His secretary, Miss Moneypenny, a legend in her own right, looked up from the word processor. She had obviously been daydreaming and not working. M’s thunder, plus a little lightning, seemed to bring a major storm into her usually calm work station.
M brandished a sheaf of papers, and spoke as though giving orders to a crew on an open deck in a force ten gale. Nobody doubted, when he was in this mood, that M held a very high Naval rank.
‘What in the name of Drake, Nelson and Raleigh are you up to?’ He stood directly in front of her and noted that she looked ready to burst into tears. His mind registered that this was most unlike Moneypenny.
‘What seems to be the trouble, sir?’ She asked in a tiny voice, unlike the efficient secretary she was.
M brandished the papers again. ‘Five errors – typing errors – on the first page alone. Damn it, woman, I thought these new contraptions corrected things like that!’
‘Oh. Oh, I’m sorry. I must have forgotten to run the spellcheck over it.’ Even though she was looking M straight in the eyes, the chief caught the small movement of her hand on the desk. His eyes flicked down, and he saw she was trying to cover a telex with some spare papers.
‘Let me see that.’ He whipped up the paper and began to read aloud, his voice rising into near fury as he read, ‘US Immigration has no reports of 007 leaving the United States as of 15.00 hours today. By heaven, who authorised this?’
‘I’m afraid I did, sir. I thought you’d be worried about James. He’s gone missing.’
M’s voice softened. ‘You know better than that, Moneypenny. Much better, and it’s you who’s worried, isn’t it?’
She bit her lip and nodded.
‘Hrrumph! Well, think it through. You know what he’ll be up to. On his way to get that blighter Sanchez. I’m afraid James’s gone off the deep end, and he has to be stopped – or helped.’ He gave her a thin smile. ‘Look, I’ve already alerted our man in Isthmus.’ He drew out a smaller piece of paper from under the pile he carried. ‘Now, to put your mind at rest, I want this memo out now. This afternoon. Understand?’ M turned and marched back into his office.
Moneypenny smiled as she read the memo. Then, picking up the telephone, she said, ‘Get me Q-Branch, please.’
The approach to Isthmus City International Airport is straight in over the sea. You cross the harbour, and a mile further on there is the threshold to runway 33-Left. What you see of the city as you cover that final mile in the air is typical of what you see on the ground. Huddled, ugly and decayed buildings, almost cheek by jowl with modern high-rise apartment blocks and hotels. Isthmus City has only four types of resident – not counting the quick and the dead. You are either very rich or very poor; or you either have work or, as in most cases, you have no work.
Pam flared the Beechcraft Baron neatly, right on the white bars of the threshold, then, as instructed from the tower, taxied towards the executive section, where other small aircraft were unloading, or starting up.
From the right-hand seat of the flight deck, Bond saw an enormous poster on the side of one of the airport buildings. It showed a garish, toothy, smiling, highly-cosmeticised painting of the president. Underneath, in Spanish, were the words ‘Presidente Hector Lopez – Profits for the People’.
Pam followed the signals of the ground crew, parked, applied the brakes and ran the two Continental 10-470-L engines down until the spinning discs that were the propellers assumed their normal shape again. ‘Welcome to Isthmus City, James. Home of the corrupt, the hungry and the biggest drugs baron in the world.’
A ground crew had arrived, and already their matching sets of Louis Vuiton luggage had been loaded on to a small truck. ‘Ah,’ Pam gave a little sign of interest as they came down the steps, nodding towards a Gulf Stream II that had parked nearby, the whine of its engines blotting out any other sound. ‘Interesting,’ she continued. The Gulf Stream was painted cream with a gold logo on the tailplane – the words Isthmus Cosino, with a coin as the final ‘o’. ‘Look at that reception committee.’
Bond saw two men greeting a group of six orientals who were disembarking. The first had light-coloured hair and a Wall-Street taste in clothes. The other man was tall and built like a blockhouse. He had seen the latter, on television: Sanchez’s arrival at the casino gala night.
‘The blond guy’s called William Truman-Lodge, Sanchez’s financial whizz-kid.’
‘Looks like a Gecko to me.’ Bond gave an innocent smile, hoping that the little joke about the Wall Street movie was not lost on Pam.
