But his main problem was the seaplane which was already beginning to bounce prior to its lift-off from the sea.
There was noise, excitement, the spray and wind blowing in his face, coupled with the almost burning sensation from the soles of his feet. Anything he did now was purely intuitive, and he did the one thing possible.
Dragging in on the line, Bond swung wide, in the classic waterskiing manouevre, then pulled in close. The first time brought him within a couple of yards of the seaplane’s float. Too far.
He hauled in again, and went through the wide swing again. This time, as he came back along the line of the swing, he pulled harder. The float flashed up, and he let go of the spear-gun, throwing himself on to the float with a thump that almost winded him. But he was there, clinging on to the port float, reaching for the struts and hanging on, the wind and spray still hitting him. Then it was just the wind. The Beaver had lifted off and was in a shallow climb. He took a deep breath, for the pilot was obviously aware of the added weight, desperately trimming the aircraft to climb with its wings straight and level.
Bond had to hold on with all the strength left in him. He was looking forward, and saw the small door on the port side begin to open. Fighting the slipstream he ducked down, reaching for the forward strut on the starboard float. Whoever had looked out of the port doorway must have thought the danger over.
Still forcing himself against the slipstream, he made his way under the floats, then on to the starboard float, along it, at a painfully slow speed. The door was on the port side, but on the fuselage’s other side was an emergency escape hatch, just behind the small flight deck, and almost opposite the main door.
Being an emergency hatch, this one could be opened from inside or out, and he smiled against the pressure of the slipstream as he reached it and saw the little recessed lever marked in red, with a warning sign beside it. Bond put up his hand and pulled hard.
The hatch flew off, like something fired from the aircraft, and with huge effort he swung into the plane.
The initial moments seemed to happen in slow motion: a long freeze-frame in his mind. He saw the pilot, in the left-hand seat turn his head, surprise painted over his face. But there was a second pilot who stood near the door immediately opposite Bond. The door was still partially open, and the co-pilot had almost certainly been telling the pilot that their uninvited guest had disappeared. He held a gun in his right hand, and Bond lunged as it came up. The main door swung fully open.
Bond closed, twisted the co-pilot’s wrist and pulled down hard. The gun dropped from his hand. There was a grunt and the man went backwards out of the aircraft, clutching at the flapping door and finding a grip so that he was spread-eagled on it as it swung, almost lazily, to and fro.
The pilot was trimming the aircraft prior to putting it on automatic so that he could help his partner. But the co-pilot was beyond help now, for Bond reached up to pull the emergency release which shot the entire doorframe away from the aircraft, and with it the screaming co-pilot.
The act threw Bond himself into the doorway, and he only just managed to grab at the inside of the hole, spreading himself across the opening, his feet locked around the interior and his hands white-knuckled towards the top of where the door had been.
The pilot must have seen what had happened, for the engine note changed and the nose dipped, then raised slightly as the whole world went mad and the seaplane barrel-rolled.
The G-force built up and Bond just managed to remain in the doorway, then, as the plane righted itself, so he flung himself into the flight-deck to grapple with the pilot.
The man was quick enough to react, for a second later Bond found himself being thrown back into the main body of the aircraft, the pilot’s hands around his throat. There was another change in the engine note, and the aircraft’s nose dipped again. In a moment they would be out of control, streaking down to smash into fragments in the sea.
Bond threw a hand back, trying to feel for a weapon but his fingers only grasped one of the shrink-wrapped oblongs. It seemed heavy and solid though, so with a tremendous effort he brought it down on the pilot’s head. He heard the grunt, felt the hands let go of his throat, saw the cabin suddenly fill with hundred-dollar bills as the packet broke open, then felt the plane begin to wing-over and drop into its final dive. The pilot gave a yell of alarm as the fuselage tilted and he slid towards the doorway, hands scrabbling for some kind of hold as he fell, turning over and plunging towards the sea below.
Bond dragged himself into the left-hand seat. The aircraft tilted almost at right angles, while the nose was down, sea filling his vision and the horizon way above him.
He throttled back, easing the stick to the right to level the wings and control the aircraft in its dive. The wings straightened with ease, it was a very forgiving airplane, and as he gently pulled back on the stick so the nose obediently came up.
Not too soon either, for Wavekrest now filled Bond’s forward vision. He increased power, still pulling back and the Beaver climbed away perfectly. He did not even see the men, including Krest, flatten themselves on Wavekrest’s deck, thinking their last hour had come.
He climbed to around a thousand feet, trying to make up his mind what to do. He was there, in a seaplane full of money – there must have been hundreds and thousands of dollars in those blue packets – with no registered flight plan and, by now, Sanchez’s men, the Drug Enforcement Agency, and quite probably the IRS looking for him. He turned the aircraft out to sea. What he needed was some landing place away from shipping or aircraft lanes, and just far enough away from Wavekrest so that they would not come looking. He also needed time: time to pack away the cash, and time to get back into Key West undetected.
Bond allowed the Beaver to lose height in order to get under any radar that might be operating in the area. He slowed his speed and began to think. The DEA people combed the waters around Key West for smugglers so he could not just fly in and say, ‘Look what I’ve got. A heap of money from a drugs operation.’ That would never work because he had already destroyed the evidence.
