever-present black patch covered his right eye, but his left eye was a deep blue pool surrounded - totally surrounded, as Mussolini's were - by very clear whites. The doll-like effect of this unusual symmetry was enhanced by a long silken eyelash that should have belonged to a woman. The gaze of the soft doll's eye was totally relaxed and rarely held any expression stronger than a mild curiosity in the object of its focus. To the innocent it exuded confidence, a wonderful cocoon of confidence in which the observed one could relax, knowing that he was in comfortable, reliable hands. But they stripped the guilty and made him feel as transparent as an aquarium.
Doberman completed his inspection of the faces. As he had anticipated, only one pair of eyes had avoided contact. He had known he was right. The reports which he had checked had been entirely circumstantial, but his one good eye and his intuition had to be the seal. He slowly put his right hand under the table where it remained flat on his thigh.
"I am greatly pleased to inform you all of the sudden, but timely demise of Lieutenant-Colonel Bill Tanner of the British Secret Service," Doberman began in a soft, resonant, and very beautifully modulated voice. "His services to his Queen and Country will certainly not be missed by anyone at this table." Doberman looked mildly around the table. The same pair of eyes were evasive. He continued in a narrative tone of voice: "We will now proceed with the area of our financial reports. Number 7?"
The gentleman from Equador rose to his feet. He was a tall, dark man with immensely handsome features and a deep, husky voice that had charmed many a young woman
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in its time. "We have invested extensively in Central and South America," he said, "to promote insurgency and revolution. Fortunately, our capital outlay has been handsomely offset by the manufacture and resultant sale of the cocaine derivative, basuco. You will note that we have financed both terrorists and government forces on an equal basis. In matters of business, we are strictly impartial. Even with the destruction of the Chihuahua factory and the ten-thousand tons of marijuana it contained, our bank accounts in Switzerland, London, and New York have balances, respectively, of four-hundred-million dollars; fifty-million pounds sterling; and nine-hundred million dollars. The total, according to our calculations, will suffice for our present purposes, and if operations succeed according to budget - as Senor Doberman predicts - we can expect to double the amount in one year. This income, as each of you are aware, has been distributed in accordance with our charter as to ten percent for overheads and working capital, ten percent to Senor Doberman, and the remainder in equal shares of four percent to the members." He gave his most charming smile, and asked amiably, "Any questions?"
The assembled company sat back, satisfied. Each man had made his own calculation, knew his own mind.
Doberman's hand came down on the table. "Then so be it." His left eye moved down the length of the table and shot a look of disgust at Number 12. It was his eyes that had been evasive during the meeting. Doberman said softly, "Stand up, Number 12."
The head of the leading drug family in Guadalajara, a proud, chunky man with slow eyes, and dressed in a well-tailored Gianni Versace three-piece suit, got slowly to his
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feet. His big, rough hands hung relaxed at the seams of his trousers. The man stood facing Doberman at the far end of the table.
Doberman addressed the company. "We are a large and powerful organization. I am not concerned with morals or ethics, but members must be aware that I desire, and most strongly recommend, that this cartel conduct itself in a superior fashion. There is no discipline here among us except self-discipline. We are a dedicated fraternity whose strength lies entirely in the strength of each member. You are aware of my views in this matter, and on the occasions when cleansing has been necessary, you have approved my action." Doberman's voice had taken on a rasping edge. "The neutralization of our warehouse in Chihuahua was inexcusable. Particularly since you were responsible for security measures, Number 12. Be advised that your neglect and conscious disregard for the safeguarding of the Chihuahua operation cannot go unpunished. I have decided on the appropriate action." Doberman observed the sweat shining on the face of Number 12. Under the table, Doberman's right hand came off his thigh, found the mechanism he sought, and pulled the switch.
Number 12 felt the colour drain from his face as the mahogany floor beneath him opened up and swallowed his body like an erupting earthquake.
The room lights dimmed and a large projection screen stealthily glided down from the ceiling and suspended itself midair at the far end of the table. Instantly, the image of Number 12 appeared on the screen as he began to swim in the ocean with the jerky, head-above-water stroke of the untutored. His eyes rolled wildly, as he desperately searched for a way of escape from something not defined,
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but obviously terrible.
Doberman beamed, the hands coming together in a clap which sounded like a pistol shot. "This area of the Pacific, between Los Arcos and Quimixto, is well-known for its large, schools of barracuda. With their fierce and aggressive nature and long, powerful jaws, many Mexican fishermen fear them more than the shark. I've always wanted to see a barracuda eat a man whole."
A hundred yards away, the two barracudas sensed a change in the ocean's rhythm. They did not see Number 12, nor yet did they smell him. Running within the length of their bodies were series of thin canals, filled with mucus and dotted with nerve endings, and these nerves detected vibrations and signaled their brains. The barracudas turned toward the man.
Number 12 continued to swim away from the Buenaventura, stopping now and then to check his position by the houses on the beach. The tide was slack, but he was tiring, so he rested for a moment, treading water, and then started for the shore.
The vibrations were stronger now, and the barracudas recognized prey. The sweeps of their tails quickened, thrusting their six- and eight-foot bodies, respectively, forward with a speed that agitated the other small ocean life.
The barracudas closed on Number 12 and hurtled past, a dozen feet the the side and six feet below surface. He stopped swimming as he felt a wave of pressure. Feeling nothing further, he resumed his lurching stroke.
The barracudas smelled him now, and the vibrations - eratic and sharp - signaled distress. They began to circle close to the surface. Their tails, thrashing back and forth,
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cut the glassy surface with a hiss.
For the first time, Number 12 felt fear, though he did not know why. He guessed that he was fifty yards from shore. He could see the line of white foam where the waves broke on the beach. A tingling heat generated through his limbs, urging him to swim faster.
The barracudas were about forty feet from the man, off to the side, when they turned suddenly to the left, dropped entirely below the surface, and, with two quick thrusts of their tails hurtled themselves on their prey. Number 12 was overcome by a rush of nausea and dizziness as one of the barracudas severed his right leg neatly off with teeth as straight and cutting as a razor.
His groping fingers found a nub of bone and tattered flesh. He knew that the warm, pulsing flow over his fingers in the chill water was his own blood. And pain and panic struck together.
The other barracuda, with its extended and forceful jaws, snapped shut around the man's screaming head, crushing the skull and flesh and brain into a jelly.
The entire process took less than fifteen minutes, yet the group of twelve men remained fascinated, hypnotized. The two barracudas cut back through the dissipating cloud of blood, opening and closing their mouths, seining for a random piece of corpse.
"An interesting lesson for us all." Doberman's hands came together again, and the screen rose to its hideaway in the ceiling, the lights flickered back on. Some of the men around the table nodded their understanding. As usual, Doberman's reasoning made good sense, although some were visibly shaken at what they had witnessed. Doberman always exercised his authority, meted out justice, in
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full view of the members. Now they ignored what had just happened, settled in their chairs. It was time to get back to business...
Doberman's soft, even voice broke the silence. He looked down the table at each man. "Our sources in London have informed me that the British Secret Service has sent their best agent to investigate Senor Tanner's disappearance."
The men around the table waited, an air of expectancy permeating the room.
"His name is Commander James Bond."
The faces around the table hardened as the name struck a chord in their memories; all turned toward Doberman.
At last it was Number 3 who spoke: "You want me to put out a contract on Bond. I have men to-"
Doberman cut him short. "It has been tried before. No. No contracts; no specialists. This Commander Bond has a weakness for women and wine and a trap has been devised accordingly by our best team. Like the barracudas, we will strike when the time is right."
There were murmurs of grim agreement from around the table before Doberman, glancing at his gold, diamond-studded Omega watch, spoke again. "In fact, our bait should have been taken by now. Soon, gentlemen, Commander Bond will become a very extinct species."
