‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Professor Joe, it’s really you. Oh, my goodness.’ Pam hopped from foot to foot like a child.
‘Is that the gift you’ve brought for me, child?’ His little sharp eyes dropped towards the briefcase.
‘Oh, golly, yes. I brought it all the way. Hitched and hiked and all . . . From Boyse, Idaho.’ You just followed the yellow brick road, didn’t you, Dor’thy? she thought to herself.
‘From Boyse, Idaho, eh? That’s interesting. I once knew a man who hailed from there. Come, child. Bring it with you. I’ll show you our Institute and you can tell me about the folks back home who have been so generous.’ He led her off at almost a canter, down passages, through richly ornamented rooms, to a door which he carefully opened with a key, hanging from a chain attached to his belt around his robe.
He swung open the door. ‘This is my humble sanctuary, away from the cares of the world.’
‘Oh, wow! Your own private meditation chamber!’ She stepped inside the luxurious room, with its big bed and a ceiling made entirely of mirrors.
‘Yes, child,’ Professor Joe purred. ‘Built from the sacred rocks of the original temple. I’ve had it completely sound-proofed, so that nothing can disturb our personal meditation.’
She saw his hand move behind his back, and heard the lock click as he turned the key.
15
INTO THE JAWS OF DEATH
Q had done his homework before leaving London on the assignment given to him by M, but passed on discreetly as a request from Miss Moneypenny.
His last hours before going out to Heathrow Airport were spent in the basement of headquarters, reading every extant file concerning Franz Sanchez. The most useful documents came from Nick Fallon’s regular reports. Fallon had been the Secret Intelligence Service’s man in Isthmus City for nearly four years. His title was that of British Consul, for there was no British Embassy in Isthmus. Consuls exist the world over, particularly in specialised areas of large countries, and they are often plain ordinary private citizens who do an exacting job for very little money.
For instance, the British Consul in Nice, on the Côte d’Azur, was, for many years a retired businesswoman who had no office, but operated from her own apartment. Rarely did the SIS use such people, but in Isthmus they had no alternative, and Nick Fallon had done them proud, updating information sometimes daily, but usually weekly.
His file on Sanchez was thick, containing all known Isthmus politicians, members of the police force, together with security and intelligence agencies, who were known to be on the drug baron’s payroll. In his daily undercover work, Fallon had only recently discovered a cadre of police officers who had been initially trained in the United States and were now attempting to break out from the strangehold Sanchez had on their colleagues, not to mention President Lopez and many high-ranking politicians.
The leader of this small group was a Captain Simon Rojas, and Q managed to catch him at his home, half an hour after the last radio contact with Pam. There had been complete silence from the girl since she had okayed his information that the convoy and helicopter were heading towards the main highway. Over the last few days, Q had felt himself becoming more and more of an uncle figure to the girl, and his initial worry was turned quickly into action.
On the roadside, near where he had left his car, was a public telephone. Heaven knew if it worked, but Q ran all the way back to it in the hopes it had neither been vanished, nor cut off from the primitive system operating in this part of Central America.
So far, luck was on his side. The instrument worked, though he had to dial the memorised number six times before Rojas himself answered. The police captain was wary until Q used the codeword – cobalt – through which Fallon had made contact on several occasions. ‘Cobalt was killed two nights ago by security forces.’ The captain took no chances.
‘But I’ve seen the file in London,’ Q persisted, and only after he revealed several points which could only be known to someone with access to the ‘Cosmic’ files in London, did Rojas believe him. In quick, terse, uncomplicated language, Q put the man in the picture.
‘I’ll get some trusted people on the roads now,’ Rojas told him. ‘Give me your exact position and I’ll come out and pick you up, with some of my men. Stay under cover until you see a police helicopter.’
As Rojas was giving these instructions to Q, so Professor Joe was turning the key in the lock of his private meditation chamber.
Pam put the briefcase down, walked slowly over to the bed, sat down on the edge and crossed her legs provocatively, thinking that it was Q who had suggested she wear a skirt. ‘People looking for trouble rarely suspect a woman to take violent action when she’s dressed in a skirt,’ he had said. ‘Don’t know why. But that’s what the Service trickcyclists tell us.’