One thing was sure, whatever he did now, the journey of the manta was definitely nearly over.
The Beaver flew on as Bond cudgelled his brains to think of some way back in without alerting anybody. About twenty minutes later, he smiled, looked at the compass and turned the plane on to a new heading. There was only one way, and he would need a lot of luck.
7
FINAL CONTACT
The Television Newscast came via CNNTV direct from Isthmus City. Lights twinkled in the background, as the attractive lady commentator stood in front of the sumptuous casino. Every few seconds, limos discharged suave men and svelte women who walked into the casino as though they owned it.
James Bond, in his hotel room, was particularly interested. He had turned the TV on while he ate dinner provided by room service, and the CNNTV commentator had immediately caught his attention with her opening lines.
‘Isthmus City is aglitter tonight.’ She looked confidently at the camera. ‘And very much aglitter as Franz Sanchez arrives at this luminous party which some people are saying is being held to celebrate his recent escape from custody in the United States . . .’
At that moment Bond had stopped eating, the fresh salmon on his fork hovering between plate and mouth. He saw all the glitter, and he also saw Sanchez in close-up for the first time. He had descended from a limo with Lupe on his arm and surrounded by a whole phalanx of bodyguards.
The commentator approached him, and Sanchez smiled, relaxed and looking very much at ease.
‘Senor Sanchez,’ the commentator began, as her name – Anna Rack – came up at the bottom of the screen. ‘Senor Sanchez. Recently a leading American newspaper described you as a drug lord . . .’
Sanchez turned directly towards the camera, the smile had gone from his face as he interrupted the unhappy Ms Rack. ‘I know nothing about drugs. The United States should look elsewhere and not blame me for its drug problems
. I am a businessman who runs this gambling casino. I love the American people. They’re welcome here. Most welcome, and they should come, after all we have better odds than the US. Only one zero on the roulette wheel . . .’ As he spoke, so a limo, flying official state flags, arrived behind him. The limo was surrounded by a motorcycle escort of military police.
‘Look as if they came straight from Ruritania,’ Bond muttered to himself.
‘You will excuse me,’ Sanchez smiled once more. ‘I have to greet my guests.’ He turned away abruptly to embrace the stout man who climbed from the official limo. The military police seemed to surge forward making the camera back off. Off screen there was a little squeal from Ms Rack. A moment later, she was back on camera, composed once more.
‘Well, as you see, Franz Sanchez is escorting his guest of honour, President Hector Lopez of Isthmus, into his casino’s gala evening. This is Anna Rack for CNN News, live from Isthmus City.’
Bond sighed. Well, he’s there, he thought. Where you lead, Franz Sanchez, I must follow. He had a lot to do before then, though, and it had been a tiring day.
Bond had flown the Beaver out to sea, around thirty to forty miles out, praying the weather would hold. The sea was calm, and finally he put the plane down, hoping he would not be called upon to take-off and make a run for it in a hurry. He needed until nightfall at least, and spent the rest of the day dealing with the packets of shrink-wrapped money.
The pilots had obviously made careful preparations, for there were two large suitcases in the body of the plane. It took Bond over an hour to pack the cases. Then all he had to do was wait. An hour before sunset, Bond was a very hungry and thirsty man, but he knew that if he was going to put himself, and the money, to good use, he had to keep going. He started up the engine, turned into what little wind there was, and took off, not climbing but setting course very low above the sea.
He had set his altimeter to zero, and his memory of the entire area was that sea level did not rise much around the Florida Keys. In the darkness he relied wholly on the magnetic course he had set, the altimeter and the clock, which he had also set on take-off. He kept up a steady speed, flying for over an hour, without lights. At last, in the very far distance he could see a glow in the sky, so he landed the plane and taxied it over the water very slowly and carefully. In all he must have taxied for almost ten miles.
He checked the course again, knowing that this would be the really difficult part. He was heading for one particular island off Key West and it was important that, in the darkness, he made a correct approach from the west as the water to the east – between the island, known as Ballast Key, and Key West itself – was shallow with a narrow marked lane for small motorised craft which did not draw more than a few feet. One false move now and the Beaver 1 seaplane could crunch its way on to a sandbank from which it would be almost impossible for him to extricate it.
With the engine idling, Bond stared into the darkness ahead, occasionally flashing the plane’s landing lights on and off. It took almost two hours and, even then, the hump of land which was Ballast Key came up very quickly. There was a fifty-yard wooden landing-stage on the south side of the island, with enough depth to bring in the seaplane. Gently, Bond manoeuvred it right up to the dock, climbed out and tied up.
The island was in darkness, so he knew its owner would be at one of two numbers – his house on Key West itself, or his New York apartment. Ballast Key had a house, built with great ingenuity, by an old friend.
Like all field agents Bond had documents stashed in most of the major cities throughout the world, and he was also careful to cultivate friends and acquaintances wherever he went. Some had an inkling of his arcane work; others just got on with him, liked him for his company and conversation. David Wolkowsky, a man who had changed the Gulf side of Key West, by restoration and rebuilding, was among the latter, and Bond was unhappy about using him in this side of his life, but there was no other way. It was David who owned Ballast Key and the house he had built on it.
