M. looked morosely at Bond. ‘See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares’ nest these old women’s societies are always stirring up. People start preserving something – churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds – and there’s always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it’s private land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I’m supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what’s happened to a covey of pink storks.’ M. snorted. ‘Anyway, you asked about Strangways’s last case and that’s it.’ M. leant forward belligerently. ‘Any questions? I’ve got a busy day ahead.’
Bond grinned. He couldn’t help it. M.’s occasional outbursts of rage were so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as any attempt to waste the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to his feet. ‘Perhaps if I could have the file, sir,’ he said placatingly. ‘It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less because of these birds. Perhaps two more did – Strangways and the Trueblood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we’ve got nothing else to go on.’
‘Take it, take it,’ said M. impatiently. ‘And hurry up and get your holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of the world happens to be in a bit of a mess.’
Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his Beretta and the holster. ‘No,’ said M. sharply. ‘Leave that. And mind you’ve got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again.’
Bond looked across into M.’s eyes. For the first time in his life he hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M. was being tough and mean. It was deferred punishment for having nearly got killed on his last job. Plus getting away from this filthy weather into the sunshine. M. couldn’t bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being sent on this cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.
With the anger balling up inside him like cats’ fur, Bond said, ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ and turned and walked out of the room.
4. RECEPTION COMMITTEE
THE SIXTY-EIGHT tons deadweight of the Super-Constellation hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.
Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of smallholdings showed on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. ‘Xaymaca’ the Arawak Indians had called it – ‘The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.
The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north–south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.
The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.
Bond’s passport described him as ‘Import and Export Merchant’.
‘What company, sir?’
‘Universal Export.’
‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’
‘Pleasure.’
‘I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’ The negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.
‘Thank you.’
Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years before.
‘Quarrel!’
From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ‘How you, cap’n?’ he called delightedly.
‘I’m fine,’ said Bond. ‘Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?’
‘Sure, cap’n.’
The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew Quarrel, chalked Bond’s bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and looked into the dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of Morgan’s time. ‘You haven’t changed, Quarrel,’ he said affectionately. ‘How’s the turtle fishing?’
‘Not so bad, cap’n, an’ not so good. Much de same as always.’ He looked critically at Bond. ‘Yo been sick, or somepun?’
Bond was surprised. ‘As a matter of fact I have. But I’ve been fit for weeks. What made you say that?’
Quarrel was embarrassed. ‘Sorry, cap’n,’ he said, thinking he might have offended Bond. ‘Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las’ time.’
‘Oh well,’ said Bond. ‘It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of your training. I’m not as fit as I ought to be.’
‘Sho ting, cap’n.’
They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and flash of a press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic charm, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the Daily Gleaner.’ She glanced down at a list in her hand. ‘Mister Bond, isn’t it? And how long will you be with us, Mister Bond?’
Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. ‘In transit,’ he said shortly. ‘I think you’ll find there were more interesting people on the plane.’
‘Oh no, I’m sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what hotel will you be staying at?’
Damn,