The prairie fire of the sunset raged briefly in the west and the molten sea cooled off into moonlit gunmetal.
A naked arm smelling of Chanel No. 5 snaked round his neck and warm lips kissed the corner of his mouth. As he reached up to hold the arm where it was, a breathless voice said, ‘Oh, James! I’m sorry. I just had to! It’s so wonderful to have you back.’
Bond put his hand under the soft chin and lifted up her mouth and kissed her full on the half-open lips. He said, ‘Why didn’t we ever think of doing that before, Goodnight? Three years with only that door between us! What must we have been thinking of?’
She stood away from him. The golden bell of hair fell back to embrace her neck. She hadn’t changed. Still only the faintest trace of make-up, but now the face was golden with sunburn from which the wide-apart blue eyes, now ablaze with the moon, shone out with that challenging directness that had disconcerted him when they had argued over some office problem. Still the same glint of health over the good bones and the broad uninhibited smile from the full lips that, in repose, were so exciting. But now the clothes were different. Instead of the severe shirt and skirt of the days at Headquarters, she was wearing a single string of pearls and a one-piece short-skirted frock in the colour of a pink gin with a lot of bitters in it – the orangey-pink of the inside of a conch shell. It was all tight against the bosom and the hips. She smiled at his scrutiny. ‘The buttons are down the back. This is standard uniform for a tropical Station.’
‘I can just see Q Branch dreaming it up. I suppose one of the pearls has a death pill in it.’
‘Of course. But I can’t remember which. I’ll just have to swallow the whole string. Can I have a daiquiri, please, instead?’
Bond gave the order. ‘Sorry, Goodnight. My manners are slipping. I was dazzled. It’s so tremendous finding you here. And I’ve never seen you in your working clothes before. Now then, tell me the news. Where’s Ross? How long have you been here? Have you managed to cope with all that junk I gave you?’
Her drink came. She sipped it carefully. Bond remembered that she rarely drank and didn’t smoke. He ordered another for himself and felt vaguely guilty that this was his third double and that she wouldn’t know it and when it came wouldn’t recognize it as a double. He lit a cigarette. Nowadays he was trying to keep to twenty and failing by about five. He stabbed the cigarette out. He was getting near to his target and the rigid training rules that had been drilled into him at The Park must from now on be observed meticulously. The champagne wouldn’t count. He was amused by the conscience this girl had awakened in him. He was also surprised and impressed.
Mary Goodnight knew that the last question was the one he would want answered first. She reached into a plain straw handbag on a gold metal chain and handed him a thick envelope. She said, ‘Mostly in used singles. A few fivers. Shall I debit you direct or put it in as expenses?’
‘Direct, please.’
‘The car’s outside. You remember Strangways? Well it’s his old Sunbeam Alpine. The Station bought it and now I use it. The tank’s full and it goes like a bird. The top man at Frome is a man called Tony Hugill. Ex-navy. Nice man. Nice wife. Nice children. Does a good job. Has a lot of trouble with cane burning and other small sabotage – mostly with thermite bombs brought in from Cuba. Cuba’s sugar crop is Jamaica’s chief rival and with Hurricane Flora and all the rains they’ve been having over there, the Cuban crop is going to be only about three million tons this year, compared with a Batista level of about seven, and very late, because the rains have played havoc with the sucrose content.’ She smiled her wide smile. ‘No secrets. Just reading the Gleaner. So it’s worth Castro’s trouble to try and keep the world price up by doing as much damage as he can to rival crops so that he’s in a better position to bargain with Russia. He’s only got his sugar to sell and he wants food badly. This wheat the Americans are selling to Russia. A lot of that will find its way back to Cuba, in exchange for sugar, to feed the Cuban sugar croppers.’ She smiled again. ‘Pretty daft business, isn’t it? I don’t think Castro can hold out much longer. The missile business in Cuba must have cost Russia about a billion pounds. And now they’re having to pour money into Cuba, money and goods, to keep the place on its feet. I can’t help thinking they’ll pull out soon and leave Castro to go the way Batista went. It’s a fiercely Catholic country and Hurricane Flora was considered as the final judgment from heaven. It sat over the island and simply whipped it, day after day, for five days. No hurricane in history has ever behaved like that. The churchgoers don’t miss an omen like that. It was a straight indictment of the regime.’
Bond said with admiration, ‘Goodnight, you’re a treasure. You’ve certainly been doing your homework.’
The direct blue eyes looked straight into his, dodging the compliment. ‘This is the stuff I live with here. It’s built into the Station. But I thought you might like some background to Frome and what I’ve said explains why WISCO are getting these cane fires. At least we think it is. Apparently there’s a tremendous chess game going on all over the world in sugar – in what they call sugar futures, that’s sort of buying the stuff forward for delivery dates later in the year. Washington’s trying to keep the price down, to upset Cuba’s economy, but there’s increased world consumption and a shortage largely due to Flora and the tremendous rains we’ve been having here after Flora which have delayed the Jamaican crop. I don’t understand it all, but it’s in Cuba’s interest to do as much damage as possible to the Jamaican crop and this place Frome you’re interested in produces about a quarter of Jamaica’s total output.’ She took a sip at her drink. ‘Well, that’s all about sugar. The top man there is this man Hugill. We’ve had a lot to do with him, so he’ll be friendly. He was in Naval Intelligence during the war, sort of commando job, so he knows the score. The car’s a bit aged but it’s still pretty fast and it won’t let you down. It’s rather bashed about so it won’t be conspicuous. I’ve put the survey map in the glove compartment.’
‘That’s fine. Now, last question and then we’ll go and have dinner and tell each other our life stories. But, by the way, what’s happened to your chief, Ross?’
Mary Goodnight looked worried. ‘To tell you the truth, I don’t exactly know. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and locate a man called Scaramanga. He’s a local gunman of some sort. I don’t know much about him. Apparently Headquarters want him traced for some reason.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Nobody ever tells me anything that’s interesting. I just do the donkey work. Well, Commander Ross was due back two days ago and he hasn’t turned up. I’ve had to send off a Red Warning, but I’ve been told to give him another week.’
‘Well, I’m glad he’s out of the way. I’d rather have his Number Two. Last question. What about this 3½ Love Lane? Did you get anywhere?’
Mary Goodnight blushed. ‘Did I not! That was a fine question to get me mixed up with. Alexander’s were non-committal and I finally had to go to the Special Branch. I shan’t be able to show my face there for weeks. Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a, er –’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s a famous disorderly house in Sav’ La Mar.’