The James Bond Anthology

The bar was through a brass-studded leather door opposite the lobby to the conference room. It was – in the fashion – a mock-English public-house saloon bar with luxury accessories. The scrubbed wooden chairs and benches had foam-rubber squabs in red leather. Behind the bar, the tankards were of silver, or simulated silver, instead of pewter. The hunting prints, copper and brass hunting horns, muskets and powder horns, on the walls could have come from the Parker Galleries in London. Instead of tankards of beer, bottles of champagne in antique coolers stood on the tables and, instead of yokels, the hoods stood around in what looked like Brooks Brothers ‘tropical’ attire and carefully sipped their drinks while ‘Mine Host’ leant against the polished mahogany bar and twirled his golden gun round and round on the first finger of his right hand like the snide poker cheat out of an old Western.

As the door closed behind Bond with a pressurised sigh, the golden gun halted in mid-whirl and sighted on Bond’s stomach. ‘Fellers,’ said Scaramanga, mock boisterous, ‘meet my Personal Assistant, Mr Mark Hazard, from London, England. He’s come along to make things run smoothly over this week-end. Mark, come over and meet the gang and pass round the canapés.’ He lowered the gun and shoved it into his waistband.

James Bond stitched a Personal Assistant smile on his face and walked up to the bar. Perhaps because he was an Englishman, there was a round of handshaking. The red-coated barman asked him what he would have and he said, ‘Some pink gin. Plenty of bitters. Beefeater’s.’ There was desultory talk about the relative merits of gins. Everyone else seemed to be drinking champagne except Mr Hendriks who stood away from the group and nursed a Schweppes Bitter Lemon. Bond moved among the men. He made small talk about their flight, the weather in the States, the beauties of Jamaica. He wanted to fit the voices to the names. He gravitated towards Mr Hendriks. ‘Seems we’re the only two Europeans here. Gather you’re from Holland. Often passed through. Never stayed there long. Beautiful country.’

The very pale blue eyes regarded Bond unenthusiastically. ‘Sank you.’

‘What part do you come from?’

‘Den Haag.’

‘Have you lived there long?’

‘Many, many years.’

‘Beautiful town.’

‘Sank you.’

‘Is this your first visit to Jamaica?’

‘No.’

‘How do you like it?’

‘It is a beautiful place.’

Bond nearly said, ‘Sank you.’ He smiled encouragingly at Mr Hendriks as much as to say, ‘I’ve made all the running so far. Now you say something.’

Mr Hendriks looked past Bond’s right ear at nothing. The pressure of the silence built up. Mr Hendriks shifted his weight from one foot to the other and finally broke down. His eyes shifted and looked thoughtfully at Bond. ‘And you. You are from London, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Do you know it?’

‘I have been there, yes.’

‘Where do you usually stay?’

There was hesitation. ‘With friends.’

‘That must be convenient.’

‘Pliss?’

‘I mean it’s pleasant to have friends in a foreign town. Hotels are so much alike.’

‘I have not found this. Excuse pliss.’ With a Germanic bob of the head Mr Hendriks moved decisively away from Bond and went up to Scaramanga, who was still lounging in solitary splendour at the bar. Mr Hendriks said something. His words acted like a command on the other man. Mr Scaramanga straightened himself and followed Mr Hendriks into a far corner of the room. He stood and listened with deference as Mr Hendriks talked rapidly in a low tone.

Bond, joining the other men, was interested. It was his guess that no other man in the room could have buttonholed Scaramanga with so much authority. He noticed that many fleeting glances were cast in the direction of the couple apart. For Bond’s money, this was either the Mafia or K.G.B. Probably even the other five wouldn’t know which, but they would certainly recognize the secret smell of ‘The Machine’ which Mr Hendriks exuded so strongly.