Nobody Lives for Ever

16

GOING DOWN TONIGHT

‘As far as I can tell, there are three islands outside the reef that are privately owned and have some kind of building on them.’ Sukie’s finger roamed around the chart of the Key West vicinity.

It was early afternoon, and they were hove to with fishing lines out. Four large red snapper had come their way, but nothing big – no sharks or swordfish.

‘This one here,’ said Sukie, indicating an island just outside the reef, ‘is owned by the man who built the hotel where we’re staying. There’s another to the north, and this one,’ her finger circled a large patch of land, ‘just on the shelf, before you reach the drop-off. The continental shelf suddenly drops down from 270 metres to over 600. Great fishing water around the drop-off. There have been treasure seekers by the dozen in the area too.’ She prodded the island on the map. ‘Anyway, it looked very much as though that was where you were heading.’

Bond peered closer to see the name. ‘Shark Island,’ he said. ‘How cosy.’

‘Someone seems to think so. I asked around the hotel last night. A couple of years ago a man who called himself Rainey, Tarquin Rainey, bought the place. The boy at the hotel is from an old Key West family and knows all the gossip. He says this fellow Rainey is a mystery man. He arrives by private jet and gets ferried out to Shark Island by helicopter, or by a launch which belongs to the place. He’s also a bit of a go-getter. People who build on the islands usually take a lot of time; it’s always difficult getting the materials taken out to them. Rainey had his place up in the space of one summer and the island landscaped in the second summer. He’s got tropical trees, gardens, the lot. They’re very impressed, the people in Key West, and it takes a great deal to impress them, particularly as they claim to be a republic. The Conch Republic.’

She pronounced it ‘Konk’.

‘Nobody’s seen him?’ Bond asked, knowing that the alias Tarquin Rainey could not be a coincidence. The man had to be Tamil Rahani, which meant Shark Island was SPECTRE property.

‘I believe a few people have had glimpses of him – at a distance. Nobody’s encouraged to get near him, though. Apparently some people have approached Shark Island by boat and been warned away, politely, but very firmly, by large men in fast motor boats.’

‘Mmmmm.’ Bond thought for a few moments, then asked Sukie if she could navigate to within a couple of kilometres at night.

‘If the charts are accurate, yes. It’ll be slow going, but it’s possible. When did you want to go?’

‘I thought perhaps tonight. If that’s where I was being taken, it’s only common courtesy for me to call on Mr Rainey at the earliest possible opportunity.’

Bond gazed steadily first at Sukie and then at Nannie, both of whom looked very dubious about the idea.

‘I think we should head back to Garrison Bight now,’ he went on. ‘See if you can keep the boat for a couple of days longer. I’ll get myself a few bits and pieces I’m going to need. We could have a look around Key West – see and be seen. We’ll set out for Shark Island at about two in the morning. I won’t put you in danger, that I promise. You simply wait offshore and if I don’t return by a certain time, you get the hell out and come back tomorrow night.’

‘Okay by me,’ said Sukie as she got to her feet.

Nannie just nodded. She had been quiet since they had come back on deck. Occasionally she would shoot warm glances in Bond’s direction.

‘Right. Let’s get the lines hauled in,’ he said decisively. ‘We sail at two. In the meantime, there’s a great deal to be done.’

The local police were at Garrison Bight when they returned, checking on the boat hired by Steve Quinn. There had been a report from another power boat which had seen a plume of smoke, and from a naval helicopter that had spotted wreckage. They had seen it themselves an hour or so after Quinn’s boat had exploded and had even waved to it, knowing they were well away from Quinn’s vessel.

Nannie went ashore and talked to the police, while Sukie stayed in sight on deck and Bond remained in the cabin. After half an hour Nannie returned, saying she had charmed the pants off the cops and had hired the boat for a week.

‘I hope we’re not going to need it that long,’ Bond said with a grimace.

‘Better safe than sorry, as we nannies say.’ She poked her tongue out before adding, ‘Master James.’

‘I’ve had enough of that little joke, thank you.’ He sounded genuinely irritated. ‘Now, where are we staying?’

