Bond Movies 03 - Licence to Kill (16 page)

‘All women have more than one weapon, my dear James.’ Her voice was as soothing as sandpaper on an open wound. ‘I keep this one in a much safer place.’

‘That I can believe. Uncle brought some toys.’

‘Nice toys?’ she said in an overly artless manner. ‘Show me.’ She gave Q a devastating smile.

‘Well, this is quite handy.’ Q pulled out a dull metal tube, about the size and thickness of a telescope. He stood up to demonstrate, holding the tube away from him and pulling a ring at the end in his hand. With a click, four curved steel hooks shot out at the far end. ‘A portable grappling iron, complete with a spring-loaded tough nylon rope. See?’ He demonstrated pulling out the rope from his end of the tube. ‘The spring allows you to wind, unwind, and stop at whatever height you want. A little practice and, once you’ve clipped it to a D-ring – I’ve brought a couple with me – on the front of your belt, you can descend, or ascend to your heart’s content, It’ll take two men of your weight, James, and remain perfectly workable. Takes the strain out of abseiling.’

Bond tested the tension of the rope, impressed by what he saw. ‘This could be
very
useful for what I have in mind.’ He wandered up to the window, hooked the grapple over the brass rail from which the drapes hung, tested it for weight, then experimented with the rope. Q told him that if he merely hung on it, the rope would slowly unwind from the grapple. A sharp pull would lock it dead. Two short pulls would start up the descent again, three and the spring would lift you up. ‘Easy to control. No experience required,’ Q said, smugly.

‘What’s this?’ Pam had removed a long, slim tube, again in dull black metal.

‘Ah,’ Q sounded proud. ‘Now, this you
will
like.’ From his case he took several other metal components. A flat box screwed on to the tube. Then, two other shorter, curved tubes clicked to top and bottom of the box. In turn a skeleton shoulder-piece fitted on to the curved tubes. A press here, and another one there, and it was quite obvious that Q had assembled a simple rifle.

‘You’ve been reading
Day of the Jackal
again.’ Bond sounded viciously sarcastic.

‘Have care, James.’ Q pulled out the trigger assembly and showed how the action worked. ‘The magazine takes five rounds. Glasers. Teflon. 9mm, of course. There’s a simple telescopic sight, and it is accurate up to one thousand yards.’

‘But we’ve had things like this for years. What’s so special?’

‘There’s something very special, in the box that houses mechanism, breech and trigger.’ Q tried to sound mysterious. ‘One microchip. Once I set the thing, with your palms and fingers, nobody else can use it. It can’t be reprogrammed, so it’s yours for life. The chip operates an optical skin reader. It’s a signature gun. Even you would agree, I think, that it’s safer to carry a weapon that nobody can turn on you.’

‘Okay, Uncle. You win. I have a plan – or at least the start of one. I need to sleep on it.’

‘Well, if you’re going to bed, you’d better check your Jabberwocky first. It was rattling away like mad when I came in.’

‘What the hell’s a Jabberwocky?’ Pam scowled.

‘I presume you were seeding W9 pickups wherever you had the meeting with Sanchez?’

Bond nodded and said he’d placed two of them.

‘Well you can hear yourself on tape, and a lot more. It’s all very interesting.’

‘What . . . IS . . . A . . . JABBERWOCKY?’ Pam shouted.

‘Your first question should be, “What’s a W9?” but we’ll let that pass.’

‘James, you can be the most infuriating man.’

‘Okay . . .’ He held up his palms towards her, as though warding off the evil eye. ‘A W9 is one of my uncle’s favourite listening devices. Tiny, and also intelligent. You can hide them just about anywhere. I’ve put a couple into Sanchez’s rooms. They override electronic sweepers and also garble the signal, like a scrambler device. They’re tuned to a very high frequency – the kind of high that only dogs can pick up. The Jabberwocky is a receiver. It’s about the same size as your average Walkman and contains a small tape machine. The whole thing is voice-activated. It unscrambles the signals and they come out in clear, on to the tape and through a small speaker. You can cut the speaker out and use headphones. That’s a Jabberwocky, my dear Pam.’

‘You came over rather well, I thought.’ Q sipped his brandy.

‘Good. I hope you only heard bad things about me.’

‘As a matter of fact, the fellow called Sanchez rather likes you; which is more than can be said of the others. They seem to . . . what’s the phrase . . . ?’

‘Hate my guts?’

‘In three words, yes. Though Sanchez is still having you checked out. He’s quite obviously paranoid about everyone. Oh, you’ll hear it on the tape. Ingenious about the TV programme, though.’

