"I hate Chinese food, but the curry's good." He looked much better than when they had last seen him during the interrogation at the Home Office. "You come to give me a pardon?"
Bond shook his head, and Flicka said she was sorry but they couldn't do that just yet.
"I've told them that I'll give evidence against Tarn in camera. Time we had a good witness-protection program over here, like they do in the States."
"We can't have everything, Christopher." He turned to the two Security Service officers who were minding the prisoner, asked them if they could leave them alone with him. "Man talk, you know the kind of thing."
With a somewhat hammy reluctance – for they already had orders – the two men withdrew.
"So what's the deal?" Not unnaturally, the man could only think about himself and his future.
"Nothing's been decided yet, Christopher. We've talked to a lot of people and, as I told you yesterday, I don't for a minute think you're going to see the inside of a courtroom. Mind you, it's possible that you'll spend the rest of your life in some godforsaken part of the world with a pair of minders who'll be changed every three months. If you want total freedom you'll have to cooperate."
"I've already told them I'll -!"
"Yes, yes, Christopher, we know what you've promised. Believe me we know, and as far as that goes, everyone's going to show gratitude. However, there is gratitude and gratitude. It comes in many disguises, and in different packages. Now, there is one thing you might be able to do for us that will move you up a few notches."
"Anything."
Christopher, Bond considered, was a pushover.
"Tell me, the telephone number in Wasserburg, was that your only method of contact with Max Tarn and his unsavory friends?"
"Took a leaf out of your book. Bond. We used various dead drops and false telephone codes."
"Nothing else direct?"
"Only the telephone you managed to spike. Tarn's end has been ultra-secure, until that last time. I suspect it's some kind of patch through electronics, because sometimes I get a pickup and talk with that piece of rubbish, Maurice Goodwin. We're even on first-name terms. I was able to use it when I wanted to set up a proper meeting with one of them."
"So you sometimes used it when you wanted a meeting with some intermediary who handed you money, right?"
"Well, occasionally."
"Usually."
"Not always, no."
"Would you care to make a call on that line for us?"
"I said I'd do anything."
"Your end would be scripted."
"I'm not absolutely stupid. I understand that."
"We can even do it from here, Christopher, Mind you, any deviation from the script and I'll put a bullet through your head. We can do that kind of thing, you know."
"I believe you. What's in the script?"
"We'll work on it together."
Christopher waited for at least fifteen seconds before he asked if they could get on with it.
What they worked out in the end was aimed at putting Tarn into an even higher state of folie de grandeur, and it was an hour later that Christopher dialed the number. They had taken the extra precaution of attaching a speaker to the instrument, linked to headphones so that Bond could hear everything. Flicka passed the time by playing solitaire, and her future husband noticed that she handled a pack of cards rather like an experienced gambler.
"Yes," came from the distant end, and he immediately recognized the voice of Tarn's fixer, Maurice Goodwin. So the instrument in the offices of Saal, Saal u. Rollen was capable of patching in to another line.
"Maurice, it's Christopher," the ex-Minister read from the pad on which his script was jotted down in his own clear, and rather schoolboyish, handwriting.
"So what can we do for you, Christopher? Don't expect any money for the time being. We're a shade busy."
"I'm sorry to trouble you, but I thought I'd better pass on the latest. It is rather important."
"Shoot."
"They were pretty angry about your little disappearing act in London. Now Sir Max is wanted for murder, though they're not issuing anything to the press. As far as they're concerned, Lady Tarn died in the car accident, so the authorities are keeping quiet. In fact, there's still a search going on for Sir Max in Germany as well as here. The agent, Bond, went missing as well."
Goodwin chuckled. "He ended up dead. Very nasty. Bad business about Lady T, but it had to be done. Poor Trish went right off her rocker. Threatened the Chief, and she wasn't joking. Anyway, good to know that she won't make the funny pages again. Anything else?"
"Yes, the man Bond isn't dead. He pulled a fast one on you and turned up back here yesterday."
Goodwin cursed violently. "What about him, then? What's happening?"
"He's been fired – him and his girlfriend. Well, they've been suspended from duty. I think he wanted to go after you with guns blazing. I'm supposed to be keeping them under surveillance – that's a laugh. I've got complete control over the whole thing. Everything comes back to me, as usual."
"And?"
"And guess what? The pair of them have been dashing around London getting money and buying airline tickets."
"Going anywhere in particular?"
"Right into Sir Max's arms, I should think. They leave tomorrow. Gatwick/Atlanta, Georgia; then on to San Juan. I can pull the police and Security off, and let them out if you'd like another crack at them."
"What a coincidence." Goodwin gave a bray of laughter at the distant end. "When winter comes, then spring's not far behind. Thanks, Christopher. Maybe you'll get a bonus for this. Let 'em out."
"Just earning my keep, Maurice." The distant line went dead, and Christopher slowly put down the handset. "How did I do?"
"Best actor of the year. Oscar and our grateful thanks." Bond even managed to grin at the unpleasant man.
On the following morning, there was no holdup as they went through the routine passport check at Gatwick, and the flight to Atlanta took off on time.
Flicka seemed preoccupied as she looked out of the window next to her seat.
"You okay, Flick?" he asked.
"Sure, my dear. Sure. I think someone just walked over my grave and I got a bit maudlin. Wondered if I'd ever see this view again."
"Of course you will." He looked away, for if he had told the truth, he also had a lurking fear, an echo of his own mortality, something he rarely thought about.
19 – The Old Texas Cowhand
From the air it looks lush and very beautifuclass="underline" a green and pleasant land ringed by a shimmering sea. As their aircraft approached the rocky beaches, it seemed that the surf below was unmoving, as though sculpted onto a wonderful model, surrounded by an unreal emerald sea. Puerto Rico – Rich Port – is exactly what this island was for over four centuries: wealthy and powerful, the strategic gateway to the Caribbean, cooled by the gentle trade winds; guarded and nurtured by Spain, but also prey to pirates and acquisitive countries who coveted this staging point to the New World.
In the late twentieth century, it has again become rich, this time through tourism. Hardly a day passes without a major cruise ship lying in the port at San Juan, and the new luxury hotels and casinos, which line the shore of San José Lagoon, entice holidaymakers and high rollers.
Yet, side by side with its opulence and natural wonders, this lovely island has a dark side. The problems of drugs, poverty, and violence lurk, often unhidden, particularly in the old city of San Juan.
As they made the final approach into Luis Muñoz Marín International, Bond remarked that it looked as though they were landing on the huge strip of bridge that had only recently been completed across the lagoon. They seemed to be so low that they flew below the tops of high-rise buildings, and Flicka, usually oblivious to approach and landing dangers on commercial aircraft, closed her eyes and waited for the safe bump as the big jet's gear touched down on what even Bond considered a slightly narrow runway, a shade close to a long line of trees on their left side.