‘There’s only one place to stay in Key West,’ Sukie put in. ‘The Pier House Hotel. You get a wonderful view of the famous sunset from there.’

‘I’ve a lot to do before sunset,’ Bond said sharply. ‘The sooner we get to this – what’s it called? Pier House – the better.’

As they set off in the hired Volkswagen, Bond suddenly felt very naked without a weapon of any kind. He sat next to Nannie, with Sukie, who had been here before, squeezed into the back giving an occasional commentary.

To Bond, the place was an odd mixture of tourist resort garishness and pockets of great beauty, with areas of luxury which spelled money. It was hot, palm trees shimmered and moved in the light breeze, and they passed numerous clapboard gingerbread houses, which were bright and well painted, their yards and gardens filled with the colour of subtropical flowers. Yet well-kept houses could be adjacent to rubbish tips. The sidewalks were in fine order in one street, in the next cracked, broken or almost non-existent.

At an intersection, they had to wait for an extraordinary-looking train – a kind of model railroad engine built on to a diesel-powered jeep, which pulled a series of cars full of people under striped awnings.

‘The Conch Train,’ Sukie informed them. ‘That’s the way tourists get to see Key West.’

Bond could hear the driver, all done out in blue overalls and peaked cap, going through a litany of the sights and their history as the train wound its way around the island.

They finally turned into a long street of wood and concrete buildings, which appeared to house nothing but jewellery, tourist junk and art shops, interspersed with prosperous-looking restaurants.

‘Duval,’ announced Sukie. ‘It goes right down to the ocean – to our hotel in fact. It’s great at night. There, that’s the famous Fast Buck Freddie’s Department Store. And there’s Antonia’s, a great Italian restaurant. Sloppy Joe’s Bar was Ernest Hemingway’s favourite haunt when he lived here.’

Even if Bond had not read To Have and Have Not he could not now have escaped knowing that Hemingway had lived in Key West. There were souvenir T-shirts and drawings of him everywhere, and Sloppy Joe’s Bar proclaimed it loudly, not just from an inn sign but also on a tall painted legend on the wall.

As they reached the bottom of Duval, Bond saw what he was looking for and noted that it was a very short walk from the hotel.

‘You’re already registered, and your luggage is in your suite,’ Nannie told him, as she parked the car. They hustled him through the light main reception area furnished in bamboo and through an enclosed courtyard where a fountain played on flowers and the tall wooden statue of a naked woman. Above, large fans revolved silently, sending a down draught of cool air.

He followed them down a passage and out into the gardens, along twisting flower-bordered pathways, with a pool deck to the left. Beyond, a line of wood and bamboo bars and restaurants ran beside a small beach. The pier the hotel was named after stretched out over the water on big wooden piles.

The building appeared to be U-shaped, with the gardens and pool in the centre of the U. They entered the main hotel again at the far side of the pool and took the elevator up one floor to two adjacent suites.

‘We’re sharing,’ said Sukie, inserting her key into one of the doors. ‘But you’re right next to us, James, in case there’s anything we can do for you.’

For the first time since they had met, Bond thought he could detect an invitation in Sukie’s voice. He certainly saw a small angry flash in Nannie’s eyes. Could it be that they were fighting over him?

‘What’s the plan?’ Nannie asked, a little sharply.

‘Where’s the best place to watch this incredible sunset?’

She allowed him a smile. ‘The deck outside the Havana Docks bar, or so they tell me.’

‘And at what time?’

‘Around six.’

‘The bar’s in the hotel?’

‘Right over there.’ She waved a hand vaguely in the direction from which they had come. ‘Above the restaurants, right out towards the sea.’

‘Meet you both there at six, then.’

Bond smiled, turned the key in his door and disappeared into a pleasant and functional, if not luxurious, suite.

The two briefcases stood with his special Samsonite folding case in the middle of the room. It took Bond less than ten minutes to complete his unpacking. He felt better with the ASP hidden away under his jacket, and the baton at his waistband.

