Leiter looked thoughtful. Some of the cloud lifted from his face. He said, ‘I know the plans for this afternoon. Off on this miniature train through the cane fields, picnic, then the boat out of Green Island Harbour, deep-sea fishing and all that. I’ve reconnoitred the route for it all.’ He raised the thumb of his left hand and pinged the end of his steel hook thoughtfully. ‘Ye-e-e-s. It’s going to mean some quick action and a heap of luck and I’ll have to get the hell up to Frome for some supplies from your friend Hugill. Will he hand over some gear on your say-so? Okay, then. Come into my office and write him a note. It’s only a half-hour’s drive and Nick can hold the front desk for that time. Come on.’ He opened a side door and went through into his office. He beckoned Bond to follow and shut the door behind him. At Leiter’s dictation, Bond took down the note to the manager of the WISCO sugar estates and then went out and along to his room. He took a strong nip of straight bourbon and sat on the edge of his bed and looked unseeingly out of the window and across the lawn to the sea’s horizon. Like a dozing hound chasing a rabbit in its dreams, or like the audience at an athletics meeting that lifts a leg to help the high-jumper over the bar, every now and then, his right hand twitched involuntarily. In his mind’s eye, in a variety of imagined circumstances, it was leaping for his gun.
Time passed and James Bond still sat there, occasionally smoking half-way through a Royal Blend and then absent-mindedly stubbing it out in the bed-table ash-tray. An observer would have made nothing of his thoughts. The pulse in his left temple was beating a little fast. There was some tension, but perhaps only the concentration applied to his thinking, in the slightly pursed lips, but the brooding, blue-grey eyes that saw nothing were relaxed, almost sleepy. It would have been impossible to guess that James Bond was contemplating the possibility of his own death later that day, feeling the soft-nosed bullets tearing into him, seeing his body jerking on the ground, his mouth perhaps screaming. Those were certainly part of his thoughts, but the twitching right hand was evidence that, in much of the whirring film of his thoughts, the enemy’s fire was not going unanswered – perhaps had even been anticipated.
James Bond gave a deep relaxed sigh. His eyes came back into focus. He looked at his watch. It said 9.50. He got up, ran both hands down his lean face with a scrubbing motion, and went out and along the corridor to the conference room.
12 | IN A GLASS, VERY DARKLY
The set-up was the same. Bond’s travel literature was on the buffet table where he had left it. He went through into the conference room. It had only been cursorily tidied. Scaramanga had probably said it was not to be entered by the staff. The chairs were roughly in position, but the ash-trays had not been emptied. There were no stains on the carpet and no signs of the carpet having been washed. It had probably been a single shot through the heart. With Scaramanga’s soft-nosed bullets, the internal damage would be devastating, but the fragments of the bullet would stay in the body and there would be no bleeding. Bond went round the table, ostentatiously positioning the chairs more accurately. He identified the one where Ruby Rotkopf must have sat, across the table from Scaramanga, because it had a cracked leg. He dutifully examined the windows and looked behind the curtains, doing his job. Scaramanga came into the room followed by Mr Hendriks. He said roughly, ‘Okay, Mr Hazard. Lock both doors like yesterday. No one to come in. Right?’
‘Yes.’ As Bond passed Mr Hendriks he said cheerfully, ‘Good morning, Mr Hendriks. Enjoy the party last night?’
Mr Hendriks gave his usual curt bow. He said nothing. His eyes were granite marbles.
Bond went out and locked the doors and took up his position with the brochures and the champagne glass. Immediately, Hendriks began talking, quickly and urgently, fumbling for the English words. ‘Mister S. I have bad troubles to report. My Zentrale in Havana spoke with me this morning. They have heard direct from Moscow. This man’ – he must have made a gesture towards the door – ‘this man is the British secret agent, the man Bond. There is no doubt. I am given the exact descriptions. When he goes swimming this morning, I am examining his body through glasses. The wounds on his body are clearly to be seen. The scar down the right side of the face leaves no doubt. And his shooting last night! The ploddy fool is proud of his shooting. I would like to see a member of my organization behave in zees stupid fashions! I would have him shot immediately.’ There was a pause. The man’s tone altered, became slightly menacing. His target was now Scaramanga. ‘But, Mister S. How can this have come about? How can you possibly have let it arrive? My Zentrale is dumbfounded at the mistake. The man might have done much damage but for the watchfulness of my superiors. Please explain, Mister S. I must be making the very full report. How is it that you are meeting this man? How is it that you are then carrying him efen into the centre of The Group? The details, pliss, Mister. The full accounting. My superiors will be expressing sharp criticism of the lack of vigilance against the enemy.’
Bond heard the rasp of a match against a box. He could imagine Scaramanga sitting back and going through the smoking routine. The voice, when it came, was decisive, uncowed. ‘Mr Hendriks, I appreciate your outfit’s concern about this and I congratulate them on their sources of information. But you tell your Central this: I met this man completely by accident, at least I thought so at the time, and there’s no use worrying about how it happened. It hasn’t been easy to set up this conference and I needed help. I had to get two managers in a hurry from New York to handle the hotel people. They’re doing a good job, right? The floor staff and all the rest I had to get from Kingston. But what I really needed was a kind of personal assistant who could be around to make sure that everything went smoothly. Personally, I just couldn’t be bothered with all the details. When this guy dropped out of the blue he looked all right to me. So I picked him up. But I’m not stupid. I knew that when this show was over I’d have to get rid of him, just in case he’d learned anything he shouldn’t have. Now you say he’s a member of the Secret Service. I told you at the beginning of this conference that I eat these people for breakfast when I have a mind to. What you’ve told me changes just one thing: he’ll die today instead of tomorrow. And here’s how it’s going to happen.’ Scaramanga lowered his voice. Now Bond could only hear disjointed words. The sweat ran down from his ear as he pressed it to the base of the champagne glass. ‘Our train trip … rats in the cane … unfortunate accident … before I do it … one hell of a shock … details to myself … promise you a big laugh’. Scaramanga must have sat back again. Now his voice was normal. ‘So you can rest easy. There’ll be nothing left of the guy by this evening. Okay? I could get it over with now by just opening the door. But two blown fuses in two days might stir up gossip around here. And this way there’ll be a heap of fun for everyone on the picnic.’
Mr Hendriks’s voice was flat and uninterested. He had carried out his orders and action was about to follow, definite action. There could be no complaint of delay in carrying out orders. He said, ‘Yes. What you are proposing will be satisfactory. I shall observe the proceedings with much amusement. And now to other business. Plan Orange. My superiors are wishing to know that everything is in order.’