‘One of the best men in the business.’ Leiter slid out the 3·5 disk and tapped it with his forefinger. ‘First rule when you’re working with micros. Always keep a backup safely stored away. You never know. If something happens, you lose all the data.’ He then tucked it away behind a framed photograph of Della which stood next to a nice little plaster repro of one of the soldiers from the famous Qin Shiuang’s terracotta army. He took the cake knife from Bond. ‘Let’s face the music. Della should be just about ready to kill me.’ At the door he stopped placing the gloved false hand on Bond’s arm. ‘I don’t have to tell you how grateful I am – for everything.’
‘What are friends for?’ Bond asked, realising that he really wanted to quiz Felix about the lovely young dark-haired beauty who had been in the study, but holding his tongue. He would look for her later, and maybe . . . Well, who knew?
At the Drug Enforcement Agency headquarters across the Key, they were ready to move Sanchez out for the journey to Quantico, and they were taking no chances. An armoured van stood near the doors, and the prisoner, looking quite unconcerned, was led from the building in chains which ran from his wrists to his ankles, which were also shackled with just enough chain to allow him an undignified shuffle. He was flanked by a pair of marshals, each armed with a shotgun, while another two marshals’ cars stood by. On the helipad a police chopper stood, its rotors at idle.
Ed Killifer, having made his appearance at the wedding reception, brought his car to a halt in his marked parking slot, got out and walked over to Sanchez and the marshals, the eternal cigar clamped between his lips. He smiled grimly at Sanchez. ‘All ready for the joyride?’
‘They didn’t even give me time to pack an overnight case.’ Sanchez was infuriatingly confident.
‘Where you’re going, you’ll need a couple of million night cases.’ Killifer was near to sneering. ‘Okay boys, let’s hit the road.’
They helped Sanchez into the back of the armoured van where other chains were padlocked to steel rings on either side of the uncomfortable bench which ran along one wall of the van. With a nod, Killifer slammed the doors and one of the marshals inside pulled the locking mechanism.
‘Have to be a Houdini to get out of that,’ Killifer muttered as he walked to the front of the van, picked up a shotgun and climbed in next to the driver. ‘Okay,’ he shouted boisterously. ‘Wagons Ho!’
Slowly the convoy pulled away, a marshal’s car in front of the armoured van, another behind, and the police helicopter patrolling the sky overhead.
Once on Route One, they picked up speed: everyone, from the police in the chopper to Killifer beside the armoured van driver alert, and ready for anything.
About a mile out of Key West, on a small stretch of bridge, the lead car signalled the convoy to slow down. Ahead a sign read ‘Caution! Bridge Under Repair.’ A section of the metal guard-rail on the right had been removed and coned off to mark a stretch of temporary wooden fencing.
The police, high above, watched the first marshal’s car pass the spot, but, as the armoured van came abreast of the coned wooden fence, so the van suddenly seemed to speed up and slew sideways.
The bonnet hit the fence which shattered under impact. For a second the van appeared to leap outwards and hang in space. Then, as though in slow motion, it dipped and plunged into the muddy water below.
Both the marshals’ cars screamed to a halt and the chopper descended, turning low over the spot where the van had hit the water. The air was full of the crackle of radios calling for special backup.
The armoured van sank almost lazily into the deep water. In the rear, next to Sanchez, the two armed marshals struggled in the last remaining air. As the interior filled, one of them managed to get the door open, and, leaving Sanchez to his certain death, the marshals were sucked out, exploding on the surface with the last big air bubble. The first thing they saw was the police chopper dangling its winch line to help them.
Far below, the van came to rest on the bottom, throwing up a cloud of sand, and sending a shoal of snapper skimming off for the shelter of a labyrinth of rocks. From under the bridge came what at first seemed to be larger fish, making the sponges and trailing flora of the sea wave gently as though in a light breeze. But these were not fish. Figures in wetsuits, with breathing masks, air bottles and flippers moved swiftly along the ocean floor. They came in two sets of three, the first trio heading directly for the van, the others remaining as though on guard, spear-guns at the ready, for more dangerous things than red snapper inhabited these waters. The first diver swam quickly into the rear of the van. He carried a spare breathing pack and mouthpiece which he rammed into Sanchez’ mouth until the man began to suck in air and open his eyes.
