The James Bond Anthology

12 | THE MAN FROM THE C.I.A.

The taxi took Bond out to the airport at the other end of the island by the Interfield Road. The man from the Central Intelligence Agency was due in by Pan American at 1.15. His name was Larkin, F. Larkin. Bond hoped he wouldn’t be a muscle-bound ex-college man with a crew-cut and a desire to show up the incompetence of the British, the backwardness of their little Colony, and the clumsy ineptitude of Bond, in order to gain credit with his chief in Washington. Bond hoped that at any rate he would bring the equipment he had asked for before he left London through Section A, who looked after the liaison with C.I.A. This was the latest transmitter and receiver for agents in the field, so that the two of them could be independent of cable offices and have instant communication with London and Washington, and the most modern portable Geiger counters for operating both on land and under water. One of the chief virtues of C.I.A., in Bond’s estimation, was the excellence of their equipment, and he had no false pride about borrowing from them.

New Providence, the island containing Nassau, the capital of the Bahamas, is a drab sandy slab of land fringed with some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. But the interior is nothing but a waste of low-lying scrub, casuarinas, mastic, and poison-wood with a large brackish lake at the western end. There are birds and tropical flowers and palm trees, imported fully grown from Florida, in the beautiful gardens of the millionaires round the coast, but in the middle of the island there is nothing to attract the eye but the skeleton fingers of spidery windmill pumps sticking up above the pine barrens, and Bond spent the ride to the airport reviewing the morning.

He had arrived at seven a.m. to be met by the Governor’s A.D.C. – a mild error of security – and taken to the Royal Bahamian, a large old-fashioned hotel to which had recently been applied a thin veneer of American efficiency and tourist gimmicks – iced water in his room, a Cellophane-wrapped basket of dingy fruit ‘with the compliments of the Manager’, and a strip of ‘sanitized’ paper across the lavatory seat. After a shower and a tepid, touristy breakfast on his balcony overlooking the beautiful beach, he had gone up to Government House at nine o’clock for a meeting with the Commissioner of Police, the Chief of Immigration and Customs, and the Deputy Governor. It was exactly as he had imagined it would be. The MOST IMMEDIATES and the TOP SECRETS had made a superficial impact and he was promised full co-operation in every aspect of his assignment, but the whole business was clearly put down as a ridiculous flap and something that must not be allowed to interfere with the normal routine of running a small, sleepy colony, nor with the comfort and happiness of the tourists. Roddick, the Deputy Governor, a careful, middle-of-the-way man with a ginger moustache and gleaming pince-nez, had put the whole affair in a most sensible light. ‘You see, Commander Bond, in our opinion – and we have most carefully debated all the possibilities, all the, er, angles, as our American friends would say – it is inconceivable that a large four-engined plane could have been hidden anywhere within the confines of the Colony. The only airstrip capable of taking such a plane – am I right, Harling? – is here in Nassau. So far as a landing on the sea is concerned, a, er, ditching I think they call it, we have been in radio contact with the Administrators on all the larger outer islands and the replies are all negative. The radar people at the meteorological station …’

Bond had interrupted at this point. ‘Might I ask if the radar screen is manned round the clock? My impression is that the airport is very busy during the day, but that there is very little traffic at night. Would it be possible that the radar is not so closely watched at night?’

The Commissioner of Police, a pleasant, very military looking man in his forties, the silver buttons and insignia on whose dark blue uniform glittered as they only can when spit and polish is a main activity and there are plenty of batmen around, said judiciously, ‘I think the Commander has a point there, sir. The Airport commandant admits that things do slacken off a bit when there’s nothing scheduled. He hasn’t got all that amount of staff and of course most of them are locals, sir. Good men, but hardly up to London Airport standards. And the radar at the met. station is only a G.C.A. set with a low horizon and range – mostly used for shipping.’

‘Quite, quite.’ The Deputy Governor didn’t want to be dragged into a discussion about radar sets or the merits of Nassavian labour. ‘There’s certainly a point there. No doubt Commander Bond will be making his own inquiries. Now there was a request from the Secretary of State,’ the title rolled sonorously forth, ‘for details and comments on recent arrivals in the island, suspicious characters, and so forth. Mr Pitman?’

The Chief of Immigration and Customs was a sleek Nassavian with quick brown eyes and an ingratiating manner. He smiled pleasantly. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. The usual mixture of tourists and businessmen and local people coming home. We were asked to have details for the past two weeks, sir.’ He touched the briefcase on his lap. ‘I have all the immigration forms here, sir. Perhaps Commander Bond would care to go through them with me.’ The brown eyes flicked towards Bond and away. ‘All the big hotels have house detectives. I could probably get him further details on any particular name. All passports were checked in the normal manner. There were no irregularities and none of these people was on our Wanted List.’