‘Oh, yes. He’s just like on the movies. They’d very much like to see him back home. Wanted for insider trading on Wall Street.’
‘Figures.’ A customs official and an attractive hostess had joined the party and were shepherding them through a side entrance to a couple of stretch-limos that waited for them. ‘The other guy?’ Bond asked.
‘The tall one. Name of Heller. Ex-Green Beret captain who went to the bad. Handles security for Sanchez, with the rank of colonel. The Bureau would like to get their hands on him as well.’
‘I believe it.’ Bond saw that they only rated a customs official, who stamped their passports after removing the five-hundred-dollar bills Bond had folded into his. ‘How much for a limo?’ he asked.
‘For you, sir? Another hundred. To me.’ The note changed hands, and the wheels were oiled nicely. Ten minutes later they were being whisked through wide streets flanked by overcrowded and dilapidated buildings. Ragged children played in the streets, and men sat, disconsolate, on the kerbs.
From this squalor they passed into a more opulent area. No rags and no desperate-looking people inhabited this quarter. Shops glistened, bulging with luxuries and there were a large number of security men around. Big fellows dressed in blue pants and shirts, with short leather jackets and baseball caps – flashy with a gold insignia. Each man had a pump-action shotgun. But even here, in the upmarket part of town, pictures of President Lopez could be seen everywhere.
They had called ahead, Bond ordering the best suite they could give him at the Hotel El Presidente, and they were greeted with much rubbing of hands, bowing, scraping and flashing teeth. It took three bellboys to bring the luggage, and they were accompanied by an unctuous assistant manager who showed them the considerable amenities and then asked if the suite was satisfactory.
It was more than satisfactory, but Bond looked around as though the place stank. ‘It’s adequate,’ he said. ‘But I want fresh flowers in all the rooms, and some Bolinger – récemment dégorgé if you have it . . .’
‘But certainly, senor.’
‘A case, I think. Sent up straight away. Oh, and could you hire a Rolls-Royce for me?’
‘Of course, senor.’ The assistant manager bowed even lower. ‘With a chauffeur?’
‘For now, yes. Later we’ll see.’
‘Very good, senor. I wonder, senor . . .’ he hesitated. ‘Could you sign the registration cards, senor.’
Bond looked at him as though he had crawled out from under a stone. He brought out a wad of notes and dispensed large tips to the bellboys. ‘My executive secretary, Miss Kennedy, will take care of that.’ He waved towards Pam, who gave him a laser-look before smiling sweetly at the assistant manager and signing the cards.
‘Ms Kennedy if you don’t mind,’ she said when the door closed. ‘Anyway, I already told you, I’m not related to those Bouviers. Why can’t you be my executive secretary?’
‘South of the border, Pam. Still a man’s world down here.’ He went to one of the larger cases which lay on a luggage stand. Now he manipulated the combination locks and opened it. The case almost overflowed with bank notes, and Pam gave a little gasp.
He counted out several packets and handed them to her. ‘Thanks for everything, dear Pam. Your job’s finished.’
She took the money, looked at it and then at Bond again. ‘James, you can use some help here. I’d like to go the full distance.’
‘Dangerous, Pam. Said so yourself
.’ He put his arms around her shoulders. ‘Enough people are dead. I’d like you waiting when I get back.’
A very desirable lady, Bond thought. Intelligent, beautiful, courageous. These were the pluses. He bent down and kissed her hard on the lips, and felt her body react against his. More pluses. But he was aware of the minus signs also. Headstrong, her own woman with a very short fuse.
She drew away from him. ‘James, listen. They were already on to me in Bimini. They probably think they got me, but they’re soon going to find out the truth. When that happens, when they figure out I’m still alive, I’m not going to be safe anywhere. My only chance is to help you get Sanchez before he gets me.’ She gave that irresistible grin. ‘Besides, I like the pay.’
He looked at her for a full minute, then nodded, reaching down to take another packet of money from the case. ‘Okay. This is for expenses. If you’re going to play at being my executive secretary, you’ll have to look the part.’ He gave her his quizzical glance, raising one eyebrow. ‘So, get your hair done and buy some stylish clothes instead of the tomboy gear you’re wearing.’