Meanwhile, the second frogman was busy dealing with the chains, using a heavy-duty bolt-cutter. When they had Sanchez free, they fitted the air bottle around his shoulders and helped him to swim clear.
At the front, in the van’s cabin, the other frogman was fitting a mouthpiece and air bottle to Killifer, dragging him out as though taking a hostage.
Within seconds a large plexiglass-domed undersea sledge appeared, its motors slowing so that the pilot could hover close to the van. The three divers almost lazily brought Sanchez and the captive Killifer over to the sledge and helped them aboard, while the guards snaked away, moving through the busy and beautiful world, with its own brand of flowers and strange-shaped rocks, at a surprising speed. A minute later, the pilot of the sledge opened the throttle and the long, shark-like vehicle moved away, back in the direction of Key West, clinging low near the ocean floor as it built up speed.
Bond had been unable to find the dark girl in the pink suit whom Felix had introduced as Pam, so he settled for the blonde Pat whose shyness had almost completely disappeared. Night had come, as usual in Key West, with a spectacular sunset and the wedding party had wound down.
‘Time to go,’ Bond said to the blonde. ‘Fancy dinner? I’m staying at the Pier House.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t eat another thing, Mr Bond.’ She looked up at him with sloe eyes. ‘Except perhaps you.’
Bond smiled. ‘Good, I rather fancy a light snack in my room.’ They headed for the door where Felix and Della waited, saying goodbye to their guests.
‘Just one little thing before you go, James.’ Della gave Pat a rather wickedly jealous smile.
‘Not another knife?’
‘No,’ Felix stepped forward, his good hand moving to his pocket. ‘The best man always gets a gift.’ He withdrew a small velvet box which he handed to Bond. ‘A small mark of thanks,’ he paused, ‘from the Leiters.’
Inside the box, nestling in a velvet tray, lay a solid gold Dupont cigarette lighter. Bond smiled as he took it out to see the engraved words James. With love ever Della & Felix.
‘It’s the thought that counts,’ Bond said. ‘You’re both tempting me now that I’m down to five a day.’ He flicked the lighter and they jumped back as the butane flame leapt skywards. ‘Jeeerusalem!’ Bond mouthed, capping the flame quickly.
Della giggled. ‘It does need some adjustment. But the thought was there.’
Bond thanked them and they embraced. ‘Look after her, Felix. Look after her well.’ He held Leiter’s eyes with his, still thinking of the strange girl in pink he had encountered in his friend’s study.
Della leaned forward to kiss him, whispering, ‘I don’t have to tell you to have a good night.’
Bond helped Pat into the Five-Sixes cab that waited for them and was still waving as the cab turned the corner out of sight.
‘Well, Mrs Leiter, how about me carrying you across the threshold?’
‘Watch it, Felix, you’re no good to me with a strained back.’
They were both laughing as they reached the bedroom. But there the hilarity stopped. Felix froze inside the door, Della still in his arms, head thrown back as the laughter died.
Leiter recognised the two men who stood in the window, the drapes softly moving around them. He had seen the
pair among Sanchez’s men at Crab Cay and now they were here, unwelcome guests at his wedding.
One of the men, the Germanic-looking of the two, had a pistol in his hand. Slowly Leiter put his bride down on her feet and stepped in front of her. ‘Leave her out of this,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m a different matter, but she had nothing to do with my work.’
‘Sure,’ the man called Dario moved forward. ‘Sure, Mr Leiter, we’ll leave her here. Don’t worry about it.’ As he spoke a short-barrelled shotgun seemed to appear suddenly in his hands, and with one movement he clubbed Leiter to his knees.
Braun had to push in and grab Della, jamming a hand over her mouth to stop her screams.
