Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (12 page)

She looked up, surprised to see it was him. Bond had first seen her outside the church before Felix’s ill-fated wedding; then again in the study. It was Pam, the beautiful brunette in the crisp pink suit. The one with the legs that went on for ever.

‘This is an unexpected pleasure,’ he said, noticing that she now looked very different. Her hair was slicked back and tied with a headband; she wore grubby white pants and a padded jacket. Also she did not look pleased to see him.

‘Where’s Leiter?’ she snapped as he took the chair next to her.

‘He’s in intensive care. Where we’re likely to be if we don’t get out of here fast. I’m pretty sure Sanchez has all of Leiter’s files, and your name’s all over them, as you know.’

‘Hell!’ she muttered. ‘I knew something was wrong. Don’t look around but there’re a couple of heavy guys right at the end of the bar. They’re just Sanchez’s speed and they’ve been there for some time. They’re professional something-or-others, but they’re not professional watchers. Probably been waiting to see who turns up to meet me.’ She stopped short as a waitress appeared at the table.

‘Hi, y’all. What y’all havin’?’ The waitress was chewing gum and the only word that came to Bond’s mind was ‘buxom’.

‘Give me a Bud with lime.’ Pam did not even look up.

‘The same.’ Bond did look up and caught a glimpse of some new arrivals in the doorway, which was raised above the room by plain planked steps. ‘I have a feeling trouble’s just arrived,’ he said.

Pam turned her head. ‘Oh, shit!’ she groaned. ‘That’s one of Sanchez’s personal men. Dario. Very bad news. Used to be with the Contras, but even they kicked him out. Just the nice kind of guy Sanchez would send. The other one’s a run-of-the-mill hood. The kind that pulls wings off flies on a dull day. You carrying?’

Bond coughed, allowing his windbreaker to fall open, just enough for her to see the butt of the Walther P.38K. Pam saw, but made a tutting sound, pushing herself back slightly. Across her lap lay a Handgrip Model .38, 20-gauge shotgun.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw the bartender look across the room at the man called Dario, nodding in the direction of Pam and Bond.

‘Is there a back way out?’ he asked.

‘At the far end of the bar. The place where those two heavy guys have just been reinforced by another three.’ Pam seemed to be looking everywhere at once, planning some kind of escape. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Dario’s heading this way. If they start shooting just hit the deck and stay there.’

‘Well . . .’ Bond began when Dario appeared out of the crowd, standing on Pam’s right, while the other hood materialised beside Bond.

Dario smiled. Unaffably. ‘
Que pasa
, Senorita Bouvier? Don’ I know you from somewhere?’

Bond rose so that he was standing slightly behind Dario’s stable-mate as Pam gave an abrupt, ‘No.’

‘Sure I know you.’ Dario came closer. ‘You used to fly special charters for some of my friends. Listen, I got a job for you.’ He reached down and took her arm. ‘Let’s go outside. Talk about it, all private, eh?’

‘The lady’s with me,’ Bond said, very politely, but with a firmness that would have pleased a Marine drill instructor.

Dario looked across the table. ‘Nobody ask you, gringo!’ As he reached the last word it came out in a kind of gasp. Bond’s eyes flicked down. Pam had shoved the barrel of her shotgun right into the man’s crotch. He winced as Pam said, ‘He’s with me.’

The waitress, still chewing, arrived with the beers. ‘There you go. Three-fifty, unless your friends want something.’

Dario’s friend said, ‘Let me take care of it,’ reaching inside his coat. Nobody saw Bond’s hand come up and chop the back of his neck. The hood slumped forward and Bond caught him.

‘He’s had enough already.’ Bond slipped a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and dropped it on the waitress’ tray. ‘Keep the change.’

‘My! Thank y’all,’ she pouted, mainly with her chest. ‘Any time, hon.’

‘Now, let’s all sit down quietly.’ Bond looked at Dario as he lowered the other man into a chair. ‘You, my friend, are going to get us all out of here in one piece. Right?’

Dario’s eyes had lifted, to look past Bond’s shoulders. Pam raised her eyes also. ‘Keep your hands on the table,’ she ordered Dario, pressing with the shotgun to make him sit down. Then, to Bond she said. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Boat.’

‘Where is it?’

Bond nodded to the wall behind her, ‘On the other side of that.’ He was conscious of scuffling around the bar.