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-5-
The Woman in the White Spyder
JAMES BOND SAW THE TWO MEN APPROACHING. THEY were tall, lean, darkly tanned Mexican men with white shirts open to show hairy, muscular chests, and khaki slacks. One man was taller with a completely shaven head, wearing a single gold pierced earring in his left lobe; the other - like so many men in Puerto Vallarta - had straight black hair with streaks of grey and a thick black mustache. They were the same men who had tailed him from his hotel the day before, sizing him up.
Bond stopped, fixing the bald man with a look that said: No.
The man stopped, answered his stare steadily.
Bond noted that the stanch, impressive stance had not quavered. This was a man with good nerves.
Bond tossed three one-thousand-peso notes onto the restaurant table to pay for his lunch, and turned his back on the two men - whoever they were. He stepped into the
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crowded shop-lined street fronting the Vallarta Bar and Grill, facing the beach. He looked around distastefully, blinking at the sunlight and turned toward his black Gemballa Porsche in the row of parked cars across the street.
He felt them behind him. He supposed they were trying to shake him up now by tailing him so closely. He pointedly ignored them.
Bond unlocked the personalized Porsche and slid behind the wheel. With fuel costs running high, and the inevitability that they would continue to do so, he had allowed the beloved old Mark II Continental Bentley to go the way of its predecessor, the 4.5 liter Bentley. Some eyebrows were raised at his choice of a foreign car, when all the pressure was on to buy British, but Bond shrugged it off by pointing to the fact that it was a British specialist firm which carried out the particularly complex and sophisticated personalization - such as the electronic dash and climate control, TV monitor road atlas, cellular phone, built-in safe, refrigerated ice box, six-hundred watt, six-way control, twenty-five-speaker Clarion sound system, and several other pieces of mighty microchip magic.
The Multinational Control System (MCS) company, added some of their own standard refinements. There were certain security devices that one could not fail to notice - such as the electric-tinted bullet proof glass, steel-reinforced ram bumpers, heavy-duty Pirelli P-7 tires, self-sealing even after being hit by bullets, and dart-firing electric sideview mirrors. There were other highly-advance modifications such as twin heat-seeking missile launching systems mounted behind the park lights, smoke
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screen, oil slick sprayer, satellite navigation system, rear mine bay and Chapman Burglar Protection System. Major Boothroyd of the Q Branch would have approved, and probably envied, Bond's choice of such a specialized automobile. But because of the disbandment of the Double-0 section and severe financial restraint of the Q Branch, Boothroyd had resigned from the British Secret Service and accepted an offer from the C.I.A.
With a top speed of two-hundred-and-eighty-five kilometers, the Porsche now suited Bond's purposes. The four-hundred-horsepower turbocharged engine could easily achieve zero to sixty in 4.7 seconds.
The bald man opened the driver's-side door of Bond's car and bent down to speak, smirking. Bond, in turn, slammed the corner of the car door into the side of the man's mouth, breaking several teeth. He fell on his rear, clutching his mouth, while blood ran between his fingers.
Bond was out of the car in a single quick motion, turning to face the others...
But the two men had now become six. They had signaled four of their associates while Bond had his back turned.
Bond shrugged.
The five other men were just thirty feet from him. They rushed him, and it took them only three seconds to come within reach.
In those three seconds, James Bond took note of several aspects of the situation: first, the men were not reaching for weapons, and anyway were too thinly clad to conceal guns, though there might be knives in thigh sheaths; second, there was the space of about a yard and a half between the cars, through which the men could come - only two could get at him at once, unless they came around
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behind; third, there was a man across the street running toward a pay phone in a way that was the same all over the world, his manner all official and self-important because he was calling the police; fourth, there was an aluminum oar affixed by an elastic rope to the roof of the VW on his right, beside a rubber boat; and fifth, he would have just enough time to get hold of the oar and use it.
So there was no need to go for the reliable Ruger Super Blackhawk .44 Magnum in a trick compartment under the front seat of the Porsche.
He'd unsnapped the elastic rope, leaned back, slid the oar off the roof, braced - in a second and a half, a blur to the men approaching him.
And just as he angled the oar at the man in the lead, he told himself: Don't kill them. The policia will be on the way.
He jabbed twice with the blade of the oar, charitably opting for the bellies in place of the throats; two men doubled up; but one behind them managed to get hold of the oar. Bond waited until the man had a film grip, then yanked the oar so that the thug fell facedown. Bond twisted the oar away and cracked those three on the sides of their heads with it, wielding it like a long-shafted hammer, crack crack crack in quick succession. They slumped, stunned. The remaining two hesitated, crouching, wary of Bond now. Bond heard the warble of approaching sirens... and he noticed a young woman sitting in an open Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder double-parked across the street. She was watching the fight with an air of rueful amusement. When she saw him looking at her, she smiled and inclined her head. She was tanned with blonde hair that hung straight and simple to the final inward curl below the chin. There was something pleasantly innocent
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about her despite her obvious pleasure in watching the fight. It took Bond less than two seconds to take in all this. Deciding he wanted to continue amusing her, he began to replace the oar on the roof of the car it had come from; he hummed like a tourist preparing for a trip to the beach, deliberately turning his back to the two men crouching a few yards behind and to the left, about to spring on him - but never really ignoring them. Bond was too professional to be overconfident.
He strapped the oar in place under the elastic rope. Whistling, he wished he had a cigarette, mostly it would make him seem even more absurdly relaxed if he were to light a cigarette, as the crouching thugs jumped him.
They jumped - and he was ready: he watched them from the corners of his eyes. He caught the first with his elbow, pile-driving it, crunching the man squarely between the eyes; an unpleasant shiver went through the bones of his elbow, but nothing broke - except the bridge of his assailant's nose.
The man fell back across the three Bond had stunned earlier, who were just getting to their knees, flattening them once more; he was out cold. The last one swung at Bond's kidney's; Bond had swiveled when he hit the other with his elbow, so the blow meant for his kidneys fell on his tensed leathery abdominal muscles - he hardly felt it. He caught the kidney puncher on the point of his jaw with a basic round-house right - the man staggered backward. Bond was surprised: he should have fallen. Bond waited. The man reeled, scowled beneath his thick black mustache, blinked twice - and fell. He toppled backward, atop the others, who were once again trying to stand - carrying them back down. The man whose teeth Bond smashed had
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bolted.
Nerves singing with adrenaline, Bond looked around for the police. He saw the blue VW Thing patrol car, its toylike gum ball lights flashing down the street. There were four uniformed officers in it, looking for him. They didn't see him deal with his attackers - too many cars blocked their view. Just when they drew near, when Bond thought sure they'd see the stunned men groaning between the cars, the blonde in the white convertible stood up and dropped her bikini top. She let it fall away from two beautiful firm breasts. Shoulders thrown back, breasts thrusting with every movement, she waved at the police. She had their full attention, so when they pulled up, they didn't see Bond or his victims. The eyes of the four policia were fixed on her faultless and deeply V-ed breasts. "That way!" she shouted in Spanish. "Down the road, there... at the end of the street... in the market! A man hitting another man with an oar! It was awful! Quick! Get him!" She pointed them away from Bond. "Muchas gracias, Senorita!" they shouted in unison. Tearing their eyes away from her, they drove on, siren yammering.
Bond sighed in relief. Local police were a complication. He preferred to work around them. He went to the white Spyder and said, "That was decent of you, getting rid of the policia. You saved me a great deal of trouble."
"It was my pleasure, Senor." Her English was clear, only mildly accented. "You were outnumbered, and you defended yourself with grace... ah, it was impressive. You made them look like fools."
Bond shrugged. "They challenged me at my own sport. They're probably good at bullfighting, and the time I tried I almost ended up with a horn permanently growing out of
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my stomach." He smiled.
She laughed. A sweet, honest laugh. "Everyone is equal in the end, that is true. You know, someone may have noticed your license plate. I can give you a lift and you can send for your car when it's safer for you."
"Like me, the car can take care of itself. But thanks."
She seemed to hesitate. Then, as she replaced her bikini top - taking her time, Bond noted, though he tried not to stare - she said, "If you're in trouble and you need a secluded place to stay, there's a hotel in Careyes called Posada La Brissa. I recommend it."