3
LIGHTNING SOMETIMES STRIKES TWICE
Key West International Airport always struck Bond as a somewhat pretentious title, for the major number of scheduled flights were made by twin-engined Pipers, Beechcrafts, or, if you were really lucky, those wonderful old DC-3s (C-47s as the Americans called them) which had seen sterling service prior to Big Two, a euphemism for World War II which Bond rather liked. In fact, the main international destination of ninety per cent of these flights was Miami.
On the day after Felix Leiter’s wedding, Bond made his way into the relatively small departures building of Key West Airport. He had breakfasted well, paid his bill at the Pier House, asking them to give the lady in his room anything she required and charge it to his Amex card, and now, walking from the cab to the tiny departures lounge, he realised two things. First, he felt much fitter than he had any right to feel; second, the lounge was unusually crowded. People were actually still outside the door, standing in line for the one check-in counter. There were no first class check-ins at Key West, As someone once remarked, ‘You’re rather lucky to get a check-in at all.’
Bond stood for fifteen minutes before he reached the harassed young lady who took his ticket. ‘What’s going on here this morning?’ he asked pleasantly. There were a large number of police, marshals and security men around which was most unusual.
‘Oh, some big wheel drug dealer got arrested yesterday, then escaped,’ the girl said, still looking down at the ticket. She looked up, but Bond had vanished and an elderly lady stood in front of her tapping a ticket on the counter.
‘Oh, gee,’ the check-in girl looked anxious. ‘I hope it wasn’t anything I said.’
Bond paid off the cab he had grabbed outside the airport. He was within fifty yards of Felix’s house and he must have beaten some records getting to the front door. Far away inside the telephone was ringing. He tried the door and it opened easily into a home which seemed to have been almost systematically wrecked. He looked around for the phone but it had stopped ringing, another sound taking its place, a buzzing in Bond’s head, accompanied by a terrible churning in his stomach. No, he thought, no it could never have happened twice, and his mind began to spin into an horrific nightmare. Taking a few paces into the large main room he saw the bedroom door was open. There was a blurred glimpse of white. Something on the bed. A dozen steps took him to the door and Della.
She had been arranged on her back, still in the wedding dress in which he last saw her; hair neatly spread on the pillow and her hands clasped together on her chest: clasped in a terrible red stain.
‘No!’ Bond said aloud. ‘No! No! Della! No.’ But it was not a nightmare. He was alive and standing here in this room, close to the bed. At first his mind refused to accept the truth that the obscene thing sticking in the centre of the great red stain was the haft of a dagger and someone had placed her hands neatly around the weapon. He also saw now that there was more blood, higher up around her neck.
Bond reached out to feel for a pulse, knowing he would not find one, and as his fingers touched flesh so Della Leiter’s head rolled to one side displaying the vicious slash that had sundered her throat. He actually recoiled, as though the cold flesh would have stung his fingers, and he was aware of his mouth twisted in grief.
He raised his head, feeling so shocked that he could hardly take anything in. Yet facts were forcing their way to his brain. He saw other stains, running from the bedroom window and realised that he stood in damp splatters of blood that formed a trail through the room and out into the body of the house.
‘Not again!’ Bond heard his own voice and knew exactly what he meant. His near total recall of that terrible time in Miami, when Felix lost half a leg and an arm to Mr Big’s shark, came scurrying, like a pack of tarantulas into his head. This time, Felix had already lost his new bride and Bond began to face the probability of his old friend being dead also.
He followed the trail of blood up the stairs, and experienced a number of horrifying sensations: Felix’s gloved false hand on his own arm; the man’s laugh, memories of a girl called Solitaire, the scent she used – Vent Vert and the sick message Leiter’s torturers had left. He disagreed with something that ate him. Strangest of all his mouth and taste buds brought back the flavour of Key Lime pie which he had eaten during the wedding reception. Was it only yesterday?
Walking into Leiter’s study was like stepping into the past. In a way he had known what was there before opening the door, but when he saw it, the whole of his being shrank back. The room had been ransacked, but there, on the leather couch, lay the bundle wrapped in a rubber sheet, blood dripping from it onto the floor.
