Bond looked sharply at Leiter. «The Olterra . One of the blackest marks against Intelligence during the whole war.» He paused. «The Disco was anchored in about forty feet of water. Supposing they'd got the bombs buried in the sand below her. Would your Geiger counter have registered?»
«Doubt it. I've got an underwater model and we could go and have a sniff round when it gets dark. But really, James»–Leiter frowned impatiently–»aren't we getting a bit off beam–seeing burglars under the bed? We've got damn-all to go on. Largo's a powerful-looking piratical sort of chap, probably a bit of a crook where women are concerned. But what the hell have we got against him? Have you put a Trace through on him and on these shareholders and the crew members?»
«Yes. Put them all on the wire from Government House, Urgent Rates. We should get an answer by this evening. But look here, Felix.» Bond's voice was stubborn. «There's a damned fast ship with a plane and forty men no one knows anything about. There's not another group or even an individual in the area who looks in the least promising. All right, so the outfit looks all right and its story seems to stand up. But just supposing the whole thing was a phony–a damned good one of course, but then so it ought to be with all that's at stake. Take another look at the picture. These so-called shareholders all arrive just in time for June third. On that night the Disco goes to sea and stays out till morning. Just supposing she rendezvous'd that plane in shallow water somewhere. Just suppose she picked up the bombs and put them away–in the sand under the ship, if you like. Anyway, somewhere safe and convenient. Just suppose all that and what sort of a picture do you get?»
«A B picture so far as I'm concerned, James.» Leiter shrugged resignedly. «But I guess there's just enough to make it a lead.» He laughed sardonically. «But I'd rather shoot myself than put it in tonight's report. If we're going to make fools of ourselves, we'd better do it well out of sight and sound of our chiefs. So what's on your mind? What comes next?»
«While you get our communications going, I'm going to check with the oiling wharf. Then we'll call up this Domino girl and try and get ourselves asked for a drink and have a quick look at Largo's shore base–this Palmyra. Then we go to the Casino and look over the whole of Largo's group. And then»–Bond looked stubbornly at Leiter –»I'm going to borrow a good man from the Police Commission to give me a hand, put on an aqualung, and go out and have a sniff round the Disco with your other Geiger machine.»
Leiter said laconically, «Destry Rides Again! Well, I'll go along with that, James. Just for old times' sake. But don't go and stub your toe on a sea urchin or anything. I see there are free cha-cha lessons in the ballroom of the Royal Bahamian tomorrow. We've got to keep fit for those. I guess there'll be nothing else in this trip for my memory book.»
Back in the hotel, a dispatch rider from Government House was waiting for Bond. He saluted smartly, handed over an O.H.M.S. envelope, and got Bond's signed receipt in exchange. It was a cable from the Colonial Office «Personal to the Governor.» The text was prefixed PROBOND. The cable read: «YOUR 1107 RECORDS HAVE NOTHING REPEAT NOTHING ON THESE NAMES STOP INFORMATIVELY ALL STATIONS REPORT NEGATIVELY ON OPERATION THUNDERBALL STOP WHAT HAVE you QUERY.» The message was signed «PRISM,» which meant that M had approved it.
Bond handed the cable to Leiter.
Leiter read it. He said, «See what I mean? We're on a bum steer. This is a thumb-twiddler. See you later in the Pineapple Bar for a dry martini that's half a jumbo olive. I'll go send a postcard to Washington and asked them to send down a couple of WAVES. We're going to have time on our hands.»
14. Sour Martinis
As it turned out, the first half of Bond's program for the evening went by the board. On the telephone Domino Vitali said that it would not be convenient for them to see the house that evening. Her guardian and some of his friends were coming ashore. Yet it was indeed possible that they might meet at the Casino that evening. She would be dining on board and the Disco would then sail round and anchor off the Casino. But how would she be able to recognize him in the Casino? She had a very poor memory for faces. Would he perhaps wear a flower in his buttonhole or something?
Bond had laughed. He said that would be all right. He would remember her by her beautiful blue eyes. They were unforgettable. And the blue rinse that matched them. He had put the receiver down halfway through the amused, sexy chuckle. He suddenly wanted to see her again very much.
But the movement of the ship altered his plans for the better. It would be much easier to reconnoitre her in the harbor. It would be a shorter swim and he would be able to go into the water under cover of the harbor police wharf. Equally, with her anchorage empty, it would be all the easier to survey the area where she had been lying. But if Largo moved the yacht about so nonchalantly was it likely the bombs, if there were any, would be hidden at the anchorage? If they were, surely the Disco would stand watch over them. Bond decided to put a decision aside until he had more and more expert information about the ship's hull.
He sat in his room and wrote his negative report to M. He read it through. It would be a depressing signal to get. Should he say anything about the wisp of a lead he was working on? No. Not until he had something solid. Wishful intelligence, the desire to please or reassure the recipient, was the most dangerous commodity in the whole realm of secret information. Bond could imagine the reaction in Whitehall where the Thunderball war room would be ready, anxious to grasp at straws. M's careful «I think we may conceivably have got a lead in the Bahamas. Absolutely nothing definite, but this particular man doesn't often go wrong on these things. Yes, certainly I'll check back and see if we can get a follow-up.» And the buzz would get around: «M's on to something. Agent of his thinks he's got a lead. The Bahamas. Yes, I think we'd better tell the P.M.» Bond shuddered. The MOST IMMEDIATES would pour in to him: «Elucidate your 1806.» «Flash fullest details.» «Premier wants detailed grounds for your 1806.» There would be no end to the flood. Leiter would get the same from C.I.A. The whole place would be in an uproar. Then, in answer to Bond's tatty little fragments of gossip and speculation, there would come the blistering: «Surprised you should take this flimsy evidence seriously.» «Futurely confine your signals to facts,» and, the final degradation, «View speculative nature your 1806 and subsequents comma future signals must repeat must be joint and countersigned by CIA representative.»
Bond wiped his forehead. He unlocked the case containing his cipher machine, transposed his text, checked it again, and went off to Police Headquarters, where Leiter was sitting at his keyboard, the sweat of concentration pouring down his neck. Ten minutes later Leiter took off his earphones and handed over to Bond. He mopped his face with an already drenched handkerchief. «First it's sunspots, and I had to swap over to the emergency wavelength. There I found they'd put a baboon on the other end–you know, one of the ones that can write the whole of Shakespeare if you leave him at it long enough.» He angrily waved several pages of cipher groups. «Now I've got to unscramble all this. Probably from Accounts about how much extra income tax this sunshine trip will cost me.» He sat down at a table and began cranking away at his machine.
Bond put his short message over quickly. He could see it being punched out on the tapes in one of those busy rooms on the eighth floor, going to the supervisor, being marked «Personal for M, copy to OO Section and Records,» then another girl hurrying off down the passage with the flimsy yellow forms on a clip file. He queried whether there was anything for him and signed off. He left Leiter and went down to the Commissioner's room.