At the time, Pam had snorted, ‘Usual reasons, it’s obvious. Male bloody chauvinism. Women are women and should be dressed like women. That’s your answer, Uncle Q. Whatever changes appear to have taken place, the male will always, even if it is subconscious, think of the female as the little woman.’ Now, she realised Q had been right. But so had she. It made no difference to her argument, but she was pleased to be able to use her sex.
‘Guess what?’ She smiled at the revolting Professor, gradually pulling her skirt back to reveal her thigh. Professor Joe could not believe his luck.
‘What a pretty sight to set before a Professor.’ He just stood there, slavering, eyes begging. ‘Can I see all the way?’ His voice had gone very throaty.
‘Of course you can, darling Professor Joe.’ Pam slid her skirt up as far as the holster on her thigh. ‘Okay, Prof, the key! Now! And keep quiet or I’ll blow your balls off!’
His jaw dropped as he looked into the unwelcome end of her automatic.
‘Just the key,’ Pam said, ‘and don’t try any movie tricks like tossing it to me. Take it off the chain, put it on the floor and kick it, very gently, into my hand. Anything hard – and I don’t mean that to be a joke, Professor – and I’ll do as I promised. Okay?’
He nodded and did just as she told him. ‘Now we change places.’ She stood, moving to one side. ‘You come over here and sit down, with your hands on your head.’
He did as he was told, very nervously. Pam felt there was nothing either gutsy or courageous about Professor Joe. With her back to the door she inserted the key, then drew it out again, operating the handle, still with the pistol trained at where the professor had most to lose. Quickly she peeped out of the door and, to her horror, saw a number of white-robed men and women walking quietly into the central mosaic tiled circle she had seen from the air.
‘Who are the folks in the white robes?’ she asked, the pistol moving forward a fraction.
‘They’re here because they wish to be. Members of my flock, if you like.’ His voice was still hoarse. ‘Believe me,’ he sounded desperate. ‘Believe me, young lady. There is good as well as evil in this place. I promise these people come to study the ways of the old Olimpatec culture. They come to learn, and to study the Olimpatec religion. You might find it hard to believe, but they gain benefit from the old Indian meditations.’
‘I believe you.’ Pam was relieved now that she spotted a white robe hanging near the door. She took it from its peg and managed to get into it without allowing the gun to waver.
‘You look . . .’ the Professor began.
‘Like a girl in a white robe . . .’ she supplied.
‘I was going to say, “you look like an angel!” ’
‘Oh, shucks Professor, you’re a real flatterer.’ She batted her eyelids, then said sharply, ‘You move from that bed; you bang on the door; you do anything, and I swear I’ll finish what I promised.’
Professor Joe gave a shrug. ‘What good would it do? This room really is sound-proof. Nobody’s going to hear.’
‘Good. Have a nice day, Prof.’ Pam was quickly out of the door, locking it from the outside and then walking slowly away, the pistol tucked into th
e sleeve of her robe, and her eyes downcast.
At the same moment, things were happening inside the so-called laboratory. Truman-Lodge had just completed his speech telling the assembled oriental businessmen that the product would leave, mixed with gasoline, in the reserve fuel tanks of the Institute’s aircraft. The tankers were now ready and waiting to go.
The Korean delegate coughed, raising a hand. ‘Ah, please to tell,’ he began. ‘How you get product back from gasoline?’
‘Hey, you want us to give away all our secrets before we become full partners?’ Sanchez had come up behind the group. He sounded full of good humour. ‘Okay, take them into Room Three, William.’ He waved to a door leading just off the gantry.
Bond had already seen Dario, but Sanchez’s henchman was very close. 007 adjusted his mask high over his nose and tried to keep well away from Dario, Sanchez and Heller, who had now joined the group.
‘That’s our chief chemist’s laboratory,’ Sanchez said. ‘He there, William?’
‘He’s here, Chief,’ Truman-Lodge called back from inside the room.
‘Come on then, everyone. Let’s get a good look at this.’ Sanchez began to shepherd the group into the room which was a more conventional laboratory. A short man dressed in a white coat and the ubiquitous face-mask, worked behind a large array of glass retorts, beakers, flasks, funnels and tubing. It was an impressive set-up, and from what Bond could see of the chief chemist’s eyes and stance, he was an intense little man. Behind him, on a bench at the far end of the laboratory, a tall complex of retorts bubbled, sending liquid through glass tubes and filters. A couple of Bunsen burners provided heat. This was obviously some very advanced experiment.