And she drove off, with the sexy boom of the car's twin exhausts desperately seeking to seduce Bond into hot pursuit.
He returned to the Porsche, stepping over his assailants. They were just beginning to rise, rubbing their bruises. He settled back into the leather-covered Recaro seat, started the car, and reached for a switch on the dashboard which activated the revolving license plate mechanism.
[* * * * * *]
Wishing for a real cigarette, Bond drove between the ocean and the Sierra Madres. He took long, slow breaths to calm himself, but it didn't help much because he was thinking about the woman in the white Spyder. The woman with the blonde hair and blue eyes. And the big brown breasts. A little too much like Tracy, perhaps. And the memory brought a stab in his gut.
Tracy - his wife of only a few hours when Ernst Stavro Blofeld so viciously gunned her down on the Autobahn from Munich to Kufstein, as they were heading for their
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honeymoon. Bond thought of the other women who had played such a decisive role in his Service career. Vesper Lynd, who in death, had been molded like a stone effigy; Gala Brand, now Mrs. Vivian, with three kids and a nice house in Richmond - they exchanged Christmas cards but he had never seen her again after the Drax business; Honey Rider, Tiffany Case; Domino Vital; Solitaire; Pussy Galore; Mary Goodnight; the exquisite Kissy Suzuki. Again and again his thoughts turned to Tracy di Vecenzo - Tracy Bond.
He looked in his rearview mirror, expecting to see a police car. None yet. He drove lazily on, musing, following the curving coast road north. Watching the ocean to his right go from aquamarine to indigo as the night came on.
He realized that something was worrying him. Something just coming in the forefront of his mind. It was the way the car behaved. It swung out a bit too much on the curves. Just fractionally too much. It might be the tires, of course, or the alignment, but he hadn't noticed it before. It was as if there were too much weight in the car. Just as if... as if there were someone heavy crouched behind the front seat.
Bond was just about to hit the brakes hard, which he hoped would disorient whoever it was, throw the person off balance long enough for him to get his Walter PPK out, when someone pressed the cold muzzle of a gun against the back of his neck.
"All right, Limey. Stop here unless you want lead for dinner," said a deep, vaguely familiar voice.
Bond pulled over at the next shoulder, atop an ocean cliff.
He looked in the rearview mirror... but the man was
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positioned so that, looking in the mirror, all Bond could see was a big white-toothy grin.
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-6-
Lotta Head
"GET THE HELL OUT OF THE CAR, JAMES. VERY SLOWLY and cautiously."
Bond complied - he could almost feel the man's finger twitching on the trigger.
He slid out of the Porsche, wondering if, after all these years, this was how it would end: executed on the edge of a cliff and thrown into the Pacific. Well, it was a picturesque spot, really; little yellow wildflowers around the edge of the cliff; the shadows of the headlands reaching across white beaches; the first few stars showing above the deepening orange of the sunset...
Not a bad place to die.
But all the time he was trying to see the man in the reflection on the windshield, hoping he would see him look away just for a second, long enough to duck the gun muzzle, whirl, and kick.
Bond stood beside the car, glanced at the windshield,
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and for a moment could only stare with blank disbelief into the grinning, hawklike face of his old friend from the C.I.A. "Felix Leiter, you bastard," he finally said.
Leiter laughed, and the gun clattered on the hood of the car, thrown casually aside.
Exhaling windily, Bond turned and gazed at the tall thin American who came forward with a wide grin, his hand outstretched, to where Bond stood rooted with astonishment. "You crooked spy, how the hell are you?" Bond grasped the black glove which covered an artificial limb.
Leiter examined the Englishman affectionately. "I'm as mean as a rattlesnake going through menopause. They've fixed me up with the latest thing in artificial limbs. I've got an incredible new hand, which can do anything. I spend a lot of time shooting and practicing quick-draw techniques like Roy Rogers."
In a split-second, Bond relived the time in his life he would rather banish into oblivion - the time when Felix had lost an arm and a leg, as well as suffering other damage which called for years of work by plastic surgeons. James Bond often blamed himself for Felix Leiter's predicament, though they had both been after a black gangster whose sadistic madness was an almost unique danger. Buonaparte Ignace Gallia: Mr. Big. In any case, as Felix would have been the first to admit, he was lucky to be alive at all after the shark attack engineered by Mr. Big; while Bond took consolation in the fact that, in the end, he had put the gangster away for good - and in the most unpleasant way possible, letting the punishment fit the crime. Bond shook his head ruefully. "Goddamn, Felix, you've got a bizarre sense of humor!"
Leiter's laugh still had the fun and impetuosity that
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Bond had always warmed to, trusted, and admired. He leaned back against the car, crossing his arms. "It was not humor, James, old buddy, not entirely - I was afraid you would break my face first and then look to identify this face later, you see? I had to get you out of the car and out of arm's reach before I felt safe. I know you to be a hair-trigger man, James Bond."
"What the hell's the idea of hiding in the car?"
Leiter laughed and took two Camels from his shirt pocket. He offered one to Bond, who accepted happily. Bond lit both cigarettes with his battered black Ronson lighter. Leiter blew grey smoke at the ocean. "Ah, James, it was partly a little humor, yes - you know I love my little jokes. But you know, I sent those beach bums to look for you, to ask you to come to see me. Hell, that's the only reason there were so many of them - so they could split up and find you quickly, you see? But when one found you, he called the others over, and... he misunderstood me, poor boy. He was supposed to ask you politely to come."
"All you lying Texans are alike. You must have been nearby. You knew where I was - you were hoping that little `misunderstanding' would happen."
Leiter showed his big white teeth in a grin; the last rays of the setting sun caught a glimpse of metal in his arm and glimmering on it. "Ah, well, perhaps it's true. Those boys have annoyed me so much, strutting about Vallarta, and it was so amusing to watch."
"And you sneaked into the backseat while they had me occupied," Bond snorted. "For a moment you almost had me feeling a little nervous."
"Nervous, I'd say!" Leiter laughed scornfully. "You were as nervous as a whore in a church!"
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Bond looked at the American with delight and added up his impressions. There were imperceptible scars below the hairline above the right eye that suggested a good deal of grafting, but otherwise Leiter looked in reasonable shape. The steady eyes were undefeated, the straw-coloured hair had no hint of grey in it and there was none of the bitterness of a cripple around the mouth.
Bond threw down the butt of the Camel, got in the driver's seat, closed the door, and started the motor. He sat hunched behind the wheel, glowering up at Leiter. "Get in, goddamn you; get in and tell me why you're here."
As Leiter walked to the passenger's side of the car, Bond noticed that his old friend had a decided limp. There was also a hint of reticence in Leiter's manner, and Bond felt this had something to do with him, Bond, and perhaps with Leiter's present activities. Certainly not, he thought as he threw the car into reverse, with Leiter's injuries. Then Bond shifted gears, swung into the road and screeched off down the highway...
[* * * * * *]
"Don't tell me they've put you on this job?" Bond said as they cruised inland toward Careyes.
Leiter slit open a fresh pack of Camels with his thumbnail and handed it to Bond. "You said it. That's exactly what they done. What a break! At least it is for me. C.I.A. thought we did all right together on the Scaramanga job, so they hauled my ass away from an assignment in Paris to the Joint Intelligence people in Washington and here I am. I'm sort of liaison between the Central Intelligence Agency and our friends at the Drug Enforcement Agency. It's their case, of course - at least the American
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end of it is - but as you know there are some big multinational angles which are the C.I.A.'s territory, so we're running it jointly. Now you're here, James, to handle the British end and the team's complete."
"Well, I'm damned," said Bond, once again lighting one cigarette for himself and another for Leiter. "Of course, that old devil M. never told me. He just gives one the facts. Never tells one any good news. I suppose he thinks it might influence one's decision to take a case or not. Anyway, it's grand to be working together again."