‘Sanchez’s other little friends are trying to push their way over. There’re some other people who don’t like being jostled.’ There was a crash and a shout. Bond glanced around to see quite a reasonable barroom brawl. One man was using another as a punchbag, and a further couple had started to slug it out, blow for blow. All they needed was a pianist who just continued to play.

‘Let’s go.’ Pam was on her feet, and, as she moved, so Dario whipped around, grabbing a bottle. Bond tapped him lightly on the head. ‘Night, Dario,’ said Bond, following Pam towards the wall.

There was a shout of ‘Hold it,’ and he turned to see another of Sanchez’s hoodlums pulling a gun. He raised the Walther, and for a second there was a Mexican standoff.

In that small space of time, Pam turned to face the wall, brought up the shotgun and fired. The whole room seemed to stand still, and Bond saw a four-foot hole had appeared in the wall. ‘If they will use cheap building materials,’ he said.

‘Come on,’ Pam shouted. ‘Get the thing going. I’ll hold them off,’ whirling towards the crowd, bringing the 20-gauge up. As Bond ducked through the hole and ran towards the powerboat, he thought that a weapon like the Handgrip Model .38 was quite a deterrent.

He made the edge of the dock in five seconds flat, and had the boat’s engines going in another five.

Pam came through the wall, turning and firing in the air, then running full tilt towards the jetty. She had just reached the edge when Dario appeared out of the hole, his gun-hand coming up. Bond fired and his target dodged back inside, but not without firing.

He heard Pam gasp as the shot threw her forward into the boat. With an oath, Bond gunned the engine and began to put distance between him and the jetty where another of Sanchez’s men had appeared, a stubby Uzi in his hands. There was one fast rip of bullets, and Bond felt the boat shudder from impact as he returned the fire and, to his pleasure, saw the gunman clutch at his stomach, dropping the Uzi into the water and following it with a cry.

He had to get right away from this place, and very fast. Pam almost certainly needed help. But, as he bumped along at speed, Bond saw her move, then sit up. He slowed slightly and watched her unzip the padded jacket, grope around the wadding and remove a bullet.

‘.357 Magnum.’ She threw it on to the deck.

‘Kevlar?’ asked Bond, knowing this was the new lightweight combination from which the best flak jackets were made these days.

‘In my business you never leave home without it.’

‘Tough business you picked.’

‘Speak for yourself, James Bond. Felix told me who you were, and what you did. Me? Well, I was an army pilot. Put in two years with Air America. What can a girl do after that? Be an air hostess? I still fly a lot. Even got my own little Beechcraft Baron. Keep me hand in.’

Under the jacket she wore only a pink silk camisole which gave Bond an admirable view. ‘I’ve got just the job for you.’ His voice carried an air of frivolity.

‘Oh, yes?’ she replied.

‘Oh, definitely yes. A private charter to Isthmus City. Nobody must know I’ve left the US.’

‘You serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘Why?’

‘To get Sanchez. I need a full briefing from you on the whole of his operation, everything you know. I’ll pay good money.’

‘You’re actually going after him?’ She looked appalled; and, when Bond did not reply, she asked how many men he had.

This time Bond smiled at her. ‘Just you and me.’

‘You’re crazy. That guy has a whole army down there. Everyone’s in his pocket.’

‘Okay. Just drop me there and leave. Fifty thousand dollars.’

She came towards him and laid a hand on his arm. ‘A job like that would cost you a hundred K.’

Bond throttled back, his hand going to her shoulder, their eyes locking. ‘Seventy-five,’ he said.

‘You pay the fuel.’

‘We use your plane.’

‘Deal.’ She looked happy as she said it, then, in the next moment the engines gave a stutter, then a rumble. They were slowing down.

‘Damn!’ Bond moved aft and leant over the side. ‘Several of that Uzi’s bullets ended up in our gas tank.’ By now they had slowed to almost a stop. He turned back towards her. ‘You’re not going to believe this . . .’

‘You’re out of gas? I haven’t heard that one since high school.’

‘Did it work then?’ He came back to her as she leant against the wheel. ‘It should only take us a couple of hours to drift into Miami.’ He was very close now.

‘And what will we do in the meantime? That was your next line, wasn’t it?’ She reached up and kissed him, open mouthed, on the lips.

‘Why don’t you wait till you’re asked?’

