JAMES BOND IN 'BAYAMO'

BAYAMO

CHAPTER 1

A STEADY HAND

Harris lay still on his back, cigarette held loosely between dry lips. The only sign of nerves a trickle of sweat at the temple, a lazy bead of betrayal that didn’t escape the attention of the others in the guard-room. Across the expanse of frayed carpet the man perched on the government issue steel desk took careful aim at the cigarette, a thick comma of unruly black hair and cruel eyes above the ugly mouth of the Browning.

‘O.k. Bond, you’ve made your point - lets call it quits at forty, eh?.’ Definitely sweating now.
‘Now where’s the fun in that?.’ With that, the finger tightened around the trigger, the hammer released to crash forward, sending the pencil inside the barrel through the air, the point lodging itself firmly into the prone Harris’ ear. As the others rushed to his aid, James Bond reached for his wallet, tossing the notes onto the desk, along with the pistol. Leaving the unfortunate victim writhing in pain on the floor, Bond made for the door, striding across the hall to the bank of lifts. As he waited, one of the men from the guard-room joined him. Maybridge, an analyst from the European desk seemed somewhat uneasy at the scene he had just witnessed.

‘Bit over the top, that, eh Bond?.’ ‘Perhaps - but he was well overdue, fifty pounds worth, at least.’ He could have told Maybridge of the report that had accidentally come to his desk, that included a note to the effect that Harris had lost his nerve on a job in Red China and cost a loyal and prized local agent his life... but since neither man was on the official distribution list, he thought better of it. Besides, Harris ought to have thanked him; the injury would almost certainly see him downgraded, maybe even give his nerves a chance to recover.

Depositing Maybridge on five, the lift took Bond up to the communications section on the eighth floor, where he signed in at the security desk to be handed an envelope before grabbing a thick bundle of newspapers and magazines then a black coffee from the pot in the small galley before making his way to the duty room. A tired, but pretty looking girl gratefully vacated the desk, leaving Bond alone with a room full of radio equipment, teleprinters and the hated array of telephones that would serve as his shackles for the next eight hours. It wasn’t so much that Bond hated the duty room - the radio gear was always good to practice his morse - as that he despised any office duties. At least his own office had a view; the secretaries and office girls took their lunch in the small courtyard below, and skirts seemed to get shorter as the fifties receded. Settling in with the Times, Bond checked his Rolex against the London clock, one of seven on the wall above the racks of gear.

Time runs slowly for no man, but for James Bond, checking the time some two hours later, it certainly seemed to. Cursing softly, he stretched his arms, reaching for the headphones. Idly flicking through the switches and dials, he checked each station’s frequencies against the listing card from the envelope he had been given. One by one, the stations began their hourly reports - each staggered five minutes to allow the lone operator to receive and record them all, a dexion shelf sagging under the weight of a row of tape machines, each operated in turn by a timer mechanism to allow automated recording of the day’s reports.

Strictly against protocol, Bond began the laborious process of decoding some of the likelier candidates for entertainment, using a code-sheet marked ‘SECTION CHIEF ONLY - UNAUTHORISED USAGE STRICTLY PROHIBITED’. It took him the best part of the next three hours and a pack of cigarettes, at the end of which he knew that while station V (Vienna) had
nothing better to report than a negative sighting of a missing Soviet Atomic scientist and a shortage of office stationery - and station AU (Australasia) was requesting a spare set of valves for its transmitter, station C in Kingston was in the lead by sending home a wren in disgrace. Despite himself, Bond had to smile - having spent time there on assignment he knew that after rummy the station girls were the best game in town.

Finally, the hands arranged themselves at five to six, as a familiar face arrived to relieve Bond; the same poor girl he had taken over from. ‘Anything to report?.’ Her question prompted a shrug and a shake of the head. On a whim, Bond stuck his head back round the door. ‘You seem a little pale - may I suggest a transfer request?. I hear station C is short-handed.’

With a little over an hour to kill before his club opened, Bond decided on a change of clothes and a shower. The small suite of rooms on five were set aside for the temporary accommodation of agents and defectors during their period of interrogation and debriefing. Naturally, Bond had acquired a key, so after five minutes under a stream of near-scalding water he had a quick shave before changing into a fresh suit - a single-breasted number in lightweight navy serge by Benson, Perry and Whitley of Cork Street. Still with fifty minutes on his hands, he took the lift down to the sub-basement which housed the Armoury and the series of vaults which were the private domain of the man known as ‘Q’ to the handful subject to the privilege.

The low-ceiling of the room stretched back into darkness, the whole place resembling nothing so much as an untidy mixture of scrapyard and laboratory. Major Boothroyd, the Service’s weapons and equipment expert was busily tinkering with a steel tube mounted on a test-bench. A small cylinder marked ‘Co2 - Carbon Dioxide’ was linked to the tube by a steel reinforced pipe. At Bond’s approach, Boothroyd set down his spanner and waved the younger man across.
‘Ah, Double-O-Seven. Good, I was hoping you’d drop by.’ ‘Major.’ Bond couldn’t help but like the old recluse; he had a shared dislike of authority as well as all the best toys in the shop.

Indicating the pipe and cylinder contraption, ‘Q’ explained its purpose.
‘An engine compartment fire suppression system, intended for fitment to all Service cars. Now listen in; I had a look at your Walther and there’s nothing wrong with it, apart from you evidently mistaking it for a hammer.’ ‘The old Beretta...’ Boothroyd held up a finger to silence Bond. ‘Message from the top, M himself no less. Here, read it for yourself.’ Sifting rapidly through a pile of papers on one end of his battered old workbench, Boothroyd handed his visitor a sheet of notepaper. Under the heading ‘Q Branch Only’ was a terse missive from the Chief of the Service, known only as a cypher. ‘Reminder - The Walther PPK is now standard-issue for the ‘00’-section, no, repeat NO other sidearm to be issued under ANY circumstance without approval. Above goes especially for certain adherents of unreliable Italian arse-ticklers - signed ‘M’. The last a plainly worded dig at Bond’s fondness for his old Beretta, which had jammed and cost him several months in hospital as a result. ‘Well, that’s certainly clear enough - the Walther it is, then.’ Bond accepted the wooden box from the Major, setting it down to examine the contents.

‘One Walther PPK, Service Issue. Re-furbished and re-finished to remove obvious signs of abuse.’ Ignoring the dig, Bond let his benefactor continue the inventory. ‘Two barrels - one threaded for a Brausch silencer. Four magazines and two boxes of standard ammunition, calibre 7.65, second box contains sub-sonic ammunition for use with the silencer. Note the phosphorescent dots on rear and fore-sights - a new development to aid in the accuracy of shooting under low light conditions.’ With quick, professional efficiency, Bond assembled the pistol, the slide klacking into place. Thumbing a round into the magazine, he slipped it home with a satisfying click, thumbing the hammer back as he looked around for something suitable for what had come to mind, his eye coming to rest on an optician’s eye chart hung on the far wall. Spotting an orange in ‘Q’s open lunchbox, he waited until the Major’s back was turned before grabbing it, stuffing the fruit into the pipe on the bench then yanking the release lever on the Co2 cylinder.

To Boothroyd’s shout of alarm, the orange shot from the pipe like a citrus cannon-ball, Bond’s arm whipping up after it, a deafening KRAK! splitting the air as the orange exploded into droplets of pulp. ‘Bloody hell!, you might have killed one of us!. If that bullet had ricocheted...’. ‘Easy, Major - I made sure of my shot. Anyway, I’m for my club. Thanks for the Walther, I’ll take better care of it this time round.’ Leaving ‘Q’ to contemplate the mess he had made of the place, James Bond patted the Major on the shoulder and left. Alone with his work once more, Boothroyd returned his attention to the eye chart. The point at the middle of the letter ‘Q’ was now sporting a bullet-hole.

CHAPTER 2

A SOUR NOTE

Try as he might, James Bond could not shut it out any longer. No man can compete with the animated noise that is early morning Chelsea on a February Monday. Muttering darkly, he padded to his bathroom for the three ‘s’s instilled into every serviceman. His coffee machine fussed and gurgled as it processed the beans - the strongest blend De Bry’s could find for him. He made an edible bacon and eggs with a pile of toast, taking his breakfast out onto the modest rooftop balcony. He checked his watch, the battered Rolex showing he would be late. Reluctantly, he left the last two pieces of toast for the pigeons and went inside to dress, choosing a navy pinstripe with a plain grey silk tie - a gift from May, his housekeeper, whose yearly weekly absence was the cause of the heartburn now beginning to nag at him. He called down for a taxi, which was waiting by the time he had exited the lift. Bill the Concierge came to attention and snapped Bond a smart salute, the result of thirty year’s practice in the Guards. Bond’s ‘Morning, Bill’ got the usual ‘Morning, Sah’ in return.

Bond paid the cabbie and walked the last few streets to the drab building overlooking Regent’s Park that was both his prison and the launch pad for so many of his adventures. He had just made his office when the phone rang. It was Moneypenny, personal secretary to the Chief. ‘James, he wants you in ten minutes, it’s going mad up here, he’s even put his report to the FO on the backburner.’ Bond felt the flush of his blood running, that feeling he had almost forgotten after months of office-work and exercises. He took the stairs, two at a time, to the thirteenth floor.

In the outer office, Moneypenny lit up at the sight of Bond, discretely moving her foot from the button in the floor (Ten seconds until thirty-eight Stone of ex - Royal Marines with guns crashing in). ‘James - how nice to have a man who’ll drop everything for me...’ ‘Penny - and in Chanel, too. I approve.’ ‘But I always wear Chanel...’ Bond smiled at the offended pout. ‘I meant the dress, Couture on your salary?.’ ‘Actually, there was a sale at Selfridges.’ The buzzer angrily interrupted them, Moneypenny flushing slightly, as a schoolgirl caught behind the bicycle sheds by a headmaster. Bond winked and went through the double doors, the light above going from green to red.

Admiral Sir.Miles Messervy, known as ‘M’, was standing awkwardly behind his desk. Two men, one distinguished and mid-fifties, the other with the look of a junior clerk sat in easy chairs beside the well-worn oak desk. ‘Double-O Seven, about time too. This is Sir.Charles Berkley from the Treasury, Benjamin Fowler here is from the Bank of England. Take a seat and we can begin.’

Without asking, Bond lit up one of his Morlands, made especially for him from a Turkish blend, white with three gold bands. Bond was a willing slave to two things; ‘M’ and the Morlands. ‘M’ reached for his pipe, filling it with ‘ships’, gesturing for Sir.Charles to start the briefing. Reaching inside his jacket, he produced a banknote, a crisp £5 which he handed silently to ‘M’. Shrugging, the Chief passed the note to Bond, who examined it cursorily before handing it on to Fowler. Screwing a loupe into his eye, the younger man held the note up to the light for scrutiny, humming distractedly to himself. ‘Yes, unmistakable. This is a series ‘B’ five pound note, paper from Porters of Bournemouth, issued in 1958. Unmistakable, yes.’

‘It’s a forgery.’

Sir.Charles let the words sink in before continuing. ‘Two days ago, a routine sweep picked up three of these notes in the Plymouth area. One had been tendered in a public house - the Eight Bells, I believe, the others at a Chandlers Yard. They were only identified after second examinations were conducted - apparently the quality of production was too high for the batch they were purported to be from. Naturally, there’s been the hell of a flap - the opposition has got wind of it somehow and theres calls for questions in the House. You can imagine the effect on the economy if this got out into the open - only a ‘D’ notice has kept the press quiet - and it’s a matter of time.’