Leiter sighed and exhaled the Camel's grey smoke through his clenched teeth. "Sorry to hear about Bill. I know you two were the best of friends."
Bond's eyes clouded slightly, as though he had suffered a quick physical pain. When he spoke, the voice was low and husky. "I'm here for only one reason, Felix, and that's to kill Klaus Doberman."
Leiter raised his eyebrows. "That son of a bitch? Now, there categorically, I've got to admit, is a man who deserves death, and quickly. The trouble is, he is so goddamn wealthy and he uses his money to keep himself well protected. He's got the best bodyguards in the world, they say. And he himself is a formidable fighter. Always armed, always suspicious."
Bond glanced at Leiter. "The best bodyguards in the world, you say? I suppose he's hired Chen and Huggins?"
Leiter nodded.
Bond was secretly pleased. Suddenly the boredom, for months eating at him like rust eating the hull of a ship, had vanished. "I'll probably get my ass blown away," he reflected.
"I'll cover your ass - from a safe distance." Leiter said.
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"You always were a lot of help," Bond answered sarcastically.
"Major Boothroyd asked if you'll need the usual equipment?"
Bond frowned and shook his head in bewilderment. "Times have certainly changed, Felix. We'll talk about the equipment over drinks. I have to think about it. Depends on where Doberman's holed up, for one thing. Is he at his mountaintop ranch or on the yacht?"
"He's on the Buenaventura anchored a few hundred meters offshore, not far from here."
"And where are you staying?"
"The Hotel Plaza Vallarta."
"You're checking out of that fleabag," Bond demanded.
"Where are we staying?"
"At the hotel in Careyes called the Posada La Brissa." Bond smiled to himself, daydreaming of the blonde in the white Spyder convertible. "It comes highly recommended."
Leiter laughed. "Same old James. What's her name?"
[* * * * * *]
The next morning, as Bond made arrangements at the front desk of Posada La Brissa to take a room for two weeks, he saw the woman. The woman with the deep blue eyes and quick wits and perfect sun-ripened breasts. Today she wore a sheer gold bikini and a white scarf holding her blonde hair back. She strolled past him without a glance, he thought: Good. Don't get distracted from your assignment. He signed over a traveler's check, then turned away from the front desk and headed for the door. He was mildly surprised to find her at the door waiting for him.
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Don't get distracted. He smiled at her and said, "Good morning." And putting on his sunglasses, he stepped past her out the door. He paused to look around for Leiter. Damn him, he was late... The hotel was a sprawling Spanish structure with white stucco and roofed with red tiles; it was set atop a low ridge and surrounded by palm trees and cacti with red blooms. To the left was a small goldfish pond, the water deep green with algae, lilies opened white on its surface.
"Lilies are sexy, don't you think?" the woman asked him casually, coming up from behind.
"Yes, they are. Where did you learn to speak English so well?"
"My parents. They're Americans. They own the place. What beach are you going to?"
"What?" Bond was startled.
"You're wearing a bathing suit and a T-shirt - you look very macho in them - and I'm wearing a bathing suit, so why don't we swim?"
"Ah, I'd love to. I can't though. Got to see a gentleman about a boat." He started to walk away into the constantly churning background of the Mariachi with its music of love between men and women.
"Bond!" the woman called after him.
He came to an abrupt halt and swung to face her.
The fear showed in her face - when she saw what was in his.
"Who are you?" he demanded, his fingers closing an the butt of the Walther PPK hidden in his rolled beach towel. "How did you know my name?" He'd signed the register Charles Crawford.
The beach towel was tucked under Bond's left arm; he'd
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slipped his right hand into its folds.
How could she be working for them, he thought. But almost anyone could be.
"I know your name," she said haltingly, staring at his beach towel, "because..." she lowered her voice. Glanced around. They stood on the sun-washed terrace between the lobby doors and the parking lot. "Because my father has bugged some of the rooms. He's a little perverted, my father, I'm afraid. He likes to listen when people are making love. There's one in your room, and I listened when you went in there to talk to the other man called Felix. I wanted to find out what you're doing around here. I heard him call you Bond. And he's going to bring some guns today, and some spying equipment, and you're doing something secret. And it's not safe."
Bond relaxed a little and took his hand away from the gun. He believed her. He'd have to clean the microphones from his room immediately. What to do about the woman? Most men in his position would have killed her. But Bond wasn't like most "professionals." Still, last night in Bond's room, Leiter had mentioned the location of the temporary anchorage of the Buenaventura. So she'd know the objective, in a general way. If he ditched her, she'd probably follow him there, if he was any judge of character.
There was no choice - he had to enlist her.
Or was it, he wondered, just an excuse to get to know her more intimately?
"What's your name?"
"My name's Lotta."
"Lotta what?"
She smiled beguilingly. "Lotta Head."
Bond gave her an astonished look. "You are joking, of
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course?"
"No, I'm serious. My father named me after the wild night of lovemaking between he and my mother in which I was conceived."
"Your mother must have made your father a very happy man," Bond replied, trying to suppress a smile.
She moved closer to him and stood so near he could smell the Chanel No. 5; he thought he might fall into her deep blue eyes. "Bond... let me help you."
"You don't even know what I'm doing. You might not like it."
"Then tell me and let me be the judge."
He shook his head. "Not now. Maybe later, Lotta. If you promise not to get in my way today, I'll tell you tomorrow."
"Get in your way! You're a sexist, Mr. Bond! I would be a big help to you!"
"Please call me James. And besides, anyone, any gender, would get in my way. Even Felix won't be in close when... Look, forget it. But I'll talk to you tonight, okay?"
Leiter was just driving up, watching the scene with open amusement from the air-conditioned interior of the Porsche.
"See you later, Lotta." And he got in the car with Leiter. "You bring everything, Felix?"
Leiter gestured toward Lotta who was strutting back into the hotel. "I think I should ask that young lady if you've got everything."
"I haven't had any complaints so far," Bond answered, smirkingly. Then his disposition returned to a more serious nature. "You didn't answer my question."
"All that had arrived from Major Boothroyd. Some will take a couple of more days."
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"I may not need them. I may get lucky and finish today. Let's head for the anchorage and have a closer look at the Buenaventura."
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-7-
Twice Removed
IT WAS MONDAY AFTERNOON: THE CURVING WHITE sand beach of Careyes wasn't crowded. The few inhabitants that took advantage of the unspoiled environment were sunbathing or relaxing; horseback riding or parasailing. At the far end of the secluded beach were thousands of leatherback turtles which came each summer for centuries to lay their eggs.
Leiter parked the Porsche in an isolated corner of the shady tree-edged parking lot. Bond took the gargantuan suitcase from the trunk and with a quiet pleasure looked over its contents.
There were two disassembled rifles, one submachine gun, two pistols, and various special-purpose commando knives. The rifles were a Heckler & Koch FN-FAL semiautomatic assault rifle using 7.62 ammunition, and an M-LA Match rifle; the Match rifle was a World War II-vintage semiautomatic, the more accurate of the two, with
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very close tolerances and sniper-scope attachment. Beneath the rifles were an Ingram Mac 10 submachine gun, 9mm, not much bigger than a Colt .45, and the pistols, an AMT .22 backup pistol so small Bond could hide it in the palm of his hand, and a.25 caliber automatic Beretta. With its extended spur on the magazine, the Beretta had snagged in Bond's jacket during his Russian assignment. And just before his encounter with Dr. No., M. and Major Boothroyd made him turn in the pistol, calling it a "lady's" gun. But after fifteen years, Bond was loathe to give up his faithful Beretta for the Walther PPK 7.6mm. The Beretta was light. Discreet. And damned effective at close range. Simply put, it got the job done. Bond's Beretta was like a natural extension of his arm, doubtlessly increasing the lethality of the weapon in his hands.
Bond stared at the Beretta with blank disbelief; "So you even got the Beretta - great piece of iron. Flatter projectory, better penetration, and its got that extra round. Thanks, Felix old buddy," Bond said to his associate. "How did you get everything so quickly?"