‘What TV programme?’ Pam looked puzzled.

‘To be honest with you, I don’t know. Do you think I could possibly have another brandy?’ Q held out his glass.

‘They were watching TV when I went in. Some fruitcake called Professor Joe. Drumming up cash for research into the Olimpatec indian cultures – religion mainly. Meditation of some kind, though I gather he’s also doing research on their lifestyles, buildings and things.’

‘Yes.’ Q took his replenished glass. ‘They mentioned the Olimpatec temple. Olimpatec Meditation Institute.’

‘Sanchez even sent them a donation.’ Bond helped himself to brandy. Pam shook her head and wandered over to the refrigerator set in an ornate panel under the TV to get champagne.

Q laughed aloud, ‘I should think he would send a donation.’

‘Why?’

‘You’ll have to listen yourself, but someone they called Bill came in after you left, James . . .’

‘Truman-Lodge. He’s Sanchez’s money operator.’

‘So it appeared. Well, it was clear to me what they were doing. They’ve got this Professor Joe in their pockets. They work in some kind of code. Donations float in from all over the place, and the use of certain key phrases give Sanchez’s selling price for cocaine and heroin. Other donations denote buyers – big buyers. What they seem to be doing is running a kind of drugs auction via this man Professor Joe’s TV show. They were very pleased tonight. I can tell you that the price of heroin rose very steeply and they had acceptance from no less than six major dealers across the United States. It’s all on the tape, James. Listen to it. As for me, I think it’s time for bed. I’ve taken the spare room. That all right by you?’

‘Yes, yes . . .’ Bond was already heading for the bathroom with Pam at his heels.

‘So that’s why you were so long in here tonight.’ She looked at the little Walkman-like machine which he took down from on top of the cupboard.

Bond nodded and carried the machine back into the main room, ran back the tape and pressed the play button. The recording had started as he activated the first bug, under the chair arm and it was only after he had actually left that the real talking began. As Q had said, Truman-Lodge returned and the conversation centred on Professor Joe’s TV show.

‘Ah, even New York accepted our price of twenty-two grand a kilo.’ Truman-Lodge sounded ecstatic. ‘Twenty-two grand and they ordered five hundred kilos. Lord, you have to laugh at old Prof Joe . . .’ He seemed to be going into an imitation of the so-called Professor, ‘And we have a wonderful donation from New York City. Five hundred dollars.’

Sanchez’s voice butted in. ‘Yeah, one day Joe’s going to slip up, though. He’s going to get an order like that and he’ll miss the word City off New York, or the word “beautiful” off Boston, or “lovely” off LA, and we’ll be sitting here wondering what’s gone wrong. I worry, William. I worry that the guy’ll slip one day.’

Ingenious was right, Bond thought. An auction with bids and orders, all done on coast to coast television. ‘The problem is, how do they get the stuff delivered?’ he asked.

‘Search me,’ Pam shrugged.

They listened some more, and there was talk of the oriental group and the meeting to take place on the following night.

‘That’s when I do it. Lupe mentioned the meeting tomorrow,’ Bond said, glancing at his watch. ‘I really mean today, don’t I? But that’s the time to do it.’

‘When you do what?’

‘Take out Sanchez.’

‘Don’t be stupid, James. How in hell . . . ?’

‘Let me sleep on it.’

‘Oh, James, come on, tell me.’ Suddenly her short fuse showed again. ‘You’re going to get at him through that little Mexican broad?’

‘Don’t be silly, Pam. She’s a means to an end.’

‘Okay, but what kind of end?’

‘Wait. Tomorrow night. I’ll have it fixed by tomorrow night.’

‘You won’t tell me a damned thing will you?’

‘Not tonight.’ He followed her towards the bedroom.

Pam stepped inside, turned, and as he was about to follow her, she gave him a thin-lipped smile. ‘Okay, you can sleep on it, James. Happy dreams.’ The door closed in his face and there was that sickening sound of a deadbolt being slid into place.

Slowly, Bond walked across the room towards the spare bedroom and tapped on the door. From inside came a cheery ‘Come in’. Q was sitting up in one of the twin beds reading a spy thriller.

‘I hope you don’t snore, Q.’ James Bond looked distinctly unhappy.