Leaning back in his seat, M regarded the air between the men thoughtfully. ‘007 - first impressions?.’ Drawing deeply on his cigarette, Bond waved it in the air in a vague gesture. ‘It all sounds rather like that business during the war - Operation Bernhard, if I recall. SS Operation, ran out of Sachenhausen Concentration Camp. Hitler planned to flood England with forged five pound notes, cause a panic that would make a Nazi invasion easier. Whatever the truth behind it, someone has gone to an awful lot of trouble... reeks of the opposition.’ ‘Yes, well, I’ve heard enough. Sir.Charles, Mr.Fowler, thank you for your time - I assure you both our full resources will be directed at this matter. I need hardly remind you of the need for secrecy, but I’m afraid I must ask you to sign the OSA forms as a matter of routine. My secretary Miss Monepenny has a pile of them in her desk.’

When the two men had left, M steepled his fingers, as if struggling to summon the resolve he needed. Bond sat, alert to the electric tension now present in the air between him and the man who would doubtless be about to send him into the firing line once more. Pressing the button, M spoke.

‘Moneypenny - drop everything. Recall Double-O’s Three and Five, call Double-O Eight back from leave, immediate. Call the PM’s office, book me in for an hour, request the Foreign Secretary attends. Get hold of the Admiralty, Rear Admiral Blake’s office, I want a call for five minutes on the Scrambler phone.’

Turning to Bond, M’s face was grave, the gaze that of a judge announcing the death sentence.

‘Double-O Seven. Your mission is as follows. You will find the source of these forgeries, investigate and report. If I were you, I’d start in Plymouth - better get up to Natural Cover, see Billy Cohen, while you wait you can ask him about Operation Bernhard. I’ll get someone onto Porters, the paper people - could be an inside job.’ Bond had remained in his seat. 'Well?'

'Just this, Sir – and with respect, I had hoped to get the Blue Steel job. Isn't this all a little excessive, for a few notes of funny money?.' 'Look here, Bond, I wouldn't call Sir.Charles Berkley prone to excess – if he's worried then I'm worried, that means you are worried too. Now, Blue Steel is over and done – there's little if any chance of recovery. You'll either go to Plymouth or to the Labour Exchange, do I make myself clear?.' 'Yes, you do, Sir.' Bond considered saying more – quite a bit more in fact – but at least it was a job, however dull the prospects. He left M perusing the contents of his pipe.

Bond cut the usual banter to a wink, blowing Moneypenny a kiss as he departed. He took the lift to the fifteenth floor, a darkly-lit place with peeling linoleum-floored corridors leading off to gloomily mysterious suites of rooms. In one such suite, little more than a glorified storage area, he found the cheerful Cohen at his business. Wrinkled olive skin and a bent frame could not hide the vitality of this old man, the life in him a joyous contrast to his surroundings. ‘James - how good of you to come, the Boss said I’d see you. Put the kettle on, there’s a jar of real coffee under the sink.’ Amused, Bond did as he was told, finding two chipped service enamel mugs and the coffee - some truly hideous freeze-dried instant powder with a picture of a smiling Bolivian peasant on the label. Handing Cohen his mug, Bond experimentally sipped at his, wincing at the taste. He doubted the man on the label would have been smiling if forced to drink his own coffee.

‘Billy, M said you knew about an old job from the war - Operation Bernard?.’ Suddenly a change came over the old man, somehow the life seemed to drain from the eyes, which were now misty, distant. ‘Bernhard, Operation Bernhard. Yes, I know about it. Here, I’ve a small souvenir....’. Bond set his mug down with a thump, spilling some of the noxious liquid. M - the bastard!. Before he could think of anything to say, Cohen had rolled his sleeve back down, covering the tattoo he had hidden these last fifteen years - the series of numbers denoting a Concentration Camp inmate. ‘Now, James - I’ll tell you all you need to know. But first, lets take some for the family album...’

There are times in the lives of a professional when he gets to see something truly exceptional; a master at his craft. For the next forty minutes or so, Bond watched spellbound as Billy Cohen showed the magic of his trade - that of master forger. Asking Bond what was required, Cohen set to work. Plymouth being a maritime town, Bond chose to become a Merchant Mariner, one of the many itinerant sailors to be found in such places. First, the photographs; Bond as a younger man, then a recent shot of him with his arm around a tailor’s dummy. Rummaging through a drawer full of wallets, a well-worn Moroccan leather example was selected to host Cohen’s work. Setting about the negatives in his dark-room, the Service’s wizard artfully applied various solvents, producing subtle alterations before developing them. As the strips dried, Cohen produced the documents, some from original blanks, others from carefully studied originals. Finally, a carefully smudged rubber stamp here and there and, now straight-backed, he handed Bond the papers that would form his new identity. ‘Right; Merchant Seaman’s card, Deckhand, then Able Seaman rating, Crane Operators ticket Class II, Passport, Driving Licence, heavily endorsed, Communist Party member’s card - careful with that, the number’s a bit dodgy - and some photos; you on the deck of an unidentifiable ship, you with arm round a blonde by the harbour at Valletta. Say hello to James Taylor, good enough?.’ ‘Billy, these are fantastic, the picture with the girl- how?...’ Tapping his nose, Cohen smiled ruefully. ‘Never ask, ‘cos I’m not saying - now about that, what was it, ‘old job from the war?’ make us another cup and I’ll tell you.’

CHAPTER 3

PLYMOUTH HO!

Barry Bailey was always easy to find; he would either be in the inspection pit or the wooden hut that was the Service Garage Office. Bond lit a Morland, the flare of his Ronson briefly illuming a ‘SMOKING STRICTLY FORBIDDEN’ sign on one of the concrete slabs that both defined and divided the space under the building. Originally an air-raid shelter, the Garage was home to several long rows of vehicles, most shrouded in dust covers. The old girl was at the end, her blunt nose peeping out from under her sheet. Bond felt the usual pang of guilt, as if the old Bentley was a neglected horse left in some forgotten field.

‘She’s still not ready, Sir.’ Bailey had heard Bond’s approach. ‘The supercharger?.’ The chief mechanic made a doubtful face. ‘Not just that, she’s, well-getting on, isn’t she?. I don’t know how much more she’s got before she needs more care than I can give her, Sir.’ ‘Perhaps I should let her go - anyway, I’m here...’ ‘For a car, yes, Sir. The Chief’s office called down, left you a message - about Service property being used as a private garage... I filed it in the usual place.’ Bailey mimed throwing a ball of paper over his shoulder. ‘Thanks, Barry, I’ll get her shifted when I’m back in town. What about a Jag?.’ Bailey smiled, holding up a key. ‘Vauxhall Victor, 1957 - like I said, the Chief’s office called...’. As Bond pulled out of the garage, he stuck his head out of the window.

‘How much will you pay me to write this thing off?.’ ‘It won’t go fast enough to be written off... drive safe, Sir.’ Bond made a reply, but not a printable one.

Taking the fast A303, Bond reckoned on making Plymouth by the evening. The Victor was gutless and slow, but held a steady sixty on a flat road and at least there was a radio, though it seemed to drift off station every five minutes, much to Bond’s annoyance. He let his mind drift, seeing Billy Cohen’s face as he re-lived the nightmare that was Nazi Germany to a Jew. British by birth, Cohen had gone back to the ‘old country’ to take over his ailing father’s photographic supplies business - then came the war. Billy had been arrested in a swoop on jews hiding in Berlin, but only after a fat Schupo had started tying nooses round the children's necks. He had stepped out – and the stone he had thrown hit the fat louse right in the forehead. He was lucky the SS-pigs with him thought it hilarious – they still broke three of his ribs and his nose – but he wasn't hanged.

After that, Sachenhausen had been a turn-up, the SS usually wasted no time showing what they thought of ‘Juden’, here, after the de-humanisation of the ‘De-Lousing’ and ‘Intake Processing’, Cohen was shown to a hut with several others, mostly old men. At forty-eight, he did not expect to last long, but then he hadn’t reckoned on Sturmbannfuhrer Bernhard Kruger. The SS man had conceived a plot to flood the British economy with forged notes, assembling what was then the greatest team of Master-forgers in existence. Cohen had kept himself busy while hiding - busy and useful, providing high-quality Ausweis and Reisepassen in exchange for shelter and food. The quality of his work had brought him to the attention of Major Kruger - and saved his life.

Life in Sachenhausen, for the Forgers at least, was bearable; hot food, clean bedding and easy work details. Once a month there was a film, always some god-awful UFA-studio romance or propaganda clap-trap featuring well-fed heros and pale girls with adoring eyes bursting into song every ten minutes. The work itself was demanding; to produce - in large quantities, the best forged banknotes possible. The paper had been the hardest; the British makers knew how to keep a secret, but it was only a matter of time before the correct mixture of cotton and hemp could be found. One day, using a note captured from an R.A.F. navigator, Billy and one of the old men managed to create a pulp that was so near to the original, the chemical tests couldn't tell with any certainty the forged from the genuine. After the war, Billy queued at a tent for an interview with a sympathetic Captain who gave him a chit and some food vouchers. He wasn't to know that the Captain was a recruiter – a 'talent spotter' for certain Government departments. The rest, Billy said wistfully, he would save for his memoirs, though some secrets, of course, would die with him. Now, it seemed, Billy Cohen's secret had been uncovered – but by whom?.

Bond skirted the bleak expanse of Dartmoor, the A38 lazily dropping down towards the channel. Unbidden, the memories came and went; ghosts of the past exercising across the boggy, treacherous clumps of moongrass, a young Bond among them being relentlessly driven on by the dog teams and the eager young eyes of the Marines - two week’s leave for any of them able to catch the ‘escaped prisoners’. He remembered the dog, a great brute of a German Shepherd, how the beast had nearly torn him apart. Those eyes - he saw them again, flashing green then gold as the teeth ripped into the greatcoat he wore. Then, the same eyes, dull and lifeless, staring at nothing after he had strangled the dog. A hell of a mess, indignant cables from the War Ministry and the usual placations from the Service... it was time to change, both mentally and appearance-wise.

Pulling over at a small picnic spot, Bond opened the boot, retrieving an old navy kitbag. The ladies from Properties and Clothing had come up trumps, as always. A pair of heavy corduroy trousers, patched with leather and badly oil-stained went on over a pair of heavy sea-boots. A lumberjack shirt and an Arran sweater followed, with a heavy pea-coat and a woollen cap. Finally, the old Rolex came off, replaced by a Timex. Placing the Rolex in a paper bag in the boot, Bond added his Dunhill lighter and the battered case with the Morlands – though not before deciding to have a last one 'for the road'.

The blur of colour in the mirror was followed by the playful tooting of the horn, a pillar-box red

Alfa sports job, flashing past the Victor on the approach to a tight bend. Bond's first view of the girl was as breathtaking as her driving was risky; head ablaze with red hair and a dazzling smile beneath a pair of sun-glasses. Instinctively, he wrenched at the gears, hopelessly he pounded the wheel as the blare from the disappearing Alfa's exhaust told him there would be no chasing this girl.

Pulling into the car park by the Station, Bond put women from his mind and went straight to the nearest telephone box, dialling from memory. The voice that answered was flat, neutral. ‘Good evening, A-One Garage.’ ‘Bond, request pickup Vauxhall Victor Plymouth railway station car park.’ Hanging up, Bond shouldered his kitbag and went off in search of the Seaman’s Mission. By the time he had signed in, it was already dark, a weak rain made worse by a strong breeze lashing the seafront. Somehow the protective walls of the harbour only served to intensify the effect of the weather. Setting off into the gathering gloom, Bond made for the first public house he saw. Inside, the heat and fug of the place hit him like a hot towel, but there was a cigarette machine and the bitter was agreeable, cheap and served in a clean glass. He bought a box of matches, then after finding a seat near the fire, made himself smaller by hanging his coat over his chair, then lit up a Capstan. It soon became clear this was a rough, but decent place - more spit and sawdust than a gentleman’s club. By the second pint, he decided to move on.