Leiter laughed. "I already had most of it. Major Boothroyd knows what you go for. He said for you to try to be a little less than your usual frivolous self, 007, and treat the equipment with equal care instead of equal contempt."
"One fool deserves another, I guess. He always found this business of equipping me in the field highly irregular," Bond snorted. "How about the tricks of the trade?"
"The radar equipment and night-seers will take longer, but here is the soundscope. The small belt-attachment variety," Leiter explained as he handed Bond a small black object that looked much like the detached lens of a 35mm camera.
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Bond toyed with the gadget in the palm of his hand. "Come on. Let's go hear what Mr. Doberman has to say."
[* * * * * *]
The beach was horseshoe-shaped, cupped by two tree-thatched headlands; the water was translucent blue and fairly calm. A couple of cabin cruisers were anchored about forty yards out, and at the mouth of the little bay the Buenaventura rocked at anchor - about a hundred yards from where Bond and Leiter sat on a boulder, in the shade of a viney cliff.
Bond peered through a pair of rugged compact binoculars supplied by Major Boothroyd. The secret for their brightness and power was precision-ground roof prisms which channeled light through a condensed optical path. They magnified distant objects ten times with remarkably high resolution and a wide field of view (262 feet at 1000 yards). And despite their shirt-pocket size, the binoculars' innovative long eye relief design provided increased distance between them and the eyes - for maximum viewing comfort, even while wearing glasses or sunglasses. Magnesium flouride coated lenses blocked reflected glare. A vulcanized rubber armor protected the strong aluminum alloy housing. With a precise center wheel focusing and fold back rubber eyecups for flexibility and comfort, the binoculars only weighed twelve ounces.
"I see three guys on deck, two of them armed, looking like pros, one some sort of deckhand. No sign of Doberman." He passed the binoculars to Leiter.
"They might well be ashore," mused Leiter. "Or still asleep belowdecks - that's the biggest yacht I've seen since I left Texas."
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Bond chuckled and glanced at his gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual Chronometer. Nine-thirty A.M. "Yeah, they're probably late sleepers."
"Are you taking the scuba equipment?" Leiter asked, still eyeing the yacht.
"No, just a mask and snorkel - if that's Chen on deck, he'll keep his eye on the water. If he sees something that looks like scuba bubbles, he'll get suspicious... And there are lots of people swimming with snorkels here. So the guards are used to that... How long they here for?"
"Perhaps another day. Then they go to his ranch. A small castle, really, on a tip of the Sierra Madres overlooking the ocean. A fortification - harder to get to Doberman there."
Bond's eyes narrowed with a hint of revenge. "Then I'll get him here."
He stood, and strapped on a belt containing a commando knife and the small soundscope, a device for knowing what's on the other side of a wall - or a hull. He pulled on the surgical-grade, lightweight diving mask, and equally lightweight, flexible fins, bit down on the self-draining snorkel, and slipped into the water.
He entered another world. It was cool and blue - four or five shades of blue - and shot through the shivering light shafts. The outcropping of volcanic rock was pitted, crusted with mussels and sea urchins, waving with purple and lime-green seaweed, flowery with sea anemones. Schools of yellow-stripped fish grazed the seaweed; clouds of purple minnow-sized fish broke up the light confetti.
Bond enjoyed the swim, skimming along near the surface, feeling almost as if he were flying, so effortlessly did he move through the balm-cool waters. The new diving
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mask and snorkel represented the cutting edge in underwater wear technology. Molded of allergy-tested silicone and comfortable, they were virtually immune to the effects of sunlight, saltwater and age. The mask was anatomically curved and its low-volume design insured easy clearing. Optical-grade lenses were angled at ninety-degrees to minimize distortion and reflection. The snorkel had a large diameter one-way valve which automatically purged ninety-percent of trapped water when Bond surfaced, reducing fatigue. The tube-tab mouthpiece swiveled three-hundred-and-sixty-degrees and the collapsible tooth lugs conformed to individual bite, eliminating jaw fatigue. Its elastomeric barrel was as flexible as neoprene, but three times more tear resistant. The fins were engineered to generate the greatest kicking power with the least effort. Unlike a stiff, heavy rubber fin, Bond's fins were molded polyurethane which caused the blades to fold down on the upkick to reduce water resistance, and snap open for full power on the downstroke. Lighter than rubber and only weighing twenty-four ounces, the fins were so comfortable thay made Bond feel like he was not wearing anything on his feet at all.
There was nothing sinister in the waters - except men. Two snorkelers swam side by side, with spearguns in hand, their skins ghostly blue-white underwater, about twenty yards off. But they were looking for fish - their spearguns weren't the big "industrial-sized" sort men used to hunt other men in the sea.
Bond swam with occasional kicks, strokes of his arms: he'd kick, stroke, and coast. He'd move through the grottoes, over patches of rocks and spreads of white sand that rippled with the wave-shaped rainbow patterns
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refracted from the surface. Gradually the water got a little more turbulent, as he passed the sheltering arms of the headlands. He could see a white fizzing above and left where the surf smacked the rocks, marking the end of the bay water. A shadow loomed: the hull of the Buenaventura.
The yacht was fairly new, there were only a few barnacles on the white-painted hull. He swam close, hoping he was right that the guards, if they spotted his snorkel tube, were used to seeing them. But maybe not this far out from shore. He shrugged off that worry and dived, holding his breath. He kicked to the rudder, held on there with one hand, with the other removing the soundscope from his belt and holding it on the hull. He pressed the button on the scope's side and moved forward to a position just under the tea deck, where he repeated the process. And again just under the bow. His lungs nearly bursting, he kicked off from the hull, heading toward shore. He tucked the scope into his belt.
Later, ashore, he'd read off the sonar signals recorded by the soundscope. They'd tell him how many rooms there were in the boat, about how thick the hull was - and how many people were belowdeck. The sound waves bounced around inside the boat, and some returned, altered; from the difference between the original send and the return signal, it was possible to calculate fairly closely what the sonar waves had come into contact with.
Bond swam to the surface about twenty yards from the boat, sputtered, and cleared his snorkel. Biting down an the mouthpiece, he kicked off once more toward shore, thinking: Maybe I'll blow a small hole in her, sink her, give it time so everyone can get safely in a boat. And then I can separate the innocents from the targets once they're ashore.
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Maybe tonight.
He paused in his swimming, floating to listen: he'd heard a sound he didn't like.
It took him a moment to identify it. He had to separate it from the various eerie noises and the rasping, repetitive sound of his own breathing. There: the sound of an outboard motor, coming his way. From behind. From Doberman's yacht.
They'd seen his snorkel, and someone had become suspicious. Probably Chen, who'd decided it was unlikely a snorkel swimmer would wander so far from shore. Maybe he'd recognized Bond through binoculars when he'd come to the surface to clear his lungs.
Bond looked over his shoulder - the boat was speeding toward him, just ten yards behind. He veered off sharply to the left. The boat changed course to intersect him. It was him they were after, all right.
Bond spate out the snorkel, took a deep breath, and dived. He swam furiously to the right, as deeply as he could bear it. He heard a thud-shush and looked up - the boat was nearly overhead, idling, and someone had dived overboard. The diver was an ominous silhouette against the scattered light of the surface. Whoever it was wore a scuba tank, flippers, face mask - and carried one of the "special" spearguns.
The sort used for hunting men.
Bond dived deeper, till the pressure brought a pounding in his temples, and found a turret-shaped outcropping of volcanic rock. He swam hastily, his lugs beginning to ache, to put the jutting pitted black rock between himself and the man with the speargun.
He looked up, spotted the diver making straight for him;
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the diver was just five yards off, coming from above at a forty-five-degree angle. Bond drew his commando knife and looked around, wondering if he could outswim the other man, and thinking: One year out of action, doing calisthenics and keeping my hand at the firing range and thinking it was enough. It wasn't.