Bond said, ‘Might I ask a question?’

The Deputy Governor nodded enthusiastically. ‘Of course. Of course. Anything you like. We’re all here to help.’

‘I’m looking for a group of men. Probably ten or more. They probably stick together a good deal. Might be as many as twenty or thirty. I guess they would be Europeans. They probably have a ship or a plane. They may have been here for months or only a few days. I gather you have plenty of conventions coming to Nassau – salesmen, tourist associations, religious groups, heaven knows what all. Apparently they take a block of rooms in some hotel and hold meetings and so forth for a week or so. Is there anything like that going on at the moment?’

‘Mr Pitman?’

‘Well, of course we do have plenty of those sort of gatherings. Very welcome to the Tourist Board.’ The Chief of Immigration smiled conspiratorially at Bond as if he had just given away a closely guarded secret. ‘But in the last two weeks we’ve only had a Moral Rearmament Group at the Emerald Wave and the Tiptop Biscuit people at the Royal Bahamian. They’ve gone now. Quite the usual convention pattern. All very respectable.’

‘That’s just it, Mr Pitman. The people I’m looking for, the people who may have arranged to steal this plane, will certainly take pains to look respectable and behave in a respectable fashion. We’re not looking for a bunch of flashy crooks. We think these must be very big people indeed. Now, is there anything like that on the island, a group of people like that?’

‘Well,’ the Chief of Immigration smiled broadly, ‘of course we’ve got our annual treasure hunt going on.’

The Deputy Governor barked a quick, deprecating laugh. ‘Now steady on, Mr Pitman. Surely we don’t want them to get mixed up in all this, or heaven knows where we shall end. I can’t believe Commander Bond wants to bother his head over a lot of rich beachcombers.’

The Commissioner of Police said doubtfully, ‘The only thing is, sir – they do have a yacht, and a small plane for the matter of that. And I did hear that a lot of shareholders in the swindle had come in lately. Those points do tally with what the Commander was asking about. I admit it’s ridiculous, but this man Largo’s respectable enough for Commander Bond’s requirements and his men have never once given us trouble. Unusual to have not even one case of drunkenness in a ship’s crew in nearly six months.’

And Bond had leapt at the flimsy thread and had pursued it for another two hours – in the Customs building and in the Commissioner’s office – and, as a result, he had gone walking in the town to see if he could get a look at Largo or any of his party or pick up any other shreds of gossip. As a result he had got a good look at Domino Vitali.

And now?

The taxi had arrived at the airport. Bond told the driver to wait and walked into the long low entrance hall just as the arrival of Larkin’s flight was being announced over the Tannoy. He knew there would be the usual delay for customs and immigration. He went to the souvenir shop and bought a copy of the New York Times. In its usual discreet headlines it was still leading with the loss of the Vindicator. Perhaps it knew also about the loss of the atom bombs, because Arthur Krock, on the leader page, had a heavyweight column about the security aspects of the N.A.T.O. alliance. Bond was half way through this when a quiet voice in his ear said, ‘007? Meet No. 000.’

Bond swung round. It was! It was Felix Leiter!

Leiter, his C.I.A. companion on some of the most thrilling cases in Bond’s career, grinned and thrust the steel hook that was his right hand under Bond’s arm. ‘Take it easy, friend. Dick Tracy will tell all when we get out of here. Bags are out front. Let’s go.’

Bond said, ‘Well, Goddammit! You old so-and-so! Did you know it was going to be me?’

‘Sure. C.I.A. knows all.’

At the entrance Leiter had his luggage, which was considerable, put aboard Bond’s taxi, and told the driver to take it to the Royal Bahamian. A man standing beside an undistinguished-looking black Ford Consul saloon left the car and came up. ‘Mr Larkin? I’m from the Hertz company. This is the car you ordered. We hope she’s what you want. You did specify something conventional.’

Leiter glanced casually at the car. ‘Looks all right. I just want a car that’ll go. None of those ritzy jobs with only room for a small blonde with a sponge bag. I’m here to do property work – not jazz it up.’

‘May I see your New York licence, sir? Right. Then if you’ll just sign here … and I’ll make a note of the number of your Diner’s Club card. When you go, leave the car anywhere you like and just notify us. We’ll collect it. Have a good holiday, sir.’