CHAPTER 4

THE EIGHT BELLS

The Eight Bells was a typical sailors haunt; the languages Bond could identify spoke of the polyglot nature of the clientelle, the great seafaring nations all represented. Bond noticed the scrutiny of a man drinking alone at the bar, a hard-faced individual who kept his face in shadow, but then his attention turned to a small group of men, perhaps of Mediterranean origins. Unlike the lone drinker, these men were gay and carefree, laughter occasionally breaking out as they went deeper into their cups. Deciding to make an approach, Bond waited for one of the men to head to the gents, at once raising his glass and turning into the man. Half of Bond's pint was thrown onto the floor, his immediate protest loud with indignance. The reply came in Spanish, the man refusing all blame.

'Pancho – STOP.' This came from what was apparently the senior man, pale gray eyes regarded him coolly from a face lined from years spent 'under the mast.' It seemed Bond was to be made welcome, a seat appearing opposite the older man. these were clearly seasoned men, their manner assured and unhurried, no doubt an acquisition well paid for by the look of them.

After signaling for a fresh round of drinks, the senior man turned his attention back to the newcomer. 'My name Vicente, I keep – I have charge of this crew. ' Bond reached for both his pint and the opportunity. 'Oh, really?, how fortunate... I need work. Perhaps you know if there is anything going; I know my way around a ship and I'll take anything – I've been on dry land too long.' Vicente seemed to consider for a moment before replying. 'I ask for you – who knows?, there are boats here all the time I think. Now, we drink.' As Bond drank, he noticed the lone drinker empty his glass and go to leave. The man paused at the door, glowered at Bond briefly and left the pub, pushing past a couple of men on their way in.

It was his round and he made sure he spilled some of it, slurring his words and deliberately forcing his eyes out of focus. Vicente had kept his head, but some of the younger men were becoming sentimental, as they talked amongst themselves in their own tongue. Alert to the most trivial word, Bond was sure he had heard the words for 'dirty money' when Vicente slammed his pint down and roared at the man to be careful. Something in the older man's face showed fear, but Bond laughed, clapped his new friend on the back and lurched to the toilet outside the back of the pub. Splashing cold water on his face, he looked in vain for a towel, but then one of the crew crashed through the door, falling onto his face. Apparently finding this hilarious, Bond/Taylor rolled back through the doorway and, sticking his thumb back at the toilet he got Vicente's attention. They both hauled the drunk to his knees, then his feet – then he murmured something that made no sense. To Bond's ears it sounded like 'El porcina. Marques? porcina de Bayamo, que es...' Though he gave no sign of understanding, Bond knew it meant he was calling someone a swine, someone called the 'Marques of Bayamo.' Filing this away for his next report, Bond helped Vicente clean the man up. It was near to closing time and all he had was a thick head and some nonsense about a Marques.

If it hadn’t been for the worsening weather – and the drink, Bond might have picked them up sooner. As it was, he was halfway down an alleyway when he realised he was about to be ‘rolled’. The shape that emerged from the recess of a doorway was large, menacing - the dull glimmer of steel carried below the waist and the muffled rush of steps from behind; the cut-off man, no doubt wielding a cosh. Without a word, Bond broke stride, throwing his feet forward to close the gap unexpectedly. As the knife flashed, Bond’s left hand clamped onto the inside of the wrist, wrenching hard counter-clockwise to straighten and extend the knife-arm. In one movement, he switched hands, stepping around to the left of the downturned blade as he jerked the wrist down across his knee, ramming the elbow down – ONCE!-TWICE!. Even as his ears registered the sounds of the knife dropping onto the flags a hammer of Bond's left hand onto the man’s nose and he was free to deal with the second, turning into him as the open razor - Bond’s cosh guess was wrong - came across in a wicked hook towards his right ear. Left hander. Anger now. Right hand clamping onto inside of wrist - left hand striking upwards into the face, fingers outstretched for extra strength - then left hand run along top of the man’s left arm, ramming edge of left into elbow, folding the arm with the right the razor biting deep into the cheek of its owner. A scream. Left fist swung up, thumb braced - HARD into groin, then left formed into a claw grabbing, twisting and pulling, destroying the manhood. A short scream that ended in a gurgling, bubbling whimper.

Flinging the razor away over the wall of the alley, Bond turned – and froze, the knife's evil point a silent threat. The bottle smashing onto the head of the knife-man ended it, the knife dropping to the stones for the second time. Leaning gratefully back against the wall, Bond ran a hand through his hair, looking to thank his benefactor, but there was no-one there, just the merest hint of something familiar hanging in the dank air. Scowling, Bond rifled through the pockets of the two thugs. The first contained some loose change and a few notes, at a glance the wallet of the second lacked items of interest – a seaman's card and a piece of broken chain next to a faded photo of a sweetheart with an inscription in Spanish... and a small enameled badge, fixed to the inside of the wallet. The badge looked military to Bond – a sea-lion or walrus over a stylized anchor with cyrillic characters. Fixing the image in his mind, he threw the wallet onto the comatose man's chest. Looking down the alleyway he couldn't help a bemused smile. What was this?; warning?, happenstance?.

It was near to midnight when James Bond lurched up the stairs to his room at the Seamans Mission. Locking the door behind him, he took a moment to focus, squinting in the stark light offered by the bare bulb hanging from an ornate plaster rose. Judging by the plaster work, the building was once a sumptuous private house, perhaps for a wealthy merchant or the like. The room slept four, two metal-framed bunk beds against the far walls, a wash basin with chipped mirror in the corner and a simple table with chairs spoke of the spartan nature of the place. A wardrobe with a splintered door completed the furniture.

Sighing inwardly, Bond splashed some water on his face to shake off the haze of a pint too many before retrieving the kitbag from the nearest bunk. Rifling through the contents, he pulled out a leather wash-roll which he untied and laid out on the table. In one of the compartments, an old, but servicable Gillette safety razor was wrapped in a piece of grubby cloth. Placing the cloth in the wash basin, Bond relieved himself over it – glad no-one could see this odd performance. Washing the sodden rag clean, he first placed it flat onto a small metal shaving mirror, then pressed the rag between it and the grimy mirror above the basin. Seating himself at the table, Bond wearily lit a Capstan, inhaling deeply, his mind now resolved to the task ahead. Peeling away the damp cloth unveiled a series of small letters on the metallic surface, arranged in groups of six forming a square grid. Taking out a packet of cigarette-papers and a pencil he began the slow, laborious work of encoding his initial report. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of the girl from his mind.

CHAPTER 5

AN ILL WIND

The first light of the dawn had been washed away by a cold sun, a few sparse clouds high in the atmosphere not enough to shade the port. Plymouth at dawn was a mixture of the waking and those yet to sleep; work at the docks slowed during the dark hours, but rarely ever stopped. Among the worn figures silently trudging the flags was Bond – in his role as James Taylor, itinerant seaman. He turned east from Devonport - the Naval yard of no use in the business at hand. Traversing the Stonehouse pool, he turned south for Devil's Point, eyes and ears tuned for anything, the sign of something out of place, something not as it should be. Seeing only sightseers, he walked on, seeing a telephone box by the ancient stone of the wall. A young couple, no more than kids probably, laughed and jostled Bond in their gaiety. He forced a smile as the boy produced an old Agfa, snapping the girl as she posed by an old tower, a relic of Napoleon's time. Reaching into his pocket as if reaching for change, Bond entered the phonebox, opening the directory to the first page of 'X' then pantomiming the actions of paying and dialling a number. The receiver held to his ear, he looked through the glass, turning away from the couple as if seeking privacy – while smoothly placing an envelope onto the directory, closing it as he hung up. As 007 walked away briskly, the girl made her own call – a genuine one. She dialled a number in London and spoke a few, terse words into the receiver before collecting the report and hanging up.

It would take, Bond knew, a few hours for the report to be first decoded then evaluated. He decided to reconnoiter the area around West Hoe, more as a means of filling the empty day than in any real hope of a discovery. James Bond hated wasting time on a job, treating it as a valuable commodity, far better the thrill of the chase. Ignoring the pangs of hunger from his stomach, he kept at it, hour following hour, the history of the place making his task not entirely an unpleasant one. At length the path followed the contours of the man-made coast to lead him past the imposing Smeaton Tower and up to the foreboding walls of the Royal Citadel.

At the service gate, a Bedford 3-tonne lorry waited to be admitted, an Army vehicle in standard drab green. Bond slipped out of sight behind the lorry. The gates closed behind the '3-tonner' as it pulled up by a stores building, the driver jumping down from the cab and entering the office. Rolling smoothly from the canvas roof, Bond dropped cat-like to the ground. He quickly made his way to a nearby archway, stepping through into a dark passageway, the noise of his steps muffled by the thick soles of his sea-boots. After thirty feet or so, the passage angled abruptly to the right, Bond coming face to face with two massive guards, whose caps identified them as belonging to the Royal Military Police. One of them stared straight ahead while his companion spoke, voice clipped and precise. 'You are expected, Sir. One second, please.' The silent guard reached backwards with his knuckles, knocking twice. At once, a familiar voice bade Bond to enter.

The room was more of a vault, low-ceilinged and dark, racks of equipment to either side with a few sparse lights throwing the occupants into sharp relief. A thickly muscled man stood at ease, his eyes piercing Bond from a boxer's face. The rooms other inhabitant was, however, instantly recognisable. 'Taking the sea air, Q? - if I'd have known this was a works outing I'd have brought my bucket and spade.' Shooting Bond a look of exasperated disgust, Major Boothroyd shook his head ruefully. 'Really, 007, sometimes I wonder at the Selection Board, how someone with your asinine sense of humour ever managed to... oh, this is Sergeant Thewlett - he's from the Royal Marines. I read your report; thought you could use a refresher on the diving part of the job.' 'I'm qualified on mixed gas and oxygen, Q.' Looking at the expression on Boothroyd's face, Bond paused. 'Well, why not? - o.k. Sergeant, classroom time. I'm all yours.'

The amused expression on the Marine Sergeant's face told his charge that this would not be plain sailing. He held up a bulky contraption that was familiar to Bond as a rebreather. 'Now, as you may know this is a rebreather, latest kit, made by Drager in Germany. The principal feature of the rebreather is it allows the swimmer to operate underwater without any air bubbles to mark his position...'. Bond folded his arms, hoping this would be brief. It wasn't.

By four o'clock Bond's brain was reeling from the sheer amount of knowledge it had had to digest. Under Sergeant Thewlett's patient, methodical instruction, 007 was slowly brought up to date with the latest in diving equipment and safety practice. He was shown, then had to show the workings of the equipment and the safety procedures until his fingers were cramping from the work. Meanwhile, Q had busied himself with setting out an array of equipment on a long table before rigging a makeshift screen over one wall. When Sergeant Thewlett pronounced Bond 'qualified', the Major thanked him and, showing him to the door, bolted it firmly closed behind him. Q turned the lights off, which was followed by a startling clatter of metal as he fumbled his way towards the table. Without betraying his amusement, Bond reached across and flicked a switch, a slide projector throwing a stark square of light onto the screen. Brushing himself down, Q regained his composure and reached for a pointer and a remote-control button.

The first slide showed an Admiralty Chart covering the area of Plymouth harbour. 'Now pay attention; here is the area of Plymouth Sound; an exceptionally busy area for both military and civilian sea traffic. Here – Q tapped the screen with the pointer – here you see areas reserved for anchorage of deep and medium water vessels. Now...' A click of the button saw the chart replaced by a black and white aerial photograph, covering a similar area to the chart. This picture was evidently taken from extreme altitude judging by the sheer scale of the imagery. Bond let the implication of the thought sink in a moment.'The Americans?.' Nodding, Q continued. 'Precisely. Only the United States currently possesses the aircraft with suitable capabilities for this type of high-altitude reconnaissance and the ability to supply the developed image inside of such a tight time scale. However, the real focus of all this effort is this.' Another click. An enlargement of the previous shot now centred on a large private motor yacht – in size almost a small cruise liner. 'This is the Bayamo. Registered in Panama – the details are in the folder I shall give you after this briefing.' Bond's mind fixed on the one word; Bayamo.