Now the killer in the red bathing suit, speargun gleaming dully in his hand, was close enough so his face was visible through the glass of the diving mask. Bond knew him - he could see the scar. He'd put it there with a broken bottle one night, when his other weapons had been taken. Paul Huggins. Former British Secret Service agent. Former friend. Former SPECTRE hit man. Now a traitor and bitter enemy.
Huggins was only three yards off now, and raising the speargun to shoot past the rock. He knew it was Bond, and he probably looked forward to killing the man who'd taken his eye. He was grinning under the breathing apparatus.
Bond could see Huggins' finger twitching on the trigger - and the speargun spat bubbles and steel. Bond jerked aside, timing it. The spear hit the rock close behind him. With spears, unlike bullets, there was a moment for an artful man to dodge.
Bond snatched up the spear with one hand, his long commando knife in the other, and kicked off from the rock, lunging through the water at Huggins' torso.
Huggins' speargun carried three twenty-inch spears, and one had been shot. He cocked the gun to shoot the second as Bond closed with him. Bond angled to come from Huggins' left, his blind side. A spear was pointing directly at his liver, from within arm's reach. Bond brought his knee up to deflect it, just as Huggins fired. He caught
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the spear mid-shaft with his knee, turning it aside, and he felt a biting pain at his ear.
Bond - eyesight obscured by dark splotches as his brain begged for oxygen, his lungs screaming - jabbed the captured spear at Huggins' side. It deflected from the scuba tank as Huggins twisted to get at him. Bond dropped the spear, swung the knife at Huggins' throat - but the water resistance prevented his moving swiftly. Huggins brought the speargun up to block the knife. They were too close now for the speargun to be useful for anything else.
Bond clawed at Huggins' breathing apparatus, got his fingers around the rubber tube, and yanked.
The rubber mouthpiece came free, vomiting bubbles. Huggins got hold of Bond's wrist, tried to bend it backward, and with his other arm brought the speargun in close, hoping to tilt it at a usable angle.
Bond was near blacking out from lack of air. He had to finish it now. He dragged the knife away from the speargun, giving Huggins an opportunity to point the spear at him. But before Huggins could find a shooting angle, Bond had driven his knife through the rubber fitting at the side of Huggins' face mask, digging the blade into the killer's remaining eye.
Bond thought he heard the man scream - in the water the scream was just a muffled whimper followed by an eruption of bubbles.
Instinctively Huggins' dropped his speargun and let go to claw at his gore-spouting eye socket. The water in several shades of blue became, in a cloud around them, a single shade of red.
Bond withdrew the knife and plunged it once more - this time into Huggins' throat. He thrashed, deepening the
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blood cloud's shade of red, and Bond kicked free of him, heading to the surface.
Yes, dammit, he thought, the son-of-a-bitch is dead now.
Bond broke from the water, gasping for air and watching out for the enemy boat.
Funny - he didn't see it...
He swam toward shore. Behind him, Paul Huggins' body bobbed to the surface, floating limply.
Bond swam quickly to the nearest outcropping of rock beneath the headland's outermost cliff face. Breathing raggedly, he clambered up onto the boulders and made his way, slipping now and then, to the little path that led up into the palm trees, around to the right of the cliff.
Minutes later he was walling along the patch in the shade of the palm trees, cursing himself. You blew it, you blew it, you blew it.
Doberman would be warned now. He might leave the country entierly. Bond shrugged. Hell he'd follow.
He turned a bend in the trail, saw Leiter limping toward him. He was carrying Bond's towel, and shaking his head. "Goddamn, James, looks like somebody wanted to see how your ear tasted."
Bond looked at Leiter, was struck by the odd look on his scarred face. Leiter seemed to be looking at someone behind Bond - someone he wasn't happy to be seeing, judging by his expression.
Bond casually reached out and took the rolled towel from Leiter. He tucked it unconcernedly under his left arm - and slipped his right hand into the towel, gripping the butt of the Beretta wrapped it in, thinking: The boat must have come ashore somewhere. Whoever was in it hid in the rocks, then followed me up the trail to look for a secluded
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spot...
They stood between high boulders in a copse of palms. A secluded spot.
Very slowly Bond turned till he found he was staring into the muzzle of a submachine gun in the capable hands of a professional killer.
Bond smiled, and he hoped it was a "disarming" smile. "Well, hello, Chen," he said. "Good to see you. On the Mexican Riviera for a little R and R? Or..." he glanced at the submachine gun. It was an Israeli Uzi, ostensibly - but Chen always customized his weapons. He'd probably reset the sights, updated the feeding mechanism. Bond always admired Chen's handiness as a gunsmith. "Or for a little target practice?"
Bond raised his eyes to meet Chen's, and it wasn't much different from looking down the barrel of a gun. You felt, looking into Chen's almond slits of eyes, unwavering as steel, that you were looking down the double barrels of a shotgun. The rest of Chen's face was less threatening, marked by weather, deeply tanned from the Mexican sun. Bond hadn't seen him in four years, he hadn't aged much. Must be about forty by now. He was clothed in black from head to toe in the ancient Ninja uniform. Over one shoulder he'd slung a canvas bag, in case he needed to conceal the machine gun. The only visible scars were on Chen's knuckles.
"You know why I'm here," Chen said softly. He stood about two yards from Bond. He was a head shorter, so the gun was tilted up: a twitch of his finger and it would stitch half a dozen holes across Bond's chest. His hands were rock steady. He smiled faintly. His eyes flicked past Bond to Leiter. "Your friend had better stand real still. If he
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thinks I'm going to miss him because I'm going to shoot you first..."
"He won't miss, Felix. No matter how fast you jump," Bond said calmly. He said it calmly, but his heart was pounding; he seemed to hear his blood sizzling in his veins. He had to stay externally cool - if he tensed, it might make Chen nervous. And Chen's gun was never on safety - he filed the safety mechanism off his guns. "I assure you," Bond went on, playing for time, "The guy can handle that thing. And don't forget that deep down inside his pockets he has weapons like spikes and throwing stars which he can throw as fast as-"
"That's enough stalling, Bond," Chen clipped.
"You're not going to blow me away, Chen. You're not that kind of mercenary. You're the soldier kind. Not the butcher kind." But Bond was no longer sure of that. He'd heard that Chen had gone sour on life, had stopped caring about whom he worked for or what he did for them. And the fact he worked for Klaus Doberman now was proof.
"I could have killed you before you turned around," Chen pointed out. "I would have. But Doberman wants you brought back alive, if possible. You pissed him off, killing Huggins. He valued Huggins."
Maybe someone would come up the trail, Bond thought. Chen wouldn't want to blow his boss's cover by killing them in front of a crowd. Sooner or later the police would connect it with the big yacht. But if no one came, Chen might blow them away and then hide the bodies in the brush.
Chen snarled. "Are you coming, or do I bring your head back to show Doberman I got 007 for him?"
"So that's the way it is?"
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"That's right."
Bond dropped his smile. "Now don't get jumpy - because I'm not going to use the gun unless you make me."
Chen didn't ask: What gun? His eyes flicked to the rolled towel under Bond's arm and to Bond's right hand hidden in the folds of that towel.
"Now you're wondering if I'm bluffing," Bond began. "Well..."
"Now that you mention it," Chen said wearily, "I can see the outline of the gun in the towel. But it isn't pointed at me."
"No. But you used to make bets with people about my reflexes. Remember that little bet in Hong Kong? You bet a guy I could shoot three dimes with a.45 before they hit the ground. Remember? You tossed three dimes in the air over your head - you trusted me that much, because they weren't far over your head. And-"
"I remember," Chen had to grin.
"Want to bet now that I couldn't whip this gun around and drill you before your little Uzi puts an end to me? Sure, you'd hit me first - but I'm betting that in the two seconds before I died I'd plug you. What do you say?" Bond's voice was dead soft. "Fifty bucks?"
Chen's grip on the gun tightened; his knuckles went white; a muscle jumped in his cheek. The tension would have screamed if it had a mouth.
Bond heard Leiter shift uneasily. Dammit, Felix, Bond thought, stay still! Don't move or you'll make him go for it!