They got into the car. Bond took the wheel. Leiter said that he’d have to practise a bit on what he called ‘this Limey southpaw routine’ of driving on the left, and anyway he’d be interested to see if Bond had improved his cornering since their last drive together.

When they were out of the airport Bond said, ‘Now go ahead and tell. Last time we met you were with Pinkertons. What’s the score?’

‘Drafted. Just damned well drafted. Hell, anyone would think there was a war on. You see, James, once you’ve worked for C.I.A., you’re automatically put on the reserve of officers when you leave. Unless you’ve been cashiered for not eating the code-book under fire or something. And apparently my old Chief, Allen Dulles that is, just didn’t have the men to go round when the President sounded the fire alarm. So I and twenty or so other guys were just pulled in – drop everything, twenty-four hours to report. Hell! I thought the Russians had landed! And then they tell me the score and to pack my bathing trunks and my spade and bucket and come on down to Nassau. So of course I griped like hell. Asked them if I shouldn’t brush up on my Canasta game and take some quick lessons in the Cha-cha. So then they unbuttoned and told me I was to team up with you down here and I thought maybe if that old bastard of yours, N. or M. or whatever you call him, had sent you down here with your old equalizer, there might be something cooking in the pot after all. So I picked up the gear you’d asked for from Admin., packed the bow and arrows instead of the spade and bucket, and here I am. And that’s that. Now you tell, you old sonofabitch. Hell, it’s good to see you.’

Bond took Leiter through the whole story, point by point from the moment he had been summoned to M.’s office the morning before. When he came to the shooting outside his headquarters, Leiter stopped him.

‘Now what do you make of that, James? In my book, that’s a pretty funny coincidence. Have you been fooling around with anybody’s wife lately? Sounds more like around The Loop in Chicago than a mile or so from Piccadilly.’

Bond said seriously, ‘It makes no sense to me, and none to anyone else. The only man who might have had it in for me, recently that is, is a crazy bastard I met down at a sort of clinic place I had to go to on some blasted medical grounds.’ Bond, to Leiter’s keen pleasure, rather sheepishly gave details of his ‘cure’ at Shrublands. ‘I bowled this man out as a member of a Chinese Tong, one of their secret societies, the Red Lightning Tong. He must have heard me getting the gen on his outfit from Records – on an open line from a call box in the place. Next thing, he damned near managed to murder me. Just for a lark, and to get even, I did my best to roast him alive.’ Bond gave the details. ‘Nice quiet place, Shrublands. You’d be surprised how carrot juice seems to affect people.’

‘Where was this lunatic asylum?’

‘Place called Washington. Modest little place compared with yours. Not far from Brighton.’

‘And the letter was posted from Brighton.’

‘That’s the hell of a long shot.’

‘I’ll try another. One of the points our chaps brought up was that if a plane was to be stolen at night and landed at night, a full moon would be the hell of an aid to the job. But the plane was taken five days after the full. Just supposing your roast chicken was the letter-sender. And supposing the roasting forced him to delay sending the letter while he recovered. His employers would be pretty angry. Yes?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And supposing they gave orders for him to be rubbed for inefficiency. And supposing the killer got to him just as he got to you to settle his private account. From what you tell me he wouldn’t have lain down under what you did to him. Well, now. Just supposing all that. It adds up, doesn’t it?’

Bond laughed, partly in admiration. ‘You’ve been taking mescalin or something. It’s a damned good sequence for a comic strip, but these things don’t happen in real life.’

‘Planes with atom bombs don’t get stolen in real life. Except that they do. You’re slowing down, James. How many people would believe the files on some of the cases you and I have got mixed up in? Don’t give me that crap about real life. There ain’t no such animal.’

Bond said seriously, ‘Well, look here, Felix. Tell you what I’ll do. There’s just enough sense in your story, so I’ll put it on the machine to M. tonight and see if the Yard can get anywhere with it. They could check with the clinic and the hospital in Brighton, if that’s where he was taken, and they may be able to get on from there. Trouble is, wherever they get, there’s nothing left of the man but his shoes, and I doubt if they’ll catch up with the man on the motorbike. It looked a real pro job to me.’

‘Why not? These hi-jackers sound like pros. It’s a pro plan. It all fits all right. You go ahead and put it on the wire and don’t be ashamed of saying it was my idea. My medal collection has got to looking a bit thin since I left the outfit.’

They pulled up under the portico of the Royal Bahamian and Bond gave the keys to the parking attendant. Leiter checked in and they went up to his room and sent for two double dry Martinis on the rocks and the menu.

