The James Bond Anthology

‘It’s my lavatory. Something wrong with the ballcock. Is there anywhere else?’

‘I’m so sorry, sir. I’ll have the house engineer look at it at once. Yes, certainly. There’s the lobby toilet. The decoration isn’t completed and it’s not officially in use, but it’s in perfectly good working order.’ He lowered his voice. ‘And there’s a connecting door with my office. Leave it for ten minutes while I run back the tape of what this bastard’s saying. I heard the call was coming through. Don’t like the sound of it. May be your worry.’ He gave a little bow and waved Bond towards the central table with magazines on it. ‘If you’ll just take a seat for a few moments, sir, and then I’ll take care of you.’

Bond nodded his thanks and turned away. In the booth, Hendriks was talking. His eyes were fixed on Bond with a terrible intensity. Bond felt the skin crawl at the base of his stomach. This was it all right! He sat down and picked up an old Wall Street Journal

. Surreptitiously he tore a small piece out of the centre of page one. It could have been a tear at the cross-fold. He held the paper up at page two and watched Hendriks through the little hole.

Hendriks watched the back of the paper and talked and listened. He suddenly put down the receiver and came out of the booth. His face gleamed with sweat. He took out a clean white handkerchief and ran it over his face and neck and walked rapidly off down the corridor.

Nick Nicholson, as neat as a pin, came across the lobby and, with a courtly smile and a bow for Bond, took up his place behind the desk. It was 8.30. Five minutes later, Felix Leiter came out from the inner office. He said something to Nicholson and came over to Bond. There was a pale, pinched look round his mouth. He said, ‘And now, if you’ll follow me, sir.’ He led the way across the lobby, unlocked the men’s room door, followed Bond in and locked the door behind him. They stood among the carpentry work by the wash-basins. Leiter said tensely, ‘I guess you’ve had it, James. They were talking Russian, but your name and number kept on cropping up. Guess you’d better get out of here just as quickly as that old jalopy of yours’ll carry you.’

Bond smiled thinly. ‘Forewarned is forearmed, Felix. I knew it already. Hendriks has been told to rub me. Our old friend at K.G.B. headquarters, Semichastny, has got it in for me. I’ll tell you why one of these days.’ He told Leiter of the Mary Goodnight episode of the early hours. Leiter listened gloomily. Bond concluded, ‘So there’s no object in getting out now. We shall hear all the dope and probably their plans for me at this meeting at ten. Then they’ve got this excursion business afterwards. Personally I guess the shooting match’ll take place somewhere out in the country where there are no witnesses. Now, if you and Nick could work out something that’d upset the Away Engagement, I’ll make myself responsible for the home pitch.’

Leiter looked thoughtful. Some of the cloud lifted from his face. He said, ‘I know the plans for this afternoon. Off on this miniature train through the cane fields, picnic, then the boat out of Green Island Harbour, deep-sea fishing and all that. I’ve reconnoitred the route for it all.’ He raised the thumb of his left hand and pinged the end of his steel hook thoughtfully. ‘Ye-e-e-s. It’s going to mean some quick action and a heap of luck and I’ll have to get the hell up to Frome for some supplies from your friend Hugill. Will he hand over some gear on your say-so? Okay, then. Come into my office and write him a note. It’s only a half-hour’s drive and Nick can hold the front desk for that time. Come on.’ He opened a side door and went through into his office. He beckoned Bond to follow and shut the door behind him. At Leiter’s dictation, Bond took down the note to the manager of the WISCO sugar estates and then went out and along to his room. He took a strong nip of straight bourbon and sat on the edge of his bed and looked unseeingly out of the window and across the lawn to the sea’s horizon. Like a dozing hound chasing a rabbit in its dreams, or like the audience at an athletics meeting that lifts a leg to help the high-jumper over the bar, every now and then, his right hand twitched involuntarily. In his mind’s eye, in a variety of imagined circumstances, it was leaping for his gun.