Pam’s fuse burned out and fired the detonator. She snatched the cash from his hand. ‘You bastard,’ she muttered, turning on her heel and heading for the door.
‘Oh, Ms Kennedy,’ he called after her. ‘I need to deposit this paper. Which bank does Sanchez use?’
She went on walking. ‘Which do you think?’ she mouthed back over her shoulder. ‘The biggest in town. The Banco de Isthmus. He owns it.’ The door slammed behind her, like a pistol shot.
An hour later, Bond lolled, at ease, in the back of a silver Rolls. The suitcases were in the boot, and the chauffeur was of the silent variety. They drove two blocks, and before he knew it, there was an imposing classic façade with a huge carved ‘Banco de Isthmus’ picked out in gold spreading across the entire building. Gold seemed to be Sanchez’s favourite colour. Not surprising, Bond considered. Really it should be gold and white. White from the toxic powder from which he made the gold.
Almost before the door was opened, a bank porter appeared by the car, together with a couple of the ubiquitous leather-jacketed guards, complete with the pump-action shotguns. Bond had the boot unlocked and the two large suitcases were loaded on to the porter’s handcart. Once more he had telephoned ahead, and the porter said the manager was expecting him.
They passed through the doors, snaking among the many well-dressed customers, and across a magnificent marbled art deco lobby. Sanchez certainly was not mean when it came to putting up a front, Bond thought as they entered a large, very spacious office.
‘Hey, amigos!’ The voice seemed to be directed at Bond’s little procession, and his heart skipped a beat as he saw Sanchez, looking bronzed and fit, immaculate in a white suit, coming down the main staircase.
For a few seconds it looked as though Sanchez was coming straight towards him, but at the last minute he sidestepped and Bond saw he was really greeting the six orientals who had arrived on the casino’s jet. With them was the financial whizz-kid. What had Pam called him? Yes, Truman-Lodge. The name sounded like a motel, Bond smiled to himself as he passed into the manager’s office, noting that Sanchez and company were heading up the wide marble staircase which would not have looked out of place in a First Empire palace.
The manager, tall, suave and as immaculately dressed as Sanchez, rose from a desk which could possibly just be used as a small helicopter landing pad. He smiled pleasantly and extended a hand. ‘You are Mr Bond, Yes? Good. My name is Montolongo, and it has been my privilege to manage this bank for the last five years. It is good to meet you.’
Bond had opened both suitcases. Now he gestured to the alarmingly large pile of money. ‘I’ve come to make a small deposit,’ he said.
Montolongo glanced at the cases. If Bond had expected any amazed reaction he was out of luck. The manager merely smiled, as if to say this was really a caring bank. He pressed a small button on his desk and, almost without warning, a door opened to admit a slim young woman who looked more like a model than a banker.
‘One of my more attractive assistants, Mr Bond.’ Then, turning to the girl, who had already greeted Bond with a dazzling smile, ‘Consuela, I wonder if you would have Mr Bond’s deposit counted.’
‘Of course.’ The girl spoke excellent American English, with no trace of an accent.
‘There’s exactly five million dollars there.’ Bond turned away to examine a mural which covered one wall.
‘Then you needn’t count it, my dear. Just make out the deposit receipt.’
Consuela nodded, signalled to a porter, who brought in a handcart. The cases were loaded up and taken away. Bond tried to give the impression of a man waiting to speak privately; Montolongo regarded him with eyes that seemed to show infinite understanding.
‘There’ll be additional monthly deposits in the same amount,’ Bond said, turning back to the mural, which depicted a street scene, circa 1920. It also gave the impression that everyone in the scene had great wealth: women rode in long cars smoking through what seemed to be even longer cigarette holders; men paid over large sums of money to banks, or were sitting in boardrooms, when they were not buying things.
Montolongo came up behind him. ‘It is a good piece of work, yes? Made by a talented local artist. It’s called Prosperity through work.’
‘Very apt.’ Bond raised his eyebrows and continued to look at the mural.
‘Mr Bond,’ the manager continued. ‘Here at the Banco de Isthmus we understand about accounts such as yours. If you wish it, we can always put your money through our bank in the United States and from there into the US Federal Reserve. We have a trading room, right here in the building. We do it all the time. Once the funds are in the Federal Reserve, we can use them for – how can I put it . . . ?’