‘We’ve told you what we do,’ Sanchez said loudly. ‘We’ll demonstrate exactly how we do it once the deal’s completed, okay?’
Truman-Lodge raised his voice to make sure everyone heard him. ‘I must remind you again, gentlemen, that the terms of the deal were one hundred million, in negotiable bearer bonds.’
The oriental group began to mutter and look at one another. To his concern, Bond realised that Dario seemed to have disappeared. Then, the Korean, taking the first decisive step, slapped his briefcase on to one of the tables, opened it and held his bonds towards Truman-Lodge. Quickly, the others followed suit.
‘Righ’, now you tell process?’ the Korean asked politely.
Truman-Lodge nodded to the chief chemist who began to speak as though he had discovered the true secret of the universe. ‘It’s elegant and simple.’ He held up a large glass beaker three-quarters full of the mixture from the vat on the factory floor, below them. ‘The ideal combination is eighteen per cent cocaine or pure heroin dissolved in eighty-two per cent gasoline.’ He took a second beaker, half-full. ‘Ammonium hydroxide.’ The chief chemist poured the second beaker’s contents into the first. Immediately they saw the cocaine begin to reform and precipitate on top of the gasoline. The chief chemist then recovered the powder by a simple filtering through a prepared funnel.
The group applauded, beginning to buzz with talk, and at that moment, Bond felt the muzzle of a pistol hard against his side. ‘Just keep very quiet, and do as I say, gringo.’ Sanchez’s henchman, Dario, smelled of garlic and oil. He patted Bond down, checking for weapons, still whispering. ‘We take care of you later. You wouldn’t wish to cause trouble here.’
Truman-Lodge had started to speak again. ‘Those five tanker trucks you saw in the filling bay contain your first shipment. Twenty tons of it.’
Bond stood quite still, convinced that the laboratory display was not yet over. His chance might still come.
Truman-Lodge droned on. ‘Your monthly delivery will be by ocean-going tanker. But we’ll use the airplanes from time to time. Especially when you require quick deliveries, like this first batch. I shall personally make certain that our chief chemist, here, will always be at hand at your end if you have problems with the reconversion.’
Sanchez now moved up towards the chief chemist. They were only a couple of steps from Bond.
Sanchez smiled, looking at the group. Bond noticed the man was exceptionally sure of himself. Like a good actor taking applause, his eyes roved around the buyers, making contact with each in turn so that, as individuals, they had the impression that he was speaking to them personally. ‘And you get to keep the gas as a bonus,’ he said with a laugh. Then he held up a warning finger. ‘Also, if there’s any problem with customs . . .’ Sanchez took the gasoline-filled beaker from the chief chemist, placed it in the middle of the table, lit a match and dropped it into the beaker. There was a small whoomp, and the gasoline ignited inside the beaker. Another smile from Sanchez. ‘No evidence!’
The little bit of drama at the end of the demonstration pleased the buyers who all reacted, giggling and applauding as the flame shot out of the beaker.
The moment had come. Bond shifted his right leg, bringing the instep of his shoe down Dario’s shin, and crushing on to the man’s foot. His arm came up, the elbow smashing the bridge of the hoodlum’s nose, chopping down on his wrist, so that the gun fell to the floor.
Again, Bond turned, his hand grasping the burning beaker which he threw hard at the bubbling retorts and complex of tubes at the far end of the laboratory. The largest retort shattered, and flame exploded into the room as though someone had released a grenade.
With luck, Bond thought, it could develop into a nice cheery fire. Even the whole place could be destroyed.
The group of orientals were in panic, pushing at each other as they made for the door. Bond saw Truman-Lodge grab at the bearer bonds, throwing them into his empty briefcase, then joining in the rush from the flames, which were now covering the far wall.
Sanchez was yelling orders and, in the next moment, Bond felt arms around him. Dario and the big German, Braun, had him in an arm-lock, marching him out of the blazing room. As they pulled him out, he saw the chief chemist go down, his spotless white coat blazing.
They hustled Bond on to the gantry, pushing him to the right.
‘Get him down to Section One!’ Sanchez shouted as Heller came rattling up one of the many metal staircases, followed by men with fire-fighting gear.