Before anything else, the money had to be removed. Three times he moved between the plane and the wooden pier. Twice to bring the heavy suitcases on to dry land, then one more time to check the cabin and storage compartment with a torch from the cockpit. The last time proved worthwhile, as he discovered two more of the blue shrink-wrapped packages, hidden away under the co-pilot’s seat. The money was drugs money, so he felt no moral qualms about it, for this loot would be used to bring Franz Sanchez to his final destiny – either death or a long spell of imprisonment.
Once the money was on the pier, he returned to the seaplane one last time, his torch on a lanyard around his neck. Rummaging in the storage compartment, he had discovered a set of tools, including a soft mallet and chisel. Starting the engine again, he taxied out into deep water, cut the motor and climbed down on to the floats. It took fifteen minutes to rip metal from the starboard float and the airplane was already taking in water and listing badly when he got to the second float which he treated in the same way. He was in the water now, with the plane gently sinking. To make certain, he punctured the fuselage in four different places, then kicked himself away lying on his back to watch the Beaver guzzle water and slowly go down. Tomorrow it might well be seen from the air, but by then he hoped to be far away.
He swam back to the island, using a lazy, but fast crawl, his nerve ends tingling, for these were waters where sharks came inshore. Luck held, and, soaking wet, he once more checked the cases on the pier and made his way up to the deserted house.
Using the torch he found the main door, dealt with the lock and went inside. In a couple of minutes he had found the telephone and was punching out a local, Key West, number. After four rings a languid voice answered.
‘David, it’s James. James Bond.’
‘Oh, how nice of you to call, James. Where are you?’
‘On your island, I’ve just broken into your house.’
‘My, how ingenious of you. Shall I send the local cops?’
‘I rather think it would be better if you didn’t know about it.’
‘About what?’
‘Me breaking into your house.’
‘What break-in?’ David replied with no hint of humour in his voice. ‘Now, what can I do for you? I suppose it’s some woman. Usually is.’
‘I need to be brought in, and deposited at the Casa Marina.’
‘Really? I thought you always stayed at the Pier House.’
‘So does the husband,’ Bond lied.
‘Oh, then the Casa would be better. I’ll get Steve to pop over and pick you up.’ Steve was also an old friend. A tall, fine-looking young man, and an excellent sailor.
‘Will he make it through the channel?’
‘Steve can take a boat anywhere. He knows the channel like the back of his proverbial hand. Anything else?’
‘If he could pick up a couple of cases of mine from the Pier House . . .’
‘Of course, James. Lovely to talk to you, we really must have lunch when you’ve finished deceiving husbands. Bye.’
And so it was. Steve already had the two cases, collected from the Pier House, aboard the light speedboat. ‘What in heaven’s name have you got in these – gold bars?’ he asked, picking up the cases of money.
‘Almost,’ Bond had smiled in the darkness.
The journey, from Ballast Key to Garrison Bight, had taken twice as long as usual, with Steve peering into the darkness, using a small floodlight to follow the twisting narrow channel, marked with red flags. But they eventually made it. There was a small bar at Garrison Bight, but it was frequented by fishermen who could not have cared what was being brought in from Ballast Key. Half an hour later, Bond was settled into the renovated Casa Marina Hotel, with its huge airy lobby, the smooth polished floorboards, great whirling fans and strange pedigree – for it had been originally built by the legendary Henry Flagler who constructed the Overseas Railroad and chose one of the most beautiful locations for the hotel, set between County and S
outh Beaches, shaded by palms and backed by elegant lawns. The Casa Marina, like the Overseas Railroad, had not been one of Flagler’s successes. Between the wars it began to fail, and during Big Two was used by the Navy before returning to private ownership, apart from being taken over by the military during the Cuba crisis, after which it fell into disrepair, to be renovated again in 1977.
Now this pleasant hotel was a haven of peace for Bond. What was better, nobody knew he was there. He had only partially unpacked, making certain the money was secure in the two big cases, and taking a look in the special secret compartment in the briefcase Q-Branch had prepared for the Istanbul trip. Peeling away the false bottom, which was shielded from any airport X-ray eyes, he found, among other things, a spare automatic and holster.
He grunted, seeing they had given him a Walther PPK – not his favourite weapon, since it had been taken out of use with the SIS several years before. But, on closer inspection, he saw that it was not the old PPK, but the P.38K, the shorter, and more effective version.
Changing into dark slacks and a black roll-neck, and with comfortable black doe-skin moccasins on his feet, he slipped the pistol into a specially tailored holster pocket, out of sight on his hip, placing a small zippered wallet into his normal hip pocket on the left side. The time had come to return to the Leiter house, scene of disaster and tragedy.
He went on foot as he wanted no record of this visit, even from a cab driver’s memory. The house was still cordoned off with white tape, and there was a light, discouraging, police presence – one car containing two officers outside the main entrance, from which, Bond had figured out, the room that interested him could not be seen.