Very slowly, Chen lowered the submachine gun. He smiled crookedly. "Bond, you are a dirty son-of-a-bitch. I guess you know it goes both ways. You try to use that pistol..."
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Bond nodded. "I know. You'd get me." He took a step backward.
Chen smiled grimly. "You think too much of yourself, Bond." And with that he backed behind a boulder and was gone from sight.
Bond and Leiter hurried down the trail and were quickly among the crowd on the beach. Someone was shouting that there was a dead man floating in the surf. Huggins' body. How could Doberman explain that? Probably pretend the guy had never been with him.
They trudged back to the Porsche, Leiter looked nervously at the brush. "He could have skirted us, could be waiting for us at the car, James. Chen's like a bad Bruce Lee."
"I don't think so," Bond said. "It was sort of understood a truce till we got back to our home camps. But that'll be the last truce. He won't give me another chance for another Mexican standoff. He'll tell Doberman I got away - and then he'll tell him all about me." Bond sighed. "So Doberman will be ready."
"He'll go to his ranch," Leiter said, nodding.
"It'd be smarter for him to leave the country."
"He's got an important meeting here within the next few days and he'll consider himself well-protected in a fortress like his ranch."
"The funny thing about a fortress," Bond said, getting into the Porsche, "is that it can trap you as well as protect you. And assaulting fortified positions is one of my specialities."
"Yes, indeed," Leiter said, chuckling. "I've seen you at work with the reluctant ladies. They don't remain reluctant for long."
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Bond grinned and thought about Lotta. There was nothing reluctant about her. But there was lots of charm. She probably had some surprises in store for him. Women usually did.
"What's this meeting Doberman's waiting for?" Bond asked as Leiter started the car.
"I haven't been able to find out - except that it involves a representative from another country and not a member of the cartel. Prehaps a new business partner, eh?"
The car tooled smoothly between the hills, whipping around ribboning curves on its way back to Posada La Brissa. Bond didn't say a word till they got there. He was brooding on strategy. He was completely caught up in the campaign against Doberman. He'd follow his quarry to the ends of the earth if he had to.
When they arrived at the hotel, Bond said, "See that those goods are delivered to me tomorrow, Felix. And find out what you can about Doberman's movements - and that ranch of his."
Leiter nodded. He knew from years of intelligence experience that disarming your opponent was one part fast footwork and four parts thorough homework.
[* * * * * *]
Thousands of miles across the Pacific, a massive Soviet MIL MI-24 helicopter streaked down with unbelievable grace onto the frigid wasteland of the Kamchatka Peninsula of Northeastern Russia.
The side door slid open - the rotors whining slowly to a halt - and three elite Soviet Airborne Division soldiers appeared.
And then General Leo Gogol, head of the KGB and M.'s
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counterpart, stepped out into the bone-chilling cold. All he could see beneath the grey sky was ice - ice so hard his boots did not even leave a trail of footprints. He was dressed for the Arctic conditions normal to the Siberian submarine base. Five layers of wool and oilskin enclosed him.
At once the Soviet group formed ranks and snapped to attention, saluting. General Gogol studied them critically, walking past them on his way to the water-filled concrete dock, one of the many specially-built to shelter Typhoon-class submarines from the region's harsh elements.
As the customary cold north wind blew stronger, General Gogol quickly clambered down the ladder with the usual awkwardness of a landsman. He was more than anxious to leave behind the major wind storm that had savaged Moscow and the monotony of his official administrative duties.
On the dock's edge, a collection of sailors and dockyard workers watched in stolid Russian fashion, without a cheer or wave, as the choppy waters of the channel began to lap over the sub's spherical bow.
"Increase speed to one-third," the Captain ordered his navigator.
General Gogol stripped himself of the cumbersome outer garments and settled contentedly into his small bunk. He did not resent the close confinement aboard submarines, something that many men could not tolerate. To him, the cubicle was much less claustrophobic than the bureaucratic and political atmosphere of his office at Number Thirteen on the Sretenka Ulitas in Moscow. Although regimes and leaders changed behind the grey walls of the Kremlin, Gogol had managed to remain intact.
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He smiled to himself. The submarine's thirty-thousand-ton bulk accelerated slowly, diving deeper and then leveling at the proper depth in the Pacific. Within a few days, General Gogol would be in the sunny and tropical climate of Central America, where he would conduct business as usual with Klaus Doberman and supervise the overdue elimination of James Bond.
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-8-
Old Enemies Are Hard to Break
THE BAR OF THE POSADA LA BRISSA WAS AN ATTEMPT to reproduce what the Mexicans thought of as an "American-style cocktail bar," which meant it was dark and tackily furnished, with a small mirror ball throwing off shards of light as it rotated in the silence of the deserted dance floor.
The bar was empty except for Lotta. She looked as if she'd been forced to swallow something bitter. A great deal of something bitter. Wearing a light blue bathrobe, she sat on a stool scowling, obviously arguing with the bartender. "I'm sorry, senorita, but your father said you were to have no more than one drink a day from-"
Lotta swore at him in Spanish, and swung to face Bond, who was grinning on his way to the pool, where he ordered a bottle of Clicquot and two glasses from the poolside waiter.
Lotta strode past him to the pool and dropped her
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bathrobe, exposing a black-and-white striped bikini that was sinfully tight at the bust and hips. They were alone at the poolside except for the waiter.
"You want to take a glass of champagne with you into the swimming pool?" Bond said, holding a fizzing glass under her nose. She hesitated, then took the crystal champagne glass and drained it.
"Come for a swim, James," she beckoned to him bright-eyed.
Bond casually tossed his dark-blue beach jacket and leather sandals to the side. Her subtle, but profound, sensuality whipped at his senses.
They swam, and sunned, and talked. She was only twenty-eight, it turned out. Her father still kept her on a tight rein, though. In some matters her father was very old-fashioned. Lotta Head was treated like a fragile piece of China. Private tutors when she was a kid, trips abroad only when accompanied by her father. She'd had two years at Princeton, but never returned - she wanted to be a performer. A singer and songwriter. She played the violin. She liked skiing and snorkeling. She'd taken second prize in an amateur photography competition - photos of Mexican peasants scrounging for morsels of food in garbage cans in Mexico City. Bond told her a little about himself - only a little.
"Where's your violin?" he asked as the evening came on.
"You'd like me to play for you?" she laughed. "My father's gone - I'll play for you in my room. I've got my own suite."
Later, they sat in candlelight drinking chilled white wine. She played the violin, and he was relieved to be able to say honestly, "You've got a real talent." Three songs
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later she put the violin aside and looked at him, waiting, waiting like a predatory night animal in the flickering candlelight.
Bond took the cue. Holding her right hand, he said amorously, "This bit of flesh in the palm of your hand below your thumb, the Cayman Islanders call it the Love Mount. They say a girl's good in bed if her Love Mount is well developed." Then he added, passionately, "Like yours."
Lotta pretended to wrestle him for a while, giggling, playing as if she would try to throw him off; he let her nearly win free. Moving almost with a life of its own, her left hand caressed inside of his bathing-suit zipper. And began to work skillfully to open it.
He burned hard in her hand. Her caresses became more daring.
He took her by the shoulders, lifted her off her feet, swept her onto the bed. She gasped, and opened her arms for him; he threw himself onto her, feeling her now naked body under him, her legs entwining, her fingers feathery on the back of his neck, her lips parting under his. He forced his tongue into her mouth, and she moaned - and he took her, and took her.
[* * * * * *]
"Why should I risk your life just to satisfy your curiosity?" Bond said, sipping coffee. He glanced at Lotta, was now surprised to see she was sulking. "Believe me, you'll read about it in the paper. Eventually." He put the coffee cup aside, got out of bed, and dressed himself.
"Where are you going?"
"To open some presents." He kissed her good-bye.