Bond gritted his teeth. The whole thing had a doom-laden sense of déjà vu. Quickly he unwrapped the sheet. The only question now was whether Felix was alive.
What was left of his clothing was bloody and torn, the false limbs were gone, and with them a lot of flesh and some bone around the stump of his leg, together with jagged rips in the shoulder to which he once fitted the artificial arm.
Leiter moved his head, took a deep breath and groaned. ‘Della?’
Before Bond had a chance to quieten his old friend the telephone shrilled out. It took over a minute to find the instrument.
‘Felix, where the hell you been . . . ?’ The voice at the distant end was Hawkins.
‘It’s not Felix,’ Bond was struggling for control. It was almost impossible that this kind of thing could happen to a man a second time. ‘It’s Bond, Hawkins. You’d best get over here pretty fast, and send an ambulance ahead. And the cops. Something pretty dreadful’s happened.’ He slammed down the phone and ran from the room. There was a guest room down the hall and Bond dashed to it, tearing the sheets from the bed, returning to Leiter, using the torn sheeting, trying to staunch the flow of blood from leg and shoulder. He had no doubt as to what had done this, just as he had quickly known on that other occasion years before. The tearing gashes had been made by a shark, or some other razor-toothed predator. Bond would have bet considerable funds on it being a Great White.
The ambulance and paramedics arrived, and Hawkins came with the police. They took Felix away after working on him for the best part of half an hour, tying off veins and generally making him as comfortable as they could with injections which dropped him into merciful oblivion.
The police saw to Della, taking photographs first and doing all things normal in this abnormal situation. A scene-of-crime squad worked in the main bedroom while the officer in charge, a leathery-skinned captain, went through everything with Bond and Hawkins.
‘Well,’ the captain said at last, ‘I have no doubt this is somehow related to the Sanchez thing.’
‘I only found out about it at the airport this morning,’ Bond said grimly, his mind on what might be happening to Felix, and whether they could possibly do anything for him. ‘What actually happened?’
Briefly the captain and Hawkins went through the scenario of the escape.
‘We thought the bastard’d bought the farm until divers went down. Somehow it was a rescue operation. People got to the van, and Sanchez had been cut free from the shackles.’ The captain scowled. ‘It was a very well-mounted operation, considering the time element.’
‘They took Killifer with them,’ Hawkins added. ‘We’re expecting him
back in a body bag, or some kind of ransom note.’
They talked for a further ten minutes, and the captain was about to leave when raised voices came from downstairs.
Sharky was attempting to get into the house and becoming very belligerent with the police guarding the door.
‘You can let him in,’ Bond said. ‘He’s a close family friend.’
The captain nodded. ‘Okay. Keep in touch, Mr Bond. I might well have a few more questions.’
Hawkins added that he would also be in touch, and the pair left the house.
‘What in hell happened?’ Sharky looked angry, his eyes showing a mixture of desperation and fury. ‘I know about Della, but Felix . . . ?’
‘Someone fed him to the sharks.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Yes, I know, Sharky. Lightning isn’t supposed to strike twice, but it has. My guess is that they didn’t know about his arm and leg. The shark, or sharks, chewed up the artificial limbs and just sliced the flesh off the stumps. I imagine he’s going to be okay, but the trouble’ll begin when they tell him about Della.’
Sharky nodded. ‘Know what you mean. This down to Sanchez? I heard he’s gone missing.’
‘Sanchez is the best bet.’
‘What we gonna do, James?’
‘Well, I, for one, am going shark hunting. Know any good spots where someone might keep an untamed pet?’
‘They got some small ones in the aquarium. Right on the ocean at the bottom of Duval. But that wouldn’t be any good to Sanchez. The . . .’ He stopped abruptly as a sudden thought struck him. ‘Hey, wait a minute. There’s this place on the other side of the Key. What the hell’s it called? Ocean something. Ocean Exotica, that’s it. They have this big warehouse, built out on a pier. All kinds of fish there. They’re also into some kind of special breeding. Some guy told me they have pumps or something for fattening up fish. Large place, and there’d be plenty of room under the pier to keep a shark cage.’