11

CRYSTAL NIGHT

Pam appeared to have recovered from her flaring bout of temper by the next morning, and, by constant monitoring of the Jabberwocky, they made certain the reception for the oriental party was timed to begin with cocktails at 8.30 in Sanchez’s apartment, followed by the meeting, which Bond presumed would be in the boardroom, through the sliding doors. After the meeting there was to be what Q described – on listening to the arrangements and orders on the tape – as ‘A right good blow-out’.

Bond thought Q did not realise the accuracy of this last statement.

Pam was dispatched to the nearest establishment that hired out fancy dress, after taking Q’s measurements. Bond telephoned reception saying he wanted the Rolls outside at eight, but he would not require the chauffeur tonight. He then stretched out on his bed to go over the finer points of his plan. Tonight, if luck was with him, they would see the end of Franz Sanchez. That would, at least, be revenge and a beginning to the collapse of the man’s empire.

At exactly 8.20 that night, the Rolls pulled up in front of the casino. Pam had bought a new gown for the occasion; Bond was in his tuxedo, the pieces of hardware he would need skilfully hidden. A spare automatic, the pocket version of an FN high-power 9mm with shortened butt and slide, was in an ankle holster; the telescope-like grappling iron and rope was attached to his left calf, while two innocuous tubes of toothpaste and the pen which concealed detonators and a remote control system, were distributed around his inside pockets. Last of all, he had clipped the Jabberwocky to his belt and secured a slim pair of lightweight earphones around it. With the W9 bugs in place he could at least listen to part of the meeting.

Q was at the wheel of the Rolls, looking the part in the grey chauffeur’s outfit rented by Pam that morning. Outside, the guards were there in force with the omnipresent pump-action shotguns. ‘Everyone know what to do?’ Bond whispered the question. Pam and Q nodded.

Inside, there was obviously more security than usual, strangers were being checked out and beefy men in tuxedos tried to look inconspicuous. Pam and Bond were greeted by the manager they had seen the previous night who told them to collect whatever plaques they required.

Bond went over to the cashier, returning to Pam with a pile of $10,000 plaques. ‘Open your hands,’ he said with a smile, his ice-blue eyes melting as he counted ten of the plaques into her cupped palms. ‘Slight change of plan,’ he continued as they walked into the salon privé.

‘What change?’ Pam sounded distinctly concerned.

‘That hundred K’s for you, my dear. Extra bonus. Your job’s over and done with. Contact Q once I’ve picked up the other item, and fly out of here,
now
– tonight. I’ll make my own way back.’

She curled her fingers around his arm. ‘James, I want to stay. I want to see it ended as well.’

‘Go!’ It was a serious order. ‘Anyway, I work better alone.’ He turned on his heel and headed towards the bar. Armed guards stood at the bank of elevators, checking a steady stream of tuxedo-clad waiters who pushed trolleys of food from the direction of the pantry and kitchen which were behind the wall far away across the room, and to the right of the pillared alcove in which the elevators stood. Last night, as he had waited there with Lupe, Bond had already noticed there was an exit from the kitchen area, shielded from the salon privé by the alcove. Another door, leading to the kitchen, was set in the long wall which now faced him as he sat at the bar, sipping a virgin colada. He would take no chances tonight. There would be plenty of champagne later if the job was successful.

The room was more crowded than the previous evening with all the tables open and waiters scurrying from bar and kitchen. He saw one pair of the oriental party head for the elevators, then bided his time, waiting for the right moment when everybody was almost distractedly busy.

Without any fuss, he slowly walked over to the kitchen door and went inside, casually picking up a napkin from a stack just inside the door. Nobody queried him as he collected a cart, replete with cocktail snacks, and pushed it out of the far door which led to the elevators.

A guard checked the cart before he was allowed to pass into the elevator. On the previous evening it had taken 1·5 minutes to reach Sanchez’s apartment, so there was little time for niceties. It took thirty seconds to unhook the grappling iron; fifteen to spring open the grapples and release the rope and another fifteen to hurl it at the inspection hatch in the roof of the cage. Then a further fifteen seconds for Bond to shin up the rope, through the inspection hatch and return things to normal.

Standing on the top of the cage, now collecting more waiters, who must have been surprised at a cartful of food standing unattended, Bond slipped the buttons on his tuxedo jacket and folded away the grapples and rope. To either side of him were the huge girders of the elevator shaft. Above, he could see the square inspection hatch which had to lead to the building’s roof. As the elevator began its journey downwards again, he leapt for the girders, clung on and began a steady climb. Near the top a metal ladder was set into the wall of the shaft, and it took only a couple of minutes to reach the trapdoor which, as he had thought, led to the roof.