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The "presents" were waiting for him in his room. Three large wooden crates. He used a screwdriver to pry them open, one by one, after inspecting them to see if they'd been tampered with - no, Leiter's code seal was there, in wax at the joints.
In the first crate were fragmentation grenades, flares, tracer ammunition, and the real prize - a pair of night-seeing infrared glasses with radar accessory. The glasses combined several functions; held by attachable grip, they became something like the radar gun used by highway patrolmen to check speeds. He could use them to know how far away a moving vehicle was, in precisely what direction it was going, and how fast - they were useful in calculating for anti-tank guns and other field weapons.
In the second crate was a portable missile launcher and four Eagle-Eye missles. Very expensive prototype models - Major Boothroyd had definitely outdone himself this time. Bond was impressed. Each missile had a small TV camera mounted on the snout. After launching, the missile would transmit a picture back to a monitor screen on the back of the tracking unit the screen would show just what a man would see if he could ride the missile. Using a remote-control unit, the missle could then be guided with great accuracy to its target using a complex "joystick" and the TV screen. Each missile was no bigger than a yard high, and thick as his arm - and each one had enough explosive charge in it to blow a fatal hole in a battleship.
In the third crate: a mortar, a bazooka, and half a dozen land mines.
Bond meticulously examined the weapons. He'd have to field-test them later. Because atop the crates was a note from Leiter, saying only: "Who says you can never go home
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again?"
So Doberman had dug in at his ranch. That made it necessary for Bond to learn as much about the place as possible.
He'd just closed the last crate when there was a light knocking at the door. He caught up his Beretta and barked, "Who is it?"
"Lotta. Can I come in?"
He sighed. But he let her in.
"James?" she began, purring up against him. "Tell me what you're doing here - exactly. I want to help."
"I'll think about it. We'll do it this way: first you help, then I tell you. Maybe."
"I can help?" she asked eagerly. "What... what can I do?" She noticed the crates. "What's this?"
"That's how you can help. I need to hide these things - somewhere they won't be bothered."
"I know a place - my cousin's casita. It's all overgrown with cacti. But there's a path through. He used to hide things in it - for smuggling. But he's in jail now. The police never found out about the casita. It's not far from the hotel. About a half kilometer. I can get someone to move them there tonight-"
"Someone who won't open them. They're booby-trapped."
Her eyes widened. "I'll see to it that no one opens them."
"One more thing: you know anything about Klaus Doberman's ranch?"
"A little. It's up in the mountains a ways. All alone on a private road. No houses near it. An old castle, rebuilt to be modern. It's on a cliff overlooking the ocean. It used to be
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owned by a Mafia don now living in Acapulco. A man named Scalise."
"Scalise?" Bond smiled grimly. "I know Scalise. And where to find him."
"But, James, why do you want to know about-"
"I'll tell you later.["] he grinned. "Maybe. But now I've got to take a short trip to Acapulco. Probably be back tonight. With luck. See you later."
"But wait, James-"
"Later." And, the Beretta cold and reassuringly solid in the chamois-leather shoulder-holster under his left armpit, he went to the parking lot and the waiting Porsche.
[* * * * * *]
Scalise's villa was situated on the unspoiled enclave of tranquil blue water and ivory sand of Acapulco's Puerto Marques Beach, only a half a kilometer from the quays where his ships unloaded their heroin - hidden in bales of cotton and crates of coffee beans. That, at least, was the sum of Scalise's operation the last Bond had heard. Now, though Bond didn't know it, Scalise had become Number 3, a ranking member of Klaus Doberman's cocaine cartel. It was Scalise who had offered to put out a contract on Bond at their last conference.
Bond parked the Porsche a short distance from Scalise's sprawling estate. He walked around the perimeter, getting a lay of the place.
It was set well apart from the others, its landscaped acreage bounded by a hurricane fence. It was a brick-fronted four-story structure, shielded by palm trees and hedges. A balcony at the third floor overlooked the courtyard. A red Ferrari, a white BMW 635CSi and a
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Lincoln limousine were parked in the courtyard at the end of a long drive. Bond saw a guard with a shotgun on the balcony. He was relaxed, had probably never had trouble at Scalise's house.
There's a first time for everything.
Bond, leather satchel slung over his arm, climbed over the hurricane fence at one of the house's blind spots. He dropped to the ground inside, expecting a snarling Doberman. There were only the chirping of birds, the breeze bringing the briny perfume of the ocean. It was twilight; the shadows grew long under the trees, over the neatly manicured grass.
He ran in a crouch to a front corner of the house; he heard two guards telling stories in Spanish at the rear-right corner. He listened. Their voices got softer - they were walking away from him. He bent and hid his satchel in the flowerbed around the corner from the front of the house. Then he retraced his steps to the fence, climbed over in less than three seconds, and sprinted back to the road. He took thirty seconds to light a cigarette and compose himself. And then he walked up to the front gate and rang the bell.
A spiked-topped black iron gate closed off the driveway; it was electrically locked, between two high stone fenceposts capped with barbed wire.
Bond rang the bell again. Two thick-chested, dark eyed men carrying sidearms - they'd stowed their shotguns when they heard the ring, for the sake of public appearances - wearing guard uniforms complete with badges, came from the house to the front gate.
"Whaddayou want, Gringo?" one of the men asked with his best appearance of civility. He looked like one of the
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malcontents of Pancho Villa's renegades.
"Tell Scalise a friend of his cousin Bonasera is here," Bond said. He crushed the cigarette out on the driveway. "My name is Bond... James Bond"
"You wait."
One of the guards went into the house; the other remained on the other side of the iron gate, glowering out through the metal bars. Bond chuckled.
"What's so funny, Gringo?" the guard snapped.
"You look like you're behind bars, through the gate - and it's funny, because that's just where you ought to be. But then, I could be wrong about you. You might be a soccer coach for little kids at the YMCA in your spare time."
"Eh?" The man didn't understand the words, but Bond's tone told him he was being mocked. His face clouded, and his fingers hovered near his gun. Bond grinned and turned his back on the man, showing utter unconcern.
He turned when he heard the crunch of the other guard's bootsteps on the gravel drive. The two men muttered together in Spanish, and then one threw a switch. The gates hummed and swung inward. The two guards just behind him - one now carrying a shotgun - Bond walked up toward the house. Ornamental black iron buttresses divided the front of the house into three sections; the central sections, containing the balcony, stuck out a little past the others. It would be easy to shimmy up that ornamental buttress, then climb over to the balcony, if it worked out that he had to do it that way.
The guards escorted him into the house, stopped him in the anteroom for a weapons check - he was carrying
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none - and then took him into a black metal lift cage. They stood behind him in the small lift, literally breathing down his neck; he could smell their heavy cologne, their sweat, and underlying, well-oiled gun-metal.
The lift creaked up with annoying sluggishness, rising past two floors of antiques, yellowed oil paintings, spiral staircase with brass handles, marble steps. It was a big house, and Bond reflected, probably held a great many things of interest to the police - the few uncorrupted police.
The lift made a lot of noise, and Bond took note of that.
They stopped at the third floor, went down the hall to dark-paneled double doors. One of the guards rapped on the door and gave a password. The door was opened from the inside - just a crack at first. A man with sagging scarred cheeks and blue sunglasses inspected Bond, grunted, and opened the door wider for him. They went in, Bond first. The man with blue sunglasses stood to one side, shotgun in the crook of his arm, its muzzle pointed at Bond's feet. Two armed men stood behind Bond, and two faced him. One of those in front was the guard who'd stood on the balcony; the other was Scalise. Scalise was a barrel-shaped man with a squarish head, thinning hair combed in a poor attempt at covering his bald spots. There were deep lines around his black eyes. He smoked incessantly; the glass ashtray at his elbow was overflowing with butts. He sat behind a big antique wooden desk, leaning back in a leather swivel chair. He looked annoyed and mildly puzzled as Bond calmly lit a cigarette and looked around the room with casual interest, as if he were mildly curious about Scalise's interior decorating scheme. On the floor there was a locked wooden cabinet, a grey metal safe
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