The James Bond Anthology

James Bond was delighted. He had had many assignments in Jamaica and many adventures on the island. The splendid address and all the stuff about chains and perches and the old-fashioned abracadabra at the end of the advertisement brought back all the authentic smell of one of the oldest and most romantic of former British possessions. For all her newfound ‘Independence’ he would bet his bottom dollar that the statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston had not been destroyed or removed to a museum as similar relics of an historic infancy had been in the resurgent African states. He looked at his watch. The Gleaner had consumed a whole hour for him. He picked up his coat and briefcase. Not much longer to go! In the last analysis, life wasn’t all that dismal. One must forget the bad and remember the good. What were a couple of hours of heat and boredom in this island compared with memories of Beau Desert and Honeychile Rider and his survival against the mad Dr No? James Bond smiled to himself as the dusty pictures clicked across his brain. How long ago it all was! What had happened to her? She never wrote. The last he had heard, she had had two children by the Philadelphia doctor she had married. He wandered off into the grandly named ‘Concourse’ where the booths of many airlines stood empty, and promotion folders and little company flags on their counters gathered the dust blown in with the mangrove breeze.

There was the customary central display-stand holding messages for incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there would be something for him. In all his life there never had been. Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under tape, beneath each parent letter. Nothing under ‘B’ and nothing under his alias ‘H’ for ‘Hazard, Mark’ of the ‘Transworld Consortium’, successor to the old ‘Universal Export’, that had recently been discarded as cover for the Secret Service. Nothing. He ran a bored eye over the other envelopes. He suddenly froze. He looked around him, languidly, casually. The Cuban couple were out of sight. Nobody else was looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and pocketed the buff envelope that said, ‘Scaramanga. B.O.A.C. passenger from Lima’.He stayed where he was for a few minutes and then wandered slowly off to the door marked ‘Men’.

He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It contained a B.W.I.A. message form. The neat B.W.I.A. writing said: ‘Message received from Kingston at 12.15: the samples will be available at No. 3½ S.L.M. as from midday tomorrow.’ There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. S.L.M. – Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from outer space – seize it with both hands as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under ‘S’ and walked over to the Cuban Airlines booth and cancelled his reservation. He then went to the B.O.A.C. counter and looked through the timetable. Yes, the Lima flight for Kingston, New York and London was due in at 13.15 the next day. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner’s Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl’s voice came on the line. ‘Commander Ross’s assistant. Can I help you?’

There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond said, ‘Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London.’

The girl’s voice became suddenly alert. ‘I’m afraid Commander Ross is away from Jamaica. Is there anything I can do?’ There was a pause. ‘What name did you say?’

‘I didn’t say any name. But in fact it’s …’

The voice broke in excitedly, ‘Don’t tell me. It’s James!’

Bond laughed. ‘Well I’m damned! It’s Goodnight! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘More or less what I used to do for you. I heard you were back, but I thought you were ill or something. How absolutely marvellous! But where are you talking from?’

‘Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later. Can you get cracking?’

‘Of course. Wait till I get a pencil. Right.’