‘Okay! You come quietly,’ Dario said. His nose was bleeding, but he had the pistol back in his hand.‘Nobody does this to me. I’m sure El Jefe, the patron, has something interesting in mind for you.’
There was no point in trying to struggle. Bond had won with the fire, but failed to get clear. He knew that Sanchez was unlikely to show any mercy.
The henchmen dragged him down the steps and Bond realised that Section One contained the conveyor belt leading to the pulveriser. On the factory floor, the area seemed much larger than it had done from the gantry. There were also many more exits and entrances than Bond had realised.
Sanchez had beaten them to it. Now he stood by the conveyor belt, which was loaded with blocks of cocaine, moving inexorably down towards the great mashing steel teeth of the machine which, literally, chewed the cocaine before sharp whirling blades, like a giant kitchen mixer, sliced the raw product into powder.
Sanchez waited until they frog-marched Bond to within a pace of him. ‘Oh, you have disappointed me, my British agent.’ His eyes were cold as an iceberg. ‘You want to tell me who you’re really working for?’
Bond stood his ground, saying nothing. From above Heller’s voice could be heard shouting instructions to the fire-fighters, ‘In here! Quickly, if this spreads . . . !’ The shouts were cut off by a massive explosion from the laboratory. Even here, in Section One, they could feel the heat as a huge fireball ran the breadth of the building. There were cries as two of the fire-fighters were thrown from the gantry, their clothes blazing. They hit the mixing vat a second later and a mushroom cloud of smoke and flame rose in the worst explosion yet.
Sanchez seemed oblivious to the destruction. His arm moved quickly and he back-handed Bond across the face. ‘You don’t want to talk. No matter, Mr Bond.’ He nodded to Dario who
limped across to a small door in the wall, level with the conveyor belt. Beside the door was a boxed-in knife-switch which Dario operated. The conveyor belt stopped moving.
Arms lifted Bond and dumped him on to the conveyor belt. He looked down. Once the thing began to move again he would quickly be hemmed in by the metal walls which held the cocaine in place as it was propelled downwards towards the metal teeth and whirling blades. The long ride down the belt looked like a bobsleigh run, he thought. The name of a book came into his head – Slay Ride, a good title for this.
Heller came panting down the gantry steps shouting at Sanchez, ‘I got the loaded tankers out in time. They’re waiting on the road. Franz, I don’t think we’re going to save this place!’
Sanchez gave a shrug of indifference. ‘Forget the fire,’ he spoke with a terrifying coldness. ‘Just forget it. Bring the cars on to the road, we’ll leave with the tankers.’ Then, almost as an afterthought, ‘If there’s time you can bring the buses around for Professor Joe’s people. But make sure we’re safe first.’ Heller nodded and quickly left.
The two henchmen still held Bond on the conveyor belt. Neither of them would move until Sanchez gave the order.
‘This place cost ten million bucks. We’ve got to save it!’
Sanchez turned and rasped out, ‘Do as I say! This was good cover for a long time. Now it’s over.’ He pointed to Truman-Lodge’s briefcase, ‘We’ve got five hundred million in there, so why gripe? There’re also twenty tons of Columbian pure, mixed with the gas in those trucks, so who needs this?’
‘But the deal with the Chinese?’
‘Since when did you get moralistic about deals, William? We got their money, didn’t we? Just go and help Heller. Get the place cleared out, get the cars ready.’
Lying on the conveyor belt, Bond caught sight of Heller again. A long way off now, and out of Sanchez’s vision, for he headed towards a main exit across the room, behind Sanchez’s back. The colonel, unnoticed by anyone in the chaos, was driving a fork-lift truck. On it were four unmistakable shapes. He had been right: they were not Stingers, or even Blowpipes. These little missiles were more the size of the old, now outmoded – and unstable – Redeyes. Even from where he lay, Bond could see there were differences: more streamlining, neater hand-packs. They looked like prototypes of something brand new. Small had become beautiful on the present day electronic battlefield, and these missiles would almost certainly be activated and guided by the new generation of microchip technology. To Bond their size had little to do with things. The quartet of missiles looked dangerous as they lay on the fork-lift, the sharp metal points of the forks sticking out from their deadly cargo.