From the pretentious dishes, ‘For Your Particular Consideration’, printed in Ornamental Gothic, Bond chose Native Seafood Cocktail Suprême followed by Disjointed Home Farm Chicken, Sauté au Cresson, which was described in italics as ‘Tender Farm Chicken, Broiled to a Rich Brown, Basted with Creamery Butter and Disjointed for Your Convenience. Price 38/6 or dollars 5.35.’ Felix Leiter went for the Baltic Herring in Sour Cream followed by ‘Chopped Tenderloin of Beef, French Onion Rings (Our Renowned Beef is Chef Selected from the Finest Corn-fed, Mid-Western Cattle, and Aged to Perfection to Assure you of the Very Best). Price 40/3 or dollars 5.65.’

When they both had commented sourly and at length about the inflated bogosity of tourist hotel food and particularly the mendacious misuse of the English language to describe materials which had certainly been in various deep-freezes for at least six months, they settled down on the balcony to discuss Bond’s findings of the morning.

Half an hour and one more double dry Martini later, their luncheon came. The whole thing amounted to about five shillings’ worth of badly cooked rubbish. They ate in a mood of absentminded irritation, saying nothing. Finally Leiter threw down his knife and fork. ‘This is Hamburger and bad Hamburger. The French onion rings were never in France and what’s more,’ he poked at the remains with a fork, ‘they’re not even rings. They’re oval.’ He looked belligerently across at Bond. ‘All right, Hawkshaw. Where do we go from here?’

‘The major decision is to eat out in future. The next is to pay a visit to the Disco – now.’ Bond got up from the table. ‘When we’ve done that, we’ll have to decide whether or not these people are hunting pieces of eight or £100,000,000. Then we’ll have to report progress.’ Bond waved at the packing cases in a corner of the room. ‘I’ve got the loan of a couple of rooms on the top floor of police headquarters here. The Commissioner’s co-operative and a solid character. These Colonial Police are good, and this one’s a cut above the rest. We can set up the radio there and make contact this evening. Tonight there’s this party at the Casino. We’ll go to that and see if any of these faces mean anything to either of us. The first thing’s to see if the yacht’s clean or not. Can you break that Geiger counter out?’

‘Sure. And it’s a honey.’ Leiter went to the cases, selected one, and opened it. He came back carrying what looked like a Rolleiflex camera in a portable leather case. ‘Here, give me a hand.’ Leiter took off his wrist-watch and strapped on what appeared to be another watch. He slung the ‘camera’ by its strap over his left shoulder. ‘Now run those wires from the watch up my sleeve and down inside my coat. Right. Now these two small plugs go through these holes in my coat pocket and into the two holes in the box. Got it? Now we’re all fixed.’ Leiter stood back and posed. ‘Man with a camera and a wrist-watch.’ He unbuttoned the flap of the camera. ‘See? Perfectly good lenses and all that. Even a button to press in case you have to seem to take a picture. But in back of the make-believe there’s a metal valve, a circuit, and batteries. Now take a look at this watch. And it is a watch.’ He held it under Bond’s eyes. ‘Only difference is that it’s a very small watch mechanism and that sweep second-hand is a meter that takes the radio-active count. Those wires up the sleeve hitch it on to the machine. Now then. You’re still wearing that old wrist-watch of yours with the big phosphorous numerals. So I walk round the room for a moment to get the background count. That’s basic. All sorts of things give off radiation of some sort. And I take an occasional glance at my watch – nervous type, and I’ve got an appointment coming up. Now here, by the bathroom, all that metal is giving off something and my watch is registering positive, but very little. Nothing else in the room and I’ve established the amount of background interference I’ll have to discount when I start to get hot. Right? Now I come close up to you and my camera’s only a few inches away from your hand. Here, take a look. Put your watch right up against the counter. See! The sweephand is getting all excited. Move your watch away and it loses interest. It’s those phosphorous numerals of yours. Remember the other day one of the watch companies withdrew an air-pilot’s watch from the market because the Atomic Energy people got fussy? Same thing. They thought this particular pilot’s watch, with the big phosphorescent numerals, was giving off too much radiation to be good for the wearer. Of course,’ Leiter patted the camera case, ‘this is a special job. Most types give off a clicking sound and if you’re prospecting for uranium, which is the big market for these machines, you wear earphones to try and pick up the stuff underground. For this job we don’t need anything so sensitive. If we get near where those bombs are hidden, this damned sweephand’ll go right off the dial. Okay? So let’s go hire ourselves a sixpenny sick and pay a call on the ocean greyhound.’