He checked the rooms carefully, made certain the window catches were secure, then quietly opened the door. The corridor was deserted. Silently he closed the door, making his way quickly to the elevator and back down into the gardens, using an exit to the car park which he had noticed on the way through. It was hot and humid outside.

At the far end of the parking lot stood a low building called the Pier House Market, with access from both the hotel and Front Street. Bond went straight through, pausing for a moment to look at the fruit and meat on sale, then on Front Street he turned right and crossed the cracked and lumpy road, walking fast to the corner of Duval. He passed the shop he really wanted to visit and bought some faded jeans, a T-shirt free of tasteless slogans and a pair of soft loafers in a male boutique. He also selected an over-priced short linen jacket. For anyone in Bond’s job, a jacket or blouse was always necessary to hide the hardware.

He came out of the boutique and made his way back to the place he had spotted from the car. It had a walk-in front with a dummy clad in Scuba gear out on the sidewalk. The sign read ‘Reef Plunderers’ Diving Emporium’. A bearded salesman tried to sell him a three and a half hour snorkelling trip on a dive boat predictably called Reef Plunderer II, but Bond said he was not interested.

‘Captain Jack knows all the best places to dive along the reef,’ the salesman protested limply.

‘I want a wet suit, snorkelling mask, knife, flippers and undersea torch. And I shall need a shoulder bag for the lot,’ Bond told him in that effectively quiet but firm tone.

The salesman looked at Bond, took in the physique under the lightweight suit and the hard look in the icy blue eyes.

‘Yes, siree. Sure. Right,’ he said, leading the way to the rear of the shop. ‘Gonna cost a ransom, but you sure know what y’awl’re after.’

‘That’s right.’ Bond did not allow his voice to rise above the almost whispering softness.

‘Right,’ the salesman repeated. He was dressed to look like an old salt, with a striped T-shirt and jeans. A gold ring hung piratically rather than fashionably from one ear. He gave Bond another sidelong look and began to collect the equipment from the back of the store. It was more than a quarter of an hour before Bond was completely satisfied. He added a belt with a waterproof zipper bag to his purchases, and then paid with his Platinum Amex Card, made out in the name of James Boldman.

‘Guess I’ll have to just run a check on this, sir, Mr Boldman.’

‘You don’t have to, and you know it.’ Bond gazed at the man with ice-cold eyes. ‘But if you’re about to make telephone calls, I’m going to stand next to you. Right?’

‘Right. Right,’ the pirate salesman repeated, leading the way to a tiny office at the back of the store. ‘Yes, sir-bub. Yes, siree.’ He picked up the telephone and dialled the Amex number. The card was cleared in seconds. It took another ten minutes for the purchases to be stowed away in the shoulder bag. As he left, Bond put his mouth very close to the pierced ear with the ring in it.

‘Tell you what,’ he began. ‘I’m a stranger in town, but now you know my name.’

‘Sure.’ The pirate gave him a trapped look.

‘If anyone else gets to know I’ve been here except you, Amex and myself, I shall come back, cut that ring from your ear and then do the same job on your nose, followed by a more vital organ.’ He dropped his hand, fist clenched, so that it lay level with the pirate’s crotch. ‘You understand me? I mean it.’

‘I already forgot your name, Mr . . . er . . . Mr . . .’

‘Keep it like that,’ said Bond as he strode off.

He made his way back to the hotel at the more leisurely pace of the people thronging the street. Back in his suite, he lugged the CC500 from its briefcase, hooked it to the telephone and put in a quick call to London. He did not wait for a response, but gave them his exact location, saying he would be in touch as soon as the job was completed.

‘It’s going down tonight,’ he finished. ‘If I’m not in touch within forty-eight hours, look for Shark Island, off Key West. Repeat, it’s going down tonight.’

It was a very apt phrase, he thought, as he changed into his newly acquired clothes. The ASP and baton were in place, so he no longer felt naked, but, surveying himself in the mirror, he thought he would blend in nicely with the tourist scene.

‘Going down tonight,’ he said softly to himself. Then he left for the Havana Docks bar.