‘Legitimate investments?’ Bond turned to face the man, who smiled.
‘Quite so, Mr Bond. Legitimate investments. Our trading room is wired to all of the world’s leading financial exchanges. We offer complete anonymity to our customers. One might say we operate the world’s largest private investment fund.’
Bond thought, One might really say the Banco de Isthmus operates the world’s largest laundry. Aloud, he said, ‘I’ll give it some thought. You can never tell how useful a service such as that could be.’
‘I’m glad we understand one another. Good.’
There was a discreet tap at the door, and another young woman entered. Bond did not immediately recognise her. A vision, beautifully turned out, coiffured, made up and wearing a lightweight white suit which could have carried the label of any really top designer.
‘Senor Montolongo,’ she began, and Bond realised it was Pam. The change was dramatically effective. She gave Bond a sharp on-and-off smile. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Kennedy. Ms Kennedy, and I am Mr Bond’s executive secretary.’
Bond stepped in quickly, ‘Just one moment more, Ms Kennedy.’
But Montolongo was already charmed out of his socks. ‘Mr Bond, you did not tell me you had such charming staff.’
‘He doesn’t talk to many people about the hired help.’ She said it straight-faced.
‘Yes. Well,’ Bond stumbled for a second. ‘Sir, I wonder if you could arrange a credit for me at the casino? I fear that gambling is my besetting sin. Shall we say two million dollars?’
‘No problem, Mr Bond. No problem at all. You’ve excellent collateral and our chairman also owns the casino.’
Pam gave off one of her brightest smiles. ‘What a convenient arrangement.’
Montolongo returned the smile in kind. ‘We have always thought so, senorita.’
‘I shall have to ask Mr Bond to take me along. He’s often unlucky at the tables.’
‘Well, senorita, you know the old saying – unlucky in the casino, lucky in the bedroom.’ He laughed as though this was a truly original piece of wit, but the laugh died when he saw the freezing looks given to him by both Bond and ‘Ms Kennedy’.
>
‘Well, you’ve already been lucky in the bedroom. Let’s see if you’re unlucky at the tables.’ Pam spoke warmly, squeezing Bond’s tuxedoed arm. The Rolls was just pulling up in front of the casino. ‘You look gorgeous, James.’
Bond sat in silence, his thoughts elsewhere.
‘Thank you, darling,’ Pam said. ‘Thank you so much. You look absolutely stunning as well. I’ve seldom seen a girl who looked so stunning. Hey, Bond? Hello, anyone there?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling. A lot on my mind. Yes, you do look dazzling. The gown is just a shade daring, and there’s one thing I really find attractive . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re one of the few women I’ve ever met who can get ready, and look like a fashion plate in ten minutes flat.’
‘Trick of the trade,’ she smiled. The doorman was approaching the car. ‘Wish I could say the same thing about you. You were one hell of a time in the bathroom. What on earth were you up to?’
‘Trick of the trade.’ Bond gave her a knowing look as he stepped out of the car and offered her his hand.
Indeed, he had been a long time, and it was certainly to do with the tricks of his trade. Tonight, he wanted to engineer a meeting with Sanchez. He also wanted to arrange a little sound stealing.
Inside, the casino was beautifully appointed, as indeed were its clientele. Marble floors in the wide lobby gave way to deep pile carpet. ‘Monte Carlo with trimmings,’ Bond whispered as one of the many smooth young managers appeared.
‘Welcome,’ he bowed. ‘Senor Bond. Senorita Kennedy.’
‘Word gets around.’ Bond’s eyebrow rose.
‘Here in Isthmus City, one thing is the key to all doors, senor.’
‘Of course, how silly of me. Money.’
‘Quite so, senor. If you would like to follow me. The salon privé is upstairs.’
They climbed a marble staircase, passed through a wide archway and down three steps into a remarkable room. A lot of people were playing, and the casino obviously had every type of game to suit every taste.
A fair amount of buzzing conversation went on at the long fan-tan table set across the room, but those not playing that particularly noisy game were ranged around the other tables – baccarat, chemin de fer, roulette and blackjack. These were the serious players, and it showed in the concentration on their faces.