Nobody asked to see passports or any other documentation, and the porter who took their luggage from the carousel for them seemed quite happy to summon a taxi, and even happier with his tip. The driver of the cab asked if a price of twenty dollars was okay by them. Bond nodded, and the meter was immediately switched off.
They drove alongside the lagoon, glimpsing the new hotels where cruise ship passengers often stay in their hordes for one or two nights either before leaving or at the end of the cruise. These smart beehives, complete with large casinos and a multitude of restaurants, including fast-food joints imported from the United States, were often all visitors saw, except for a quick outing to Old San Juan and the two great forts, Castillo San Felipe del Morro – usually referred to simply as El Morro – and Castillo de San Cristóbal. Fortifications which rank among the greatest still standing.
Their driver skirted the old town and finally deposited them in a small open square facing the San Juan Cathedral. Porters hurried down steps to their left, and after Bond paid for the cab, he turned to see the imposing entrance to the Gran Hotel El Convento. For two hundred and fifty years, El Convento was home to the island's Carmelite nuns. Now, centuries later, the building has emerged, beautifully refurbished, as a unique caravansary.
Once through the ancient doors, they found themselves greeted like royalty, and, unusually, shown straight upstairs to their beautiful airy room with a large canopied bed.
"You think there's the ghost of a nun here?" Flicka laughed. "I mean, we're probably usurping some old holy woman's cell."
"I don't think whoever lived here before would even recognize it. The Carmelites are a rather strict order. Wouldn't know how to work the TV anyway."
They had been told to go through the registration procedure once they had settled in, so Bond went down, completed the paperwork, and asked if any forwarded luggage had arrived for them.
The young woman at reception told him mat there were two special cases that would be delivered to the room directly.
He was on his way back when an instantly recognizable voice spoke from behind him.
"Just in time for a predinner drink, James, old buddy."
"Felix!" He turned and could hardly believe that his old friend, Felix Leiter, stood behind him, leaning on his walking stick, a broad smile on his leathery Texan face.
"Fancy meeting me here, James. You haven't changed, I see. Noticed you arrived with a gorgeous lady in tow."
"There's a surprise for you regarding the lady." He looked affectionately at his old friend, who for many years had served with the Central Intelligence Agency. That career had been cut short by an argument with a shark while he was working with Bond, though you would hardly know that he had lost both a leg and an arm. True, he walked with the aid of a stick, but the prosthetic leg and arm allowed him to live an almost normal life.
"You here on business?" Bond stepped close to his old friend.
"You never get to leave the business completely, James. You should know that. They just pulled on my leash and brought me back. When they told me it concerned you, I couldn't say no. Anyway, the hotel's good, and the food and drink are more than bearable."
"How's Cedar?" Cedar Leiter was Felix's daughter, who had followed in her father's footsteps. Much to her father's concern, she had even worked with Bond on a case some years ago.
"Cedar's as lovely as ever. Thinking of getting married, but I have my doubts."
"Why? She's a great girl."
"Can you see Cedar married to a young man who never had to do a day's work in his life because his daddy made a killing in oil, way back when the USA produced all the gas you needed and then some?"
"She'd know how to spend his money."
"Sure she would, but I have a feeling that she'd soon find him dull as dirt. The guy has all this money and he's never been any further than New York City – and he thinks that den of iniquity is 'cool and awesome.' Those were his exact words, and he's over forty years old."
Bond leaned closer, and his lips hardly moved. "You know everything?"
"About Apocalypse? Sure, I know most of what you know. I've even been across the island to look at the little country place he has here. I'll take you over for a look-see tomorrow."
"So we're working together again, eh?"
"I am your guide, philosopher, and friend, James. Now, off you go and bring your lady down to the Campana Bar. Still like your martinis shaken, not stirred? And with the same ingredients?"
"Yes indeed, even though the author of a book called Drinkmanship says that the mix is all wrong."
Leiter's laugh followed Bond as he took long strides in the direction of the cloistered arches and their room, where a porter was just delivering a pair of heavy aluminum cases.
"What have we got in those?" Flicka had already unpacked and showered. She sat at the elegant little dressing table putting on her warpaint, as she liked to call it. "They look like camera cases."
"A shade more lethal." He dialed in the prearranged codes on the locks of the cases and found the note in the first one he opened. Ann Reilly had done her best regarding the larger item for which he had asked.
Some of our friends, she had written, will see to it that you get the thing if you really need it.
As he went through the weapons, ammunition, and the like, held within the cases by egg-crate foam rubber, he told Flicka about Felix Leiter.
"You mean I get to meet him at last?" She had heard much about his old friend.
"You certainly do get to meet him." He lifted the foam rubber from the bottom of the second case to reveal five boxes about six inches long and two across. "She did it," he muttered. "Little jewels." He wondered how on earth Q'ute had managed to smuggle explosives onto the island.
"Where?"
"Not your kind of jewels, darling. This kind will blow people to kingdom come. By the way, what are you wearing tonight?"
"A skirt."
"There you go, then. Your favorite Beretta and a thigh holster."
"Oh, your favorite, James." She took the holster and strapped it on, reminding him of the first flash of her thighs that he had ever seen – when she had suddenly drawn a pistol from that same type of holster in Switzerland.
While she finished dressing, he took a quick shower, changed into slacks, comfortable moccasins, and a white shirt, over which he put on a lightweight blazer – mainly to hide the bulge made by the ASP.
Finally, after numerous changes in her small items of jewelry – and a lot of "What do you think, James? This one, or this?" – they went down to join Felix in the Campana Bar, where he already had a couple of martinis lined up.
"Just so you don't get too far behind." He gave Flicka a warm embrace, saying he had a kind of droit du seigneur where Bond's girlfriends were concerned.
"I'm afraid not with Flicka, Felix." He went on and broke the news to the American.
"You're kidding me? You, James?" Then, looking at Flicka, "Tell me he's kidding me."
"'Fraid not, Felix. It's the real thing this time, but for heaven's sake don't tell anyone. They'd whiz me out of here like a speeding bullet."
Felix said he was the most trustworthy man this side of George Washington, but this news, of course, called for champagne, which he ordered immediately. Under cover of the small ceremony by the waiters, he leaned over and spoke quietly to Bond. "There's a face over there I kinda recognize, James. You ever seen him before?"
There were only three other people in the bar. Two men and a woman, sitting together, very relaxed and in deep conversation.
"The one with the beard?"
"That's the guy. I've seen him somewhere, or maybe just his photograph."
"'America's Most Wanted'?"
"Don't be a fool. I'm talking big-time names here. That guy's famous for something."