‘So ask me.’ Pam was in his arms and they both slid towards the deck. Slowly, moving gently, the powerboat drifted on the calm sea.

‘What a night to go sailing,’ Bond said.

8

DOLLARS AND DEALERS

In London on the fifth floor of the building overlooking Regent’s Park, which is the headquarters of the British Secret Service, M came out of his private office with a face like thunder.

His secretary, Miss Moneypenny, a legend in her own right, looked up from the word processor. She had obviously been daydreaming and not working. M’s thunder, plus a little lightning, seemed to bring a major storm into her usually calm work station.

M brandished a sheaf of papers, and spoke as though giving orders to a crew on an open deck in a force ten gale. Nobody doubted, when he was in this mood, that M held a very high Naval rank.

‘What in the name of Drake, Nelson and Raleigh are you up to?’ He stood directly in front of her and noted that she looked ready to burst into tears. His mind registered that this was most unlike Moneypenny.

‘What seems to be the trouble, sir?’ She asked in a tiny voice, unlike the efficient secretary she was.

M brandished the papers again. ‘Five errors – typing errors – on the first page alone. Damn it, woman, I thought these new contraptions corrected things like that!’

‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I must have forgotten to run the spellcheck over it.’ Even though she was looking M straight in the eyes, the chief caught the small movement of her hand on the desk. His eyes flicked down, and he saw she was trying to cover a telex with some spare papers.

‘Let
me
see that.’ He whipped up the paper and began to read aloud, his voice rising into near fury as he read, ‘US Immigration has no reports of 007 leaving the United States as of 15.00 hours today. By heaven, who authorised this?’

‘I’m afraid I did, sir. I thought you’d be worried about James. He’s gone missing.’

M’s voice softened. ‘You know better than that, Moneypenny. Much better, and it’s
you
who’s worried, isn’t it?’

She bit her lip and nodded.

‘Hrrumph! Well, think it through. You know what he’ll be up to. On his way to get that blighter Sanchez. I’m afraid James’s gone off the deep end, and he has to be stopped – or helped.’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘Look, I’ve already alerted our man in Isthmus.’ He drew out a smaller piece of paper from under the pile he carried. ‘Now, to put your mind at rest, I want this memo out now. This afternoon. Understand?’ M turned and marched back into his office.

Moneypenny smiled as she read the memo. Then, picking up the telephone, she said, ‘Get me Q-Branch, please.’

The approach to Isthmus City International Airport is straight in over the sea. You cross the harbour, and a mile further on there is the threshold to runway 33-Left. What you see of the city as you cover that final mile in the air is typical of what you see on the ground. Huddled, ugly and decayed buildings, almost cheek by jowl with modern high-rise apartment blocks and hotels. Isthmus City has only four types of resident – not counting the quick and the dead. You are either very rich or very poor; or you either have work or, as in most cases, you have no work.

Pam flared the Beechcraft Baron neatly, right on the white bars of the threshold, then, as instructed from the tower, taxied towards the executive section, where other small aircraft were unloading, or starting up.

From the right-hand seat of the flight deck, Bond saw an enormous poster on the side of one of the airport buildings. It showed a garish, toothy, smiling, highly-cosmeticised painting of the president. Underneath, in Spanish, were the words ‘Presidente Hector Lopez – Profits for the People’.

Pam followed the signals of the ground crew, parked, applied the brakes and ran the two Continental 10-470-L engines down until the spinning discs that were the propellers assumed their normal shape again. ‘Welcome to Isthmus City, James. Home of the corrupt, the hungry and the biggest drugs baron in the world.’

A ground crew had arrived, and already their matching sets of Louis Vuiton luggage had been loaded on to a small truck. ‘Ah,’ Pam gave a little sign of interest as they came down the steps, nodding towards a Gulf Stream II that had parked nearby, the whine of its engines blotting out any other sound. ‘Interesting,’ she continued. The Gulf Stream was painted cream with a gold logo on the tailplane – the words
Isthmus Cosino
, with a coin as the final ‘o’. ‘Look at that reception committee.’

Bond saw two men greeting a group of six orientals who were disembarking. The first had light-coloured hair and a Wall-Street taste in clothes. The other man was tall and built like a blockhouse. He had seen the latter, on television: Sanchez’s arrival at the casino gala night.

‘The blond guy’s called William Truman-Lodge, Sanchez’s financial whizz-kid.’