Bond lit a cigarette, taking his time to study the details of the overhead view. 'Quite something – what is she, two hundred feet?.' 'Nearer to three hundred, with a beam measuring over thirty. Her draught; calculated to be ten feet.' 'But, that would make her the size of....' 'A frigate?, yes, that's what the boys at photo-interpretation thought. We still can't be certain about this, but discreet inquiries seem to indicate – well, we think those bank-notes came from her crew. This...' Q clicked once again 'This is the body of a male, age mid twenties. The local Police found him with a cut throat the day after the notes were tendered. He has been positively identified as tendering one of the forged notes by the manager of the Chandlers Yard.' Leaning closer, Bond saw the distorted, twisted features of a young Latin lying on a mortuary slab. Clearly, death had come as something of a blessing.' 'Tortured?' Q's head nodded grimly in response. 'Brutally... and by an expert. From the marks around the abdomen and neck areas the poor chap must have been kept alive for several hours. The Soviet desk say they haven't seen this sort of work since Beria's time. As luck has it, you found the crew of this yacht without our help. That could be useful – you are to go aboard as replacement for the murdered man.' Bond's face creased. 'Well, how am I to do that?.' 'Simple, Double-O Seven. You walk up the gangplank.' Setting the clicker down, Q wound up the briefing. 'Now, M has informed the Admiralty of our interest, but your presence here has remained a secret – even to the harbour patrols, against the wishes of the Navy. This operation is strictly covert, however there was one condition the Admiralty wouldn't budge on...'

CHAPTER 6

A SWIM BY MOONLIGHT

The Commer van pulled to a lurching halt, jolting the occupants in the back. Next to him, Bond sensed the bulky figure of Sergeant Thewlett opening the back doors, turning to take the first of the bags that contained their equipment. Grunting with the effort, Bond shouldered a bag before following the broad backed Thewlett along the pathway leading around the headland. Bond had to admit to himself, although he had protested it, the Admiralty edict that he could not work alone made sense. Even though his own role ended at the water's edge, the presence of the Marine – there, in his own words as 'A bit of insurance in case of difficulties' – was not unwelcome. Divers usually work in pairs, with good reason. The underwater environment that waited beneath the cool moonlight was coldy hostile. Stark against the sky, the headland of Dunstone Point stood as a silent warning to the unwary seeking to hide their presence; it was far too bright for Bond's liking. Cursing inwardly, he hefted his load down a little-used pathway winding and looping down to the shoreline, the sound of the surf gently breaking now distinct against the receding noises of the port.

Allowing himself a look out into the Sound, Bond was rewarded with his first sight of the target. Although showing only a handful of lights, the Bayamo was there, her sleek lines in clear contrast with the dark waters around her. Drake's Island was visible behind; the navigation light on the radio mast staring across the waters like some evil eye, glowing red with anger. As silently as was possible, the two men donned their gear, each man helping the other, tightening straps and making adjustments until each was satisfied. Thewlett clipped a compact reel to Bond's weight belt then a rubberised bag; the latter contained a new underwater camera system – adapted by Q-branch from a standard Nikon model. The reel was used as an aid to navigation in night diving; attached to a spike it paid out a thin cable behind the diver, ironically nick-named 'Minotaur'. Finally, it was time. With a nod to the Marine, Bond checked his dive watch and made entry, stepping out into the icy waters until they were level with his chest. Fixing his face-mask, Bond gave the thumbs up before leaning forward and going under. From his viewpoint kneeling on the shore, Sergeant Thewlett saw only a ripple, then nothing to indicate the strange young man from London had ever existed. With a grim resolution, the Sergeant stabbed the spike deep into the sand. Bond was alone.

The webbed feet that had hampered him on shore now proved their worth in the water, the fins propelling Bond through the water despite the weight of his equipment. Arms thrust forward, he kept one eye firmly on the compass board he held, the phosphorescence of the dial clear in the gloom. By keeping the needle North, he was able to stay on course, his direction dictated by an arrow, its radiance his guide. Depth too was vital, with Bond deciding on twenty-eight feet as a compromise between safety and the risk of detection. With some two hundred yards to the Bayamo he estimated it would take around four minutes before he made contact. The exertion was becoming a concern; his relative lack of conditioning for this work added to the strain on his nerves was combining to sap his resources. Even a Double-O is human, the nature of the job not always allowing time for physical training – at least, not to the standard of a professional frogman. Bond cursed himself for a fool for not taking benzedrine tablets on this mission. Instead, he steeled himself, forcing his breathing to match the demands of his screaming muscles, a check on his tank gauge confirming his consumption was draining his precious supply. It was then that he saw the other diver.

Bond hit the bottom in a spray of mud, quickly ditching the compass board and turning his face downwards, praying the flash of glass from his face-mask hadn't betrayed him to the torch beam probing the waters around him. How could they have known?...for a second Bond's thoughts flashed angrily to betrayal, but then he reprimanded himself for the unworthy notion. Drawing his diving knife, he waited, hardly risking a glance upwards. Suddenly, a hand wrenched his mask away, Bond reflexively rolling to one side as the other man grabbed at his air hose. Clenching his teeth to retain his mouthpiece, Bond nearly bit through the rubber, thrusting up with the knife. This was clearly no amateur, however – the other diver blocking the thrust, forcing 007's knife arm down onto his knee with sickening force. Bond knew he was dead if he didn't kill first, his mind desperately searching for a way to end this. As he saw his attacker's hand reach to his leg, he snatched up the compass board as a shield, bracing himself against the mud. It was no knife though; instead the ugly stub of what looked like a pistol of some kind was coming at him.

With a burst of released gases, something flashed through the water between them, slamming into the hard plastic of the board, the wicked barb of a dart bursting through to halt an inch from Bond's exposed chest. Without time to think, 007 launched himself forward, flipping the board around to smash it into the enemy diver's face-plate, the dart from his own gun shattering the toughened glass. With a hard left into the back of the board for measure, Bond kicked out with his fins to move past the other man, a tug at his waist a sudden reminder of the thin steel cable trailing behind him. Bond saw the strange gun being reloaded and with the desperation of the moment he looped the cable around the man's air tank, pulling down with all his strength to cut through the rubber hose, an explosion of bubbles erupting forth. The doomed man dropped his weapon, hands scrabbling for the hose in a futile attempt to save himself. As Bond watched his would-be killer's death agonies, he felt the weight of guilt replaced with a grim determination; he would see this through to the end. Spotting his discarded knife through the murk, he grabbed it, stabbing it hard into the bottom, wrapping the cable around the hilt to anchor the now lifeless evidence of his presence and retrieving his mask from the mud where it lay.

CHAPTER 7

TIME AND TIDE...

This time the report could wait. An open bottle of whisky and a chipped mug on the table were the focus of Bond's activity as he unwound from the drama of the night. Sending a plume of smoke up to join the haze of the last half-hour, he reached for the mug, instead grasping the bottle and inspecting the label. A misty-eyed rendition of a highland scene and a contrived motto betrayed the contents, no more than a carelessly blended mess of third-rate malts. Bond found the contents palatable when thrown straight down, which suited him fine.

The hot flush of the spirit did nothing to improve his surroundings, but at least he had the room to himself. He soon returned to the eventful dive; the diver was not a sportsman, rather a guard assigned to patrol the waters around and beneath the yacht – more in keeping with a warship than the routine of a pleasure craft. The only other thing of note was at the end, both of the boat and the dive. Tasked with inspecting the yacht, 007 had followed in the footsteps – so to speak – of such Naval divers as 'Buster' Crabb, who had died while on a Service job to inspect the hull of a Soviet warship.

There had been disappointingly little of interest about the Bayamo beneath the waterline – apart from her propellers; twin high-speed screws of a metal and design unfamiliar to Bond. An odd sheen and an unnatural smoothness hinted at the exotic, as did the angle of the blades, which were hinged at the base and appeared jointed a third and two-thirds of the way down the vanes. Bond had extracted a tool-roll, selecting a tungsten-tipped scraper and a sample tube. To his bafflement, the probe had failed to make a scratch; a second attempt with a diamond-tipped tool yielding a tiny curl of dull golden metal. Risking a photograph, he had first surfaced to listen for any activity before taking the shots; two, one from astern and one from the side. There were only a few questions left begging to be answered; who owned the Bayamo? - and what was her true purpose?. Both were questions Bond knew could only be answered by going further. Once again, Commander James Bond was going to sea.

This time 007's report had really stirred the place up, Moneypenny hadn't been this busy in months; first the dispatch rider had delivered the coded report, flown up from Plymouth in a Hawker Hunter from the Fleet Air Arm. Dropped by the pilot 'the old-fashioned way' over Northolt in – of all things – a tobacco tin, the report, with the precious propeller sample was rushed into London with a Police escort. On receipt of the precious tin, its contents were divided; the report hurried up to Cryptography to be decoded and transcribed while the sample and negatives went for analysis by the boffins in Operational Research Department M/1 (Materials). Hardly a minute after M had read the plain-text of Bond's report and the buzzer had gone. As the first of the early-morning visitors started arriving, Moneypenny knew that whatever James Bond had uncovered was something big. Sighing to herself, she forced a genuine warmth into the smile she reserved for such days. She could only pray that whatever 007 was getting into wouldn't kill him.

If the eyes truly are the windows to a man's soul, then this man had lost his some years back. The surly face that inspected the newcomer's cards at the quayside was suspicious, seemingly taking an age in the process. Beside him, the familiar face of Vicente leaned in and whispered something to the man. Silently, Bond offered a prayer to whatever gods looked over forgers that Billy Cohen hadn't slipped up. Apparently not, as he was waved unceremoniously aboard the gangplank to the Bayamo. Hefting his kitbag, 'James Taylor' followed a sailor across the after-deck and through a hatchway. The crew quarters were down a ladder and up a narrow gangway, a group of bunk-rooms leading off from either side. At the end of the gangway a ladder led down to, Bond presumed, an engineering deck. There was no time for sight-seeing, though; the double blast of the yacht's klaxon signaling her preparations were complete and departure imminent. Finding an empty bunk, Bond stowed his gear and went back on deck for a cigarette. A gentle shudder of engines starting, no more than the merest vibration through the deckplates told Bond they were about to weigh anchor, but a slap on the back shook him from his reverie. It was Pepe, the Spaniard refusing a smoke with a smile and shake of the head.

'We go to Sao Miguel – the Azores, yes?.' 'Oh, whats in the Azores?.' The smile flashed wider. 'Women, James – many pretty girls. Look though, here is Chago. A bad man if he no like – they say he kill many enemy during La Guerra civilista... but then say he also kill friend. You are careful with him I think.' Bond made the glance a casual one; the figure coming their way instantly familiar as the lone drinker from the Eight Bells. The glance told him all he needed to know; the man was indeed a killer. Bearded and swarthy, the arrogance and swagger of the man might have invited trouble, but that, Bond sensed, would be later.

'My name is Chago. I tell you two things; you work and maybe we are o.k. Also, I tell you this second thing. I only ever trust one man; and he is me. I don' know you, Mister Taylor, but I know you type and I have trouble. We need a hand, so you work now, thank the soft heart of Vicente for this and do work when it is given to you.' Bond was about to say something, but was aware of another man who had joined them. Here is Fredi, he is to tell you your work.'. Biting down his natural defiance, Bond forced himself into an attitude of subservience, waving a finger in mock salute as the crewman beckoned him with a wave.

Fredi – Alfredo was Bond's guess – was an older man, likable in a rough way with poor English and little patience. Under his scrutiny, Bond/Taylor was put to work, his taskmaster pitching in to do his share with the new man. As the Bayamo eased into the channel, the pile of crates on deck started to diminish, a loading hatch and lift easing the work somewhat. The yacht certainly moved, fairly clipping down the coast at a high rate of knots. Bond tried to guess her speed, but observation proved impossible, the lack of visible landmarks hampering his attempts as the unseen engines powered the craft into deeper waters.

It was past six when a halt was called for dinner, a choice between paella or a meat broth. Choosing the latter, Bond was surprised to find it edible, if a touch over-seasoned. The chatter around the food was lively enough, lifted by the rough camaraderie and an eye-watering rioja, but Bond found himself largely ignored – one exception being Fredi, who took the time to tell the newcomer something of the routine aboard ship, as it were. As he was due to take over watch duties in the early hours, 'Taylor' thanked his friend and headed on deck for a Capstan – not for the first time regretting the growing distance from his beloved Morlands. Bond was on routine deck duties, but any hopes of a better look around the yacht were doomed by the constant presence of one or more of the crew. Fortunately, the odious presence of Chago was absent, which at least allowed Bond the luxury of confirmation.

The washroom was empty, Bond ducking into the nearest head. Quickly, he extracted the Gillette, unscrewing the handle with a clockwise action – the French thread concealing the presence of an old trick from the War – a tiny compass. Mentally adding the direction of travel and time to his list he flushed and made for the galley. There was a hotplate of tepid coffee, which Bond gratefully swigged, repeating the figures in his head. Estimating their speed was impossible, but it had to be more than nought and under thirty knots. Hardly the usual precision associated with the Admiralty, little better than a series of guesses all dependent on the precedent, but without access for'ard it would suffice. The Azores it was.

CHAPTER 8

MAN OVERBOARD

As the Bayamo's jolly-boat cast away with the last shore party, Bond hoped his smile looked rueful enough, waving them off before throwing his cigarette butt over the side. The light was fading quickly, as it did this close to the Equator. Before him was spread a sparkling tableau; the island was perhaps no more than a few miles in length, dominated by the volcano that had given birth to it. The bay at the southern tip was a natural harbour, with a scattering of buildings and the occasional glare of headlights from the road that wound into the town and around the coast. As the new man, 'Taylor' would naturally be last on the list for shore leave - time he would make good use of.

The yacht's engine room was always sealed off, but he had seen enough to convince him he had to get in there – namely the Russians. It was more by chance than design; the galley had been cooking Borscht, which definitely wasn't on the menu in his mess. Sure enough, he saw the man who collected it; a white European with the troglodytic pallor of an engine room mate. Then there was the question of who owned all this; getting 'above decks' would take time. The yacht's master clearly valued his privacy; of Bond's crew-mates only the stewards and, of course Chago ever seemed to go up to the private decks. It was a risk, but he was getting nowhere fast; time to chance his luck.

Luckily, the cook and his assistant were busy, allowing Bond to snatch up a dixie of the bitter coffee that seemed to be the crew's drink of choice. Turning into the gangway he was halfway down the ladder when the hatchway ahead was flung open by a thin man with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips. 'Chto eto?' Smiling apologetically, Bond held up the dixie. 'The cook sent me. For you.' 'My poluchaem nash sobstvennyĭ-Vg skazali!'. Feigning ignorance, Bond tapped the dixie, the inane grin fixed at the Russian, who leaned backwards into the hatch to shut it, twisting then lighting his machorka with narrowed eyes that searched Bond's face suspiciously. With a cheerful wave and a shrug of his shoulders, Bond took his dixie and turned to the ladder. He had seen enough; aside from the man's overalls, which were spotless, the room itself was no ordinary engine room. Where there should have been a massive diesel there was a long angular box-like affair, about the same size but obviously electrical in nature. From that momentary glimpse, Bond knew he was, literally in deep waters; it looked for all the World as if the Bayamo's power plant was atomic.
 

Smoothly setting the coffee back Bond was startled by the sudden, shrill tones of a klaxon that ripped apart the silence. Out on deck, he tensed at the scene he had stepped into. A small group of armed crewmen stood round something on the wooden decking, something dark and glistening wet. There, obviously enjoying himself enormously was the hated figure of Chago, busy lighting an obscenity of a cigar. 'Hey, British-come here.' With a wave Chago beckoned Bond over, but as he approached, the Agent's heart sank; there on the planks was the slumped figure of Thewlett!. Two of the crew were hauling something over the rail, a familiar bulky rubber bag that both were struggling to shift. 'What's with all the guns?, why the frogman? - well, Chago?'. The laughter that came in reply carried little humour. 'This man is a frog, yes?. Oh, no... I think maybe I catch a frog instead of the man...' The smoke in Bond's face was propelled by venom, the cold eyes dull in their contempt. Bond's mind was racing, even as he fought down the rising urge to vomit. Why?, why had the mandarins at Whitehall insisted on sending the diver?. Those bloody fools!.

Bond's mind was dragged back to the immediate as Chago pulled an automatic from his belt, cocked it and aimed it at the still prone Thewlett. 'Now Mister Frog. I think this. We had a little frog too, but he don' come back from the water-now we have YOU, so...maybe we shoot you and jus' maybe we don'. Maybe you wan' tell how you here.' With a fixed grin, Thewlett got himself upright, clearly suffering the effects of a beating. 'Well, Pancho – you think a lot. Tell you what I think, shall I? I think you can go and get f-' The explosion was deafening, even on the open deck. His left kneecap destroyed, Thewlett fell hard against the rail, teeth bared in feral agony. Defiance blazing through him, the Marine Sergeant could only grip the metalwork for support. Casting his eyes around for inspiration, Bond saw none; but he saw something that gave him an idea; another diver in the water!. Obviously Thewlett was following standard procedure and had a dive partner; all Bond had seen was the top of the man's faceplate as he had come up to observe – none of the crew seemed to have seen him.

With slow, cruel deliberation, Chago raised the barrel again, this time the ugly mouth gaping at the Englishman's heaving chest. Like a knife, the edge of Bond's hand slashed downwards into the wrist as he fired, the shot blasting into the woodwork, 007 following up with an elbow to the stomach that would have winded a lesser man. Instead, the enraged Hispanic smashed the gun down hard onto Bond's skull, sending him sprawling across the feet of the helpless Thewlett. Using all his strength, Bond moved fast, throwing his arm around the injured man's ankles as he thrust himself upwards. Unbalanced, Thewlett could only flail at thin air as his own weight and gravity conspired to topple him over the rail into the sea. Throwing his hands upwards, Bond stepped forwards, to save the Sergeant from Chago's vengeance. It would be over quickly, at least, reasoned Bond, as the hatred flashed through the air between them... but the shot never came.

'Chago!, dejo caer.' The voice was calm, yet commanding instant obedience. It was the voice of a general. Somehow Bond knew he would find answers, but from the smile on Chago's face, it looked like he had little cause for congratulation. By the time he saw it, it was too late – the butt of the crewman's rifle smashed brutally into the back of Bond's head. The deck dissolved into hazy darkness.

CHAPTER 9

THE GRANDEE OF FLORIDA

Modestly sized, the reception hall was a curious mixture of rococo and baroque styles from across the Globe; the floor Italian marble, doubtless from the quarries at Pietrasanta, but the paired chandelier were of Austrian crystal, hanging as they did above walls hung with ornately gilded Louis Quatorze mirrors that made the space seem vast. At intervals, recesses housed busts of ancient Spanish nobles interspersed with sets of lavishly engraved Conquistador armour. Carven Chinese lions either side of a set of double doors set the seal on the absurdity. As Bond rose – he

had found himself on a sumptuous divan - he rubbed his head ruefully, taking in the curious scene. Dimly he realized the Timex was missing - a quick search revealed he had also lost his lighter and cigarettes. Looking around he couldn't help but stare; emblazoned across the join of the doors was a cipher, in the form of a stylized 'M'.

The irony was not lost on Bond, even as the doors swung silently open to admit an extraordinary figure. The man was, in himself ordinary enough – perhaps late thirties, medium build and no more than five-feet eight inches. Nor was the mane of silver hair, which flowed past the shoulders the exceptional; it was the clothes. Clad in a plumed morion helmet, cuirass and sash with pantaloons and knee-length leather boots and a sword at his waist. Bond couldn't have been more confused.

'I was aboard a yacht...' 'Yes. As you are now. You are in my quarters aboard the Bayamo.'

Bond cast an eye around; the windows to either side were clever shams; at first glance picture windows, the 'views' from them were merely illuminated paintings of sky and cloud. The movie-studio trickery was underlined by the feeling of motion underfoot; they were indeed, still aboard the yacht. Striding across to the furthest side of the room the bizarre figure set his helmet and sword down on a divan before waving his hand across one of the mirrors. Instantly, some hidden mechanism propelling it, the glass slid across to reveal a drinks cabinet. Bond had to admit, this was impressive, but he needed to regain some of the initiative, to get to the purpose behind all this madness.

'Well, if you're offering – mines a dry martini, with two fingers of vodka, if you have any thing worthy of the name in that mirror of yours.' If the intent was to rile, it failed. After the merest of pauses, the man made the drinks, pouring himself a dark rum over ice. Bond took his and memorized the face. A thin scar ran along a finely-boned jaw, fiercely blue eyes set in rather high sockets with an aquiline nose that failed to flatter. Taken altogether with the remarkable hair this was not a face to be forgotten. Setting himself down on the divan across from his bemused guest, the man finally spoke, his accent Latino in origin, perhaps with a touch of creole or seminole.

'My name is Maximilian. To be more exact, more formal I am His Excellency Maximilian, by the Grace of God Marques de Bayamo and Grandee of Florida.'

Bond's glass was frozen half-way. 'You aren't serious?.'

'My friend, I am always serious; but I remain at a disadvantage. Who, exactly are you?.' In the mirror, Bond was suddenly aware of the presence of an eavesdropper, no more than the slightest movement of the double doors. It was enough.

'Well, the name's Taylor. I would bow, by the way, but I don't go a whole lot on that sort of thing... your excellency.' The vodka was no Wolfschmidt, but passable. Bond took a good measure. 'Now that we have broken the ice, perhaps you would share the joke?... I mean if there's going to be a party I wish I'd brought something along. Who knows, perhaps you have a Napoleon outfit too-behind one of these mirrors, perhaps?.'

Maximilian chuckled heartily at the dig. Divested now of armour, the man still dominated the room. This was clearly a charismatic character, but fragmented, as he now showed. Spinning to face Bond his voice became a snarl. 'You laugh at me?, ME!. You British!, still clever and the World is dumb, always the Master, holding the leash – well look again, who exactly is on the end of the leash?, your friend America? Ha!.'

'Levar en el bolso!' At the command, Chago appeared, hauling in Thewlett's dry bag. Bond could guess at the contents; they would either be some mission-specific kit intended for himself, or limpet mines – the latter indicating a worrying lack of confidence in his abilities. In that, at least his fears were unfounded; the opened bag that the brutish henchman set down contained an incriminating collection. A silenced pistol, one of the new Armalite AR-7 component rifles lay next to photographic equipment, a long-range agent communication set, plastic explosive and various detonators - time pencils and electrical - as well as the usual lock-picking set, survival gear and rations. Topping the lot was a linen roll which Bond knew contained silk escape maps wrapped around gold sovereigns – intended to aid an agent's escape with the gold as barter material.

'So Mr.Taylor, let me be your Sherlock Holmes. I don't know who you are; but...' At a snap of his fingers, Chago grabbed Bond, wresting him into a stifling headlock, cord-like arms around his neck and shoulders. '...This much is apparent to me; My diver goes missing in British water; I think he was careless. Mr.British Taylor appears from nothing and thinks we are careless. Now I have a British diver who is definitely not in your British water and what does he leave behind?.' Maximilian walked around the mutely struggling pair, stooping to pick up the roll of sovereigns. As the odd figure studied the coins a change seemed to come across him. 'Careless, careless, careless, and also...ONE-TWO-THREE-' The blows across Bond's face were stunning, the heavy gold threatening to knock the senses from him.'-Three British too many for me my friend...'. Bond sagged, would have fallen had it not been for the vice-like grip. To his eyes the Latino had become suddenly hideous with the shining pointed eyes and twisted lip of the madman.

'Chago, encerrarlo, mantenga una guardia en el' The voice fell as quickly as it had risen, the mask of sanity back in place. Released from that awful hold, an unsteady Bond turned his body, but any thoughts of escape were dashed by the presence of two armed crewmen who stood impassively, Chinese sub-machine guns at the ready. This was turning into some pleasure cruise. Holding his hand to his face, Bond had no choice but to take it. As he was led from the room, he risked another beating by 'falling' heavily against the panel-work by the double doors – which is when he saw her. The urgent motion of a gun barrel brought his attention back sharply. 'Aqui hombre!.' Bond smiled in apology, moving on, smiling to himself. There had been no mistaking that red hair.

Bond found himself shoved rudely into what obviously passed as the ship's brig; a cramped storeroom that had been emptied of everything save a mattress and two buckets, one filled with water. Upturning one, Bond utilized it as a makeshift stool, preferring not to think too closely about the use to which the other might be put. Looking around gave little hope for the spirit; there was a small porthole and a bulkhead lamp. After what seemed an age, the watertight door was opened and a bowl of dubious content thrust at him. Obviously, they were professionals, judging by the way he was being covered from the end of the gangway.

He was given five minutes to eat – it was some kind of fish with onion sauce – after which he was relieved of bowl and spoon. Perhaps out of sympathy for a fellow addict, the guard lit a cigarette, which he tossed on the floor next to the captive Bond. Nodding his thanks, Bond took a drag – fighting the urge to choke on the foul-smelling tobacco. Try as he might, he couldn't put it all together. Some of it was clear enough; but where did the Russians fit in?, then there was the Bayamo herself; this was no yacht. Despite all the fancy trimmings, all that marble she was clearly a converted frigate, perhaps even one of the feared Soviet Riga class. If so, where were the weapons systems?. Curiouser still even was the nature of her power plant; the Rigas were steam turbine-driven, with boilers... not an Atomic reactor!.

One question was resolved; the 'yacht's' owner – a lunatic of some kind, who fancied himself as some sort of latter-day Conquistador. Bond could only hope Thewlett and his dive partner had followed standard operational procedure and called off any more stupidity. He was confident of one thing; somewhere at the back of all this were the Russians and Redland never played to lose. It looked bad enough. Without any line of communication, no agent - not even a Double-O can be truly effective. Sometimes, though fate can take a hand in the affairs of men - and half of everything, so they say is luck...

BAYAMO

CHAPTER 10

BLOOD AND GOLD

It was well after dark. Finally sleep had claimed James Bond for a few hours, but it was not a comfortable one. The guards had left him to his own devices, but sometimes he could still hear them through the thin steel of the bulkhead. Outside, the clouds scudded by as the moon sank to the western horizon, chased by the racing yacht. The smooth effortless power of the Bayamo seemed to settle any doubt about her power source. Being this close to an atomic reactor was an experience Bond endured without relish.

The clank and scrape of the door interrupted his attempts at sleep. At once, Bond sat up, smoothing back his hair in a hopeless attempt at grooming. The girl shooed the guard away, pulling the heavy steel door shut behind her. For a moment, Bond sized her up in the moonlight streaming through the porthole. She was taller than he expected, just the right side of skinny with a pleasing array of curves. Even in this half light he could see she was stunning, her hair somewhere between rust and carmine with the most engaging green eyes Bond had ever seen. It was like a dream and it made his head spin. The shimmer of silk at her shoulders with that recklessness of hair made her seem like some exotic dragonfly. She held his gaze with hers for what seemed an indecently long half minute.

Finally, he shook himself free. 'Well, this must be fate. Funny, I didn't see you in my horoscope.' She offered him a cigarette from a packet of Dunhill, taking one for herself. 'Thank You.' Lighting both with a gold Ronson she leaned back against the bulkhead. Both smoked without speaking, each seeming unsure at finding themselves in such an odd situation. 'That's a man's lighter. Your father's perhaps?.' 'You must be a spy – who else would notice such a thing?. Yes. My father's.' She smiled, a sad little smile and Bond felt that there was more hidden than revealed by it. 'Yes, I do notice things – it's a habit of mine, like your perfume, Arpege; you wore it the other night in the alleyway. Unmistakable.' She seemed amused at having been recognised as Bond's saviour, wagging a finger in mock admonishment.

'You are a spy. A spy who's following me. I should be flattered, most men wouldn't follow a girl halfway across an ocean.' 'Well - if I'm a spy, what are you?. Why all this? - I know a girl needs to make a living, but...' He waved vaguely, letting the question hang. 'Oh, Max – he's not so bad, he really isn't, but he – takes care of me.' Bond was standing. 'Yes I'm sure he's the life of the party – who locks passing folks up, surrounds himself with nasty men with guns and likes to relax by wearing armour.' Her laugh lacked humour. 'Normally he wears a uniform, that or a business suit. Sometimes he dresses like a peasant. He does many unusual things, but that's just Max. He's posing for a portrait – him as a Conquistador, or some such nonsense - he wanted something to help him look the part.'

Exhaling softly, she turned to look Bond directly in the eye. 'If I tell you any more you must understand; sometimes we get swept along by things, things we can't control. You must know that if I had realized what was happening before I was in too far... well, I am, too far now.' She smiled, bravely. Taking her by the arms he turned her to him. 'You really don't belong here – oh don't bother, I've heard them all by the way; the other men were all so boring, you were running from someone. Whatever it is brought you into this doesn't really matter. I can help you, no really I can. The girl seemed to want to believe him even as she shook her head. 'The diver today – you heard?. (She nodded) Well, he was a friend of mine. A man called Chago tried to kill him, with a gun and men who like to play with guns can be very bad company for a girl. You were telling me about the portrait...'.

Over the next half hour, the girl talked and James Bond listened. He learnt that the girl was from a good family, with all the usual advantages right down to the obligatory Swiss finishing school – where she had ran away over the obligatory boy. Bond learnt that the mother had died in the Blitz, but of her father there was no mention, save that he had been 'in the war'. In disgrace after Switzerland, she had finally burned the family bridge with a job working for one of those Paris fashion houses – the sort frequented by neurotic bankers wives. These women hoped their ten thousand francs would excite husbands whose attentions were increasingly on the hungry models at the salon. She had met Maximilian at some Consulate 'do' – there was something about a fling with an under-secretary and talk of scandal – and there he was, a mystery on the circuit in the most absurd sparkle of an outfit – he was certainly too garish to miss. In his short velvet chaquetilla and cummerbund he might have passed for a matador.

The girl was intrigued, then charmed. The strange Hispanic – he was from Cuba – was certainly enigmatic. Maximilian told her tales of a life of simple peasantry, born a farmer's son on a lonely hillside he had grown up knowing only the hard, spare life of his ilk. An only child, his parents had christened him Felipe. Every day before dawn his father was gone to his few goats and the meagre crops that were all the thin soil allowed. His mother supplemented their income by taking in washing from the few professionals in the village, some three miles away. The affairs of the World were nothing to him, until the day the Government men came. He had heard of the revolution of '33, but the men who hid in the hills were only ghosts and whispers; village talk.

The girl recalled how her benefactor's voice became monotone as he continued the reminiscence, his eyes sad, distant even. Returning from the village school, he had found his mother holding the body of his father. Driven from her senses, she never spoke again and was taken to live in a home run by the Sisters of Charity. It was the village Doctor, a kindly old man who took the boy in, who ensured he attended school – and from whose books the young Felipe learned more of the world beyond the horizon. Doctor Juarez was relatively wealthy, keeping a modest though well-stocked library, with subjects ranging from ancient history to the sciences. One book in particular stirred the avid student, an old volume on Cortez and the New World. Heavy, yellowed and blemished with age the book might have almost been written by the great explorer himself. From its pages flowed exploits and deeds long since passed into legend, tales of gold and savage rituals, of human sacrifice and ruthless conquest.

Blood and Gold. For the first time the farmers son felt a sense of destiny, of purpose to the patent fleetness that is life. Each day he would return from school – increasingly impatient – to rush through his chores and then pore over the books, avaricious in his consumption of knowledge. Eventually, at the age of fourteen he had turned every page in the room. It was time to move on. One night it was raining incessantly, the sort of weather suitable to his plans. Waiting until the old Doctor was asleep, Felipe filled his school-bag with a few things and half a loaf with some cheese that he had saved. Following his idol Cortez, he had planned carefully and provisioned himself. He regretted nothing now, though it saddened him to think of the old man alone. In the lull between rain showers he was gone, his tracks dissolving into the mud.

Bond was interested, but getting lost fast. 'Very touching – but he told you all this over cocktails?'

'Just what I've told you really, I think it was a long time since he'd spoken to anyone – anyone who could offer him what I could.' 'And what could you offer?. To dear old Max, I mean?'

'Not that, if thats the way you think. I think it was because I'm a good listener really. Anyway, the rest is part what he told me and part sailor's gossip, I'm sure the truth is in between there somewhere...' Lighting her cigarette, Bond smiled disarmingly. 'Well, lets see if we can't get to it between ourselves – the truth that is.' Her eyes narrowed, but he could see he was getting to this girl. Bond could only hope he reached her before she was missed. She continued with Maximilian's tale.

The Cuba that flourished after the war years was increasingly both a haven and a magnet for organized crime. The girl recounted the story of how mobsters from the USA flooded to the island, no mere bandits these, but hard-nosed men from Chicago's Lower East side, New York State or Miami beach. Such men thought nothing of mixing business with murder, extortion and the numbers rackets that sprang up to replace the old speakeasy joints. After Batista seized power things got worse, and a new breed of men started to appear. Named after the Escopeteros of old, the rebel bands in the Mountain ranges of the Sierra Maestra and Escambray claimed allegiance to a number of causes. Acting as forward scouts for larger groups, the fame of these brigands spread across the whole region.

One band, the 'Midnight Men' of the Sierra Maestra became especially feared. Named for their method of raiding pro-Batista villages during the dead of night, Los Hombres de Medianoche favoured the machete over the gun, carving for themselves a brutal reputation for indiscriminate killing and bloody reprisal. Then, nothing. As quickly as they had sprung up they were gone. It was only gradually that they were found; a farmer would find a body, gruesome with mutilation, lashed to a fence-post, sometimes just a severed head in a jug, a morbid warning against betrayal with echoes of the evil days before modern America had been formed. One by one the Midnight Men had met the end they themselves had brought to so many. It was said – in whispers, that they had been killed by one of their own, a man consumed with hate and revenge, so fearful of betrayal that all he could do was betray.

Castro!, the very name evocative of the new Cuba, to some a progressive liberator of the people, to others, chief among them the United States he was viewed with increasing alarm. Ironic, then that the USA had encouraged Batista to stand down, offering recognition to the fledgling government of the iconic figure. Originally from a wealthy family, the young lawyer's conversion to communism was well-documented. Fleeing to the Sierra Maestra after his failed coup of 1953 he formed the 26th of July Movement, uniting the newly formed pro-communist Escopeteros bands – one of which was making more waves than most. Known as La Venganza de Cortes, (The spelling of Cortes with an 's' is from the Castillean tradition) they numbered no more than twenty at any one time. Strange rumours began to circulate – that each of the twenty had sworn a blood oath, that they had taken Conquistadore names, that they lived in the old mines that Cortes himself had once owned. Strangest of all was their leader – a young man now known only as Maximilian, of whom little was known – save that he had an odd obsession with history, and was said to carry a sword.

It is a truth that most men are born without apparent purpose; happy accident or unwanted burden, the whim of the fates and human desire – but a few, a tiny percentage seem to be born to fulfill a specific ambition, as if working to some hidden design. These singular characters are invariably individualists, often compulsive in nature with a drive that exceeds that of the normal. As the girl paused to light another cigarette, Bond considered the nature of his strange captor. It was obvious the murder of his father had triggered more than the simple need for revenge, that this boy become man was on a journey approaching that of a spiritual quest. Destiny was pulling both men together, but to what end?.

'So, thats about all I know – the next thing I knew I received an invitation to take a holiday aboard Max's yacht. We spent a couple of weeks in the Mediterranean, the Greek islands, Sicily then Majorca – all at Max's expense. He insisted on paying for everything – including Alfie.'

'Alfie?. A poodle?.' 'A car. My Alfa – I call him Alfie.' 'Him?, I thought cars were female.'

'This one is all man. He's Italian, temperamental, and likes to shout.' Bond smiled, whistful. 'Oh, well mines British, also temperamental and he does his fair share of whining and roaring – I hope I shall get to drive him again.' He finished his cigarette and ran his hands through his hair, smoothing it back, the unruly comma refusing to stay in its place as ever. The girl picked up his mood and stood, as if worried the guard would return. Bond stood close to her. 'I feel I should make a slight confession.' Her brow raised coolly, quizzically and Bond fought to keep composure.

'Well, its just that I'm falling madly in love with you and simply must have you – but I don't even know your name.' 'Well, my Dad certainly had a sense of humour. His name was Peter Turner, by the way. He named me Paige.' 'Paige...Turner. Well, I'll bet your school days were never dull. Anyway, we're wasting time – by the way, what time is it exactly?.' Her watch showed a quarter to two, which gave Bond no more than four hours until daybreak.

'Well, Miss Turner. There's a few things I need you to do for me before I can help you, it might be a little risky so if you say no I'll understand.' Her answer was in the look she gave him, her arms folded defiantly. 'Good girl. Now, tomorrow I'll need to get hold of a few things and a diversion might be required. Which just leaves this.' He kissed her, a fierce, hungry kiss born of need and lust. Her response came with breathless passion, the arms unfolding to embrace him, nails as claws holding, hurting him. His tongue sought hers, his eyes remaining open to see hers staring back into his. He felt himself hardening.

An over-noisy clattering from the gangway outside separated the pair, the girl quickly smoothing herself down before nodding conspiratorially. There was just a brief glimpse of an exchange of notes with the guard before the door was locked shut once more. At least the arrival of the guard had saved Bond from himself. Normally there was no possible circumstance in which he might have made love to a girl in such squalid surroundings. With Paige Turner, he was no longer sure of any such thing. Angrily, he lay down to rest, sleep being a virtual impossibility.

CHAPTER 11

ATLANTIC RENDEZVOUS

There is an old, trusted and well-proven axiom in the British Military; No plan survives first contact with the Enemy. A sleepy James Bond was reminded of this when, in the crepuscular light of the false dawn the Bayamo shuddered then coasted to a halt. As the yacht rolled lazily in the gentle swell, Bond quickly splashed some water into his face and, fully awake he went over to the porthole to be rewarded with the most unexpected sight. There, lying in the water not forty feet away was a Soviet Submarine!. The sub was massive, much larger than the usual diesel-electric Atlantic patrol jobs – with an array of pipework that was being extended to mate with the Bayamo, much like the old German 'Milk-Cows' of the War that the Kriegsmarine had used to refuel U-Boats at sea.

One thing had become clear to 007; whatever the Bayamo's power plant was, it wasn't atomic – those pipes were conveying liquid fuel of some kind. But why all this?, why not simply re-fuel at the Azores? - the answer had to lie in the sub's tanks. Bond needed to get out of the cell – and there wasn't time to wait for the girl. He started work straight away, working on the bolts holding the bulkhead light cover on with an improvised tool he had made from the handles of the buckets, winding them together to make a sprung clamp that, once over the bolt-heads provided the leverage to turn them. His hands were on fire with the effort required and the tool slipped as much as it worked. Unscrewing the bulb a quick inspection of the light fitting revealed the wiring, which went to the light-switch in a panel by the door as well as to the yacht's auxiliary lighting circuits.

So far so good, thought Bond, using the blade terminals of the bulb itself to remove the screws holding the panel to the bulkhead. Next, he pulled the switch wiring through the light fitting and yanked it free from the junction box behind. Then it was simple; plugging one end of the wires into the light fitting, he wound each of the other ends around the two bucket handles, one which he had carefully wedged under the coaming beneath the watertight door - the other now back in place on the water bucket, which was resting innocently on the edge of the mattress.

Picking the empty bucket up, he started up a racket, banging and smashing it against the bulkhead and shouting 'Hey! estúpido! despertar idiota!'. After a few seconds, he heard the angry protest of the guard, the door starting to open. Timing his move to the second, Bond waited for the guard's foot to touch the metal floor before kicking the water bucket over, rolling back onto the mattress, careful to avoid touching the walls or floor. There was a flash of electricity and the unfortunate man went down, falling onto the wet floor heavily, his body convulsing spasmodically. Bond yanked the wire free from the light socket, grabbing the man's sub-machine gun and whipping it around to face the guard's partner, who had appeared in the doorway. Raising his hands, the man knew Bond had him cold. 'Allí, rápidamente!' Eyes wide, the second guard stepped over his colleague, standing awkwardly in the corner of the room. Bond relieved the man of his pistol, tucking it into a pocket. Smiling, he flipped a jaunty salute with the fingers of his left hand before swinging the door shut, dogging the latches at top and bottom to lock it.

Cautiously, he made his way aft, reaching the bottom-most of three ladders that led up to the promenade deck. Moving silently, he went up, leaning into the rail, letting his sleeve guide him, anxious not to make any noise. Banging the metalwork with the gun wouldn't help his cause. The next deck was apparently abandoned, but the noise from above had increased sharply. He decided to move to a better position, reasoning a few well-aimed bursts at the pipework might cause a big enough bang for London to investigate. He was halfway up the third ladder when the tannoy blared out. 'Mr.Taylor, would you join me in my State-room please?'. Bond thought the unprintable word, closing his eyes in disgust. 'Mr.Taylor – I know you can hear this. There is no-where to go to my friend – I think we can talk, a man in your position can only benefit from such an offer. It is best you know I am aware you are no sailor, but a spy, a British spy. I am waiting.'

As he stepped into the corridor leading to the reception hall, James Bond knew he had been beaten. Even if he had opened fire on the Soviet Sub, he knew he wouldn't have achieved much. Indeed, apart from risking triggering World War Three, he would have failed in his objective. 'Find the source of these forgeries, investigate and report...' M's words came back to him. All he could do was hand over the sub-machine gun, pursing his lips as the grinning Chago frisked him, finding the pistol, which he waved admonishingly at Bond.

The 'Grandee of Florida' received his guest in a cordial fashion, this time in the State-room beyond the reception hall. This room was part-office, part lounge, with comfortable leather settees and coffee tables at one end. Again, the floor was marble – this time black with flecks of gold. The lounge area featured a large circular rug with the regal 'M' woven in golden thread. Maximilian stepped out from behind his desk, waving at an open globe containing drinks. 'Please – we have much to discuss, thirsty work as you Englishmen say. First, I apologise for striking you.' 'Well, it only hurts when I'm awake.' Bond poured himself two fingers of scotch, watching as Maximilian took a cigar from a humidor that was apparently built into his desk. Using a cutter, he snipped the end off and lit it from a match, waiting until the wood was burning before doing so. He held the cigar up, inclining his head to indicate the offer. 'I'd prefer a cigarette, if that's alright – not that I make a habit of turning down a vintage Bolívar.' Smiling at Bond's knowledge, Maximilian took a pack of cigarettes from a draw, leaving them on the desk and stepping back.

Curious, Bond walked over, reaching for the pack – at which point his host slapped down a large bundle of US Dollars. They were Hundred-Dollar Bills, freshly printed by the look of them. Bond lit a cigarette, noting the brand; Monterrey Superfinos Negros, made in Havana. 'So, let me guess – you like to smoke Cuban tobacco and burn Russian fuel - by the way - I should warn you Hydrogen Peroxide is exceptionally volatile, it wouldn't do to go anyway near it with one of those cigars...' The smile on his host's face told him his guess was correct, the look was expectant, directed at the bundle of banknotes. Bond set down his glass. 'So, I'm guessing that money is undetectable. It is, isn't it – fake I mean?.' Maximilian clapped his hands together. 'I see I am right. You know, Chago – he wanted to kill you, but then he is always killing people. He killed my crewman, the one that betrayed my trust with his stupidity. Spending money before everything was in place; he deserved his death, every hour of it.'

Bond's mind was racing. How best to continue?. A shudder told him the Bayamo was underway once more, her tanks full of Hydrogen Peroxide. Maximillian had walked over to one of the floor to ceiling mirrors as if to admire himself. 'So, Maximillian. Why Hydrogen Peroxide?, isn't it dangerous?, I seem to recall something of its use by the Nazis as rocket fuel – their new submarines were to have been powered by it, but it proved highly unstable in the concentrations they were attempting.' Still watching his reflection, the Latin dismissed the dangers with a wave. 'I believe the science is improved now – our Soviet Comrades in the Struggle for Socialist Revolution managed to - appropriate an entire team of experts from the German fascists. These men have been only too happy to continue their vitally important work in the USSR. Thanks largely to their efforts – and the generous donation of this vessel – as we speak we are only hours from the coast of the Peoples Republic.'

'Cuba? - but, that means the Bayamo must be sailing at... it can't be, that would make this capable of incredible speed.' His only answer was a modest bow and a smile. 'So, Mr.Taylor. You were sent to find out my plans, so I asked the Captain of the Submarine to make a little call from his radio to our comrades in Moscow. They have a lot of files, so many files it took a little while for them to look through all the faces.' Blowing smoke, Bond perched himself on the arm of a settee, waiting for the inevitable. 'So, what did your comrades have to say that a simple ship to shore call couldn't have said?.' 'Oh, not much – James Bond, Licenced to Kill, with a Double-O number believed to be 007, current whereabouts unknown, last reports seen entering British Secret Intelligence building near to Hyde... but, enough perhaps. They say you are a very dangerous man, Mr. Bond. Such men can be useful. It all depends on your point of view – whether you see a man as a revolutionary, or a criminal.' So – Bond's cover was blown!.

Bond tried to steer the conversation away from himself. 'Politics?, I don't care for them – the games of old men and young fools.' 'Well, perhaps. Personally I consider myself to be above such matters, but that is just between the two of us. I am merely a claimant to the birthright denied to me by the – old men and young fools you mention.' 'Birthright?' 'As I said before, I am the Marques de Bayamo, Grandee of Florida. These titles are mine by virtue of my birth. Long and careful studies were required for me to discover this. As you can imagine such titles are protected jealously by those in power. Both the Americans and the old Cuban Government (Bond detected undertones of pure venom in these last), both have denied to recognise my claims, Comrade Castro would simply laugh if told. My ancestors were of both Spanish and Indian blood, from when a Conquistadore by the name of Diego Vasquez ran off with a Tequesta woman. As her tribe inhabited the area now known as Miami, whilst Vasquez settled in the hills near Bayamo, the nature of my claim should become clear.'

Bond knew little of Cuba's geography and cared less. 'Well, I'm no genealogist, but I see the outline of it; but it's all coming up Red to me – The Russians I mean, Russia and Cuba – hardly consistent with claims of Royal titles.' 'A means to an end, my friend. You are a perceptive man Mister Bond, so you can probably guess what your fate would be if you turn me down. Either way, there is no further reason for secrets between us. As I say, my claims are ignored – I cannot take my rightful position; but if things changed, if there was a Global revolution...then I am assured of my place in History.' The shine was back in Maximilian's eyes, Bond could see he would have to tread carefully, but also knew he hadn't heard all of it yet.

Bond accepted another drink, pausing to glance at the label. Hand printed, it read James Grant above a single number. 1899. At least this lunatic had taste. 'So, You've done a deal?, to help ensure a Soviet revolution – Worldwide?, but that would mean...it's not possible!. You'd have to persuade the whole of Europe, The U.S.A and the Commonwealth to overthrow everything they've believed in for centuries!.' Tracing a figure eight in smoke, the Marques made a gesture that was neither shrug nor bow. 'Just that. Everything is ready, it will happen, of that there can be no doubt. Considering the scale of my plans my demands for land and title are modest – although I will be the richest man on Earth. Such compensations are due to one who can achieve such a change - my friends in the Politburo agree, although not publicly naturally.'

Bond felt the skin on his neck becoming clammy. 'And of course, those same friends intend to honour their part of the bargain after the Revolution?.' 'I hope so. Moscow is such a pretty place, such delicate buildings. An Atomic Bomb exploding in Red Square would make such a terrible mess, don't you think, Mr. Bond?.' Atomic Bomb... Bond could feel the blood freeze in his veins. The last thing he needed now was the girl.

CHAPTER 12

THE FOURTH MAN

'Very still please, Mister Bond – or shall I still call you James?.' The playfulness was gone from her voice, now there was only coldness. In her hand was the ugly shape of a pistol, Bond couldn't be sure, but from where he sat it looked like a Silenced Czech Model 27, part of the old German Abwehr armoury. From what he remembered from the reports on the Abwehr, a few truck-loads of their more exotic kit was hauled off by the Soviets during the mad days after the war in Europe. Whoever Paige worked for, she was clearly deadly serious. Gone was the silk gown, in favour of a military-cut one piece in beige. Somehow she still managed to look ravishing, even in such an austere outfit. 'Darling, I think we need to talk – its a bit soon for us to be fighting.' Bond's humour fell on stony ground. Maximillian turned towards his desk 'Personally, I am in agreement with my British friend here – why the gun?.' The Cuban reached over as if to get the pile of bills. Bond guessed there was either an alarm button under the draws or a gun.

'Thats far enough, Max. I wouldn't want you to die without knowing why.' The self-styled Grandee smiled, his arms apart in an expansive gesture. 'O.K. - but you should know, putting that gun on the table – well, you'd become very rich indeed.' 'I am very rich – you made me rich, Max, or don't you remember?.' The two men exchanged glances, Bond reading the confusion in Maximilian's eyes – and an unspoken plea for help. 'My father's name was Turner, everyone called him Peter; he was that sort of man, but as Sir. Anthony Peter Stanley Turner (Bond nearly choked on his Scotch) the press loved to call him Turn-Coat Turner, or Red Tony. He was unmasked as the fourth man in the R.A.F. Super-sonic bomber plot, a coward who took his own life rather than face what he had done, but I suppose you listen to the World Service.' 'Of course; Radio Free Havana is a little heavy on propaganda for my tastes – though the dance programmes are delightful.' Maximilian saw the look in her eyes and stopped.

Paige clenched her jaw, delaying the moment, her voice coarse with the struggle of emotion and reason. 'Was our meeting at the Consulate really chance?. You forgot to mention a few things that night; that you were responsible for my Father's death for one. All I knew was that Daddy had walked into the sea, leaving Jonny and me in that car. Only he didn't, did he?. When exactly did you decide to betray my Father?. I know he was taking us somewhere, we were going to the beach. A boat-ride, Daddy said, then we were to have a new house, clothes and all of that. A new life, Max.'

'Paige, there's more to this than it...' Bond held his hands up, his words tailing off as Maximilian stepped forward. 'Yes. I was there - the rendezvous was your Father's idea, he wanted a boat to take you to the Yugoslavian coast. At the time I was still conducting the sea-trials for this yacht – it really is most unique, such a lot of complicated machinery. Lucky for me it came with, shall we say technical experts?. I was waiting off your Kent coast, a delightful little bay – named for Saint Margaret I recall. Your Father never arrived. I am sorry, I had nothing to do with his death.'

'Well, this sets things in rather a new light.' Bond flashed Maximillian a look that said Do nothing and ignored the mouth of the silencer as it followed his track across the room. Careless to the threat, he set down his glass, looking through the drinks globe, selecting a bottle of 1928 Krug, nonchalantly tossing it into the air to catch it single handed, a display of faux camaraderie, his fingers working fast, tearing at the foil. 'I know - let's celebrate – I mean, since old Max here is going off so suddenly it seems only fair he gets a last drink...' Bond paused, shrugging, as he twisted the bottle away from the cork. POK! The cork shot past Paige's startled face, an inch from her nose. Bemusement turned to amusement at the near miss. 'Words fail me, Mr – Bond is it? – is that the best the British Secret Service can do?.' 'Well, ask me that in a minute...' Taking his thumb from the neck of the bottle, he let her have it, a good Thousand Pound's worth right in the face, leaning down sharply to wrench the rug from under her feet. She fell awkwardly, banging her elbow hard onto a coffee table as she went, the gun shattering through the glass top to clatter harmlessly onto the marble.

'Bravo!' After a moment, Maximilian had recovered his composure enough to applaud Bond's trick as the latter checked the girl. His smile became a clench of his teeth around the cigar. 'Did she break her pretty neck?.' The girl was soaked and dazed, but mainly furious at herself for falling for the cheap trick. Angrily, she batted away Bond's offer of a helping hand, rolling around to pull herself up with her good left arm. Her right was clearly injured. Maximilian's attention was distracted by a discreet chiming, walking across to press a button on a panel built into his desk. Bond was halfway to the girl's gun when Chago and four goons burst in. As they led him away he just had time to whisper. 'You'll just have to believe I had no choice – you'll thank me later.' She stared at Bond in disbelief, taking his handkerchief to wipe herself down as best as she could with one arm.

With a look of sadness, the Marques stood close to the girl, her pistol in his hands. 'Senorita, perhaps I should have known Turner was your Father – but how was I to know this?. I only knew his code-name. Our meeting I cannot explain. Perhaps fate. I thought we might have ruled together in my new Florida, but I should never have trusted a puta.... she spat a curse at this, but Maximillian was already striding towards the bridge with an order to the remaining guards. 'Llévala abajo !, mantenerla alejada de el inglés.' The goons took her without another word, only Chago left to look after her. His thoughts were plain to see from the ugly display of teeth that could never be mistaken for a smile.

CHAPTER 13

THE LEITER SIDE

It was dusk the next day when at a button push, the curtains pulled back to reveal the stunning vista outside. No longer was the Bayamo surrounded by the open Atlantic, but gliding into a bay of fabulous beauty, just a small concrete jetty to show any sign of habitation amongst the sand and lush vegetation. The beach ended with the jungle to one side, the other a bluff, a rocky outcrop that would do for a cliff-diver's dreams. The sun was setting swiftly, the sky turning golden, then falling into shades of orange and red. First Paige then Bond were brought aft onto the deck. Chago leered at the girl, her lissom figure revealed to his lecherous gaze by the thin material caressing it in the early breeze. 'Welcome to Cuba. I think you like it here, we gon' be very close you an' me, eh?.' Pulling from the grip of the guards Bond struck the brute with a resounding slap. 'Mind your manners, she's not one of your dance hall girls.' Wiping his lip, Chago grinned, all bad teeth and worse breath. 'Okay Mister. I think you are dead, but between now an' then – well, that can be such a long time...'

They were bundled into the back of a big American Ford station wagon, with one of Maximilian's men at the wheel and another covering them with a Russian Tokarev, the heavy pistol advising both passengers of the result of escape attempts. The car pulled onto the road behind a Buick sedan, which had four more aboard – presumably part of whatever organisation Maximilian was running on the island. With no choice, Bond sat back in his seat, the girl doing her furious best to ignore both him and the pain in her arm as they jolted along the rough track. From the condition of the road Bond guessed it was an old smuggler's track, but had recently been graded for some purpose.

Gradually, the tension of the day faded, his resources at a low ebb. He allowed himself to nod, conserving his energy for a better time. It was no more than twenty minutes later that Bond was startled into wakefulness, even as the Ford's brakes screeched their protest at being stamped on. Bracing himself against the bench seat in front, he shielded his eyes from a blinding, dazzling light that was filling the windshield; just as the world exploded. The volley of shots was awesome in its ferocity, the side-windows of the leading car shattering into fragments, a split-second before the windshield of the Ford crazed, the driver throwing his hands across his face even as he died. Bond threw himself across the girl, but not before he saw the thug with the Tokarev cut down after no more than three paces from the wrecked car. There were shapes, blurred shapes of men crowding in, the door was wrenched open and there were rough hands reaching in for them.

As the girl was dragged screaming from the car Bond put up a struggle, but it was hopeless in such a confined space, against the roughnecks who pinned him to the side of the car. Getting a good look at the gang didn't lift Bond's spirits, a ragged bunch that seemed to have come from some second-rate Mexican western novel.'Camaradas, eso es suficiente!' Oddly, the voice seemed familiar, coming from a hunched figure sitting on the hood of an old truck, a tattered straw hat obscuring the features. Sliding down to stand in front of the couple, the man seemed amused at their predicament, before becoming serious again.

'Poner los cuerpos en los autos y rollo de ellos en el río, rápidamente!'. At this command the bandits set to work, moving the bodies and pushing the cars off the road, down a small incline where, with a final splash, they slowly sank from view. Lifting the brim of his hat, the newcomer spoke. 'Well, don't you turn up at the darndest places?.' Bond's jaw might have sagged if it wasn't for the flush of relief he felt. It was none other than Felix Leiter!.

'Well, it's certainly a pleasure, Felix.' The two men shook hands, before Leiter embarrassed Bond with a crushing hug. 'Whats with the desperadoes?, have you gone into the Banditry profession or is the CIA recruiting from Pancho Villa look-alike agencies these days?.' 'Still the same British sense of humour I see – who knows, one day I might even laugh?. Come on, we'd better get going.' Pointing at the passenger side of the cab, Felix climbed in behind the wheel, starting the engine coughing into life as the men clambered over the side into the truck-bed. Paige refusing Bond's offered help as she hauled herself up to sit on the bench, then ignoring his broad smile as he shut the door. The rangy Texan hit the gas, sending gravel chips flying. They drove without lights, using the moon as guidance to stay on the road under the royal palms. Paige couldn't help but notice the golfing glove on the right hand – which seemed oddly frozen. Looking across, Bond had seen it too. 'You approve?.' 'Well, it's better than that hook – damn thing made you look like a pirate.'

'Prosthetic hand.' Felix smiled at Paige. 'The right leg too – souvenir of an encounter with a shark.'

Felix drove fast, the old truck's engine burbling and rumbling along. Lighting a Chesterfield, the CIA man offered the pack around. Ice duly broken, Bond made the introductions as they smoked. At a junction the truck took a right to start winding its way up into the hills. Cigarette between his teeth, Felix jerked a thumb backwards. 'These are my compañeros, very useful guys – not exactly the kind to ask questions or likely to go to the authorities here. They were small-time smugglers when I arrived.' The girl seemed interested. 'And now?.' 'Now, sweetheart, they're in the big leagues. With relations as bad as they are, there's getting to be a shortage of most everything round here; auto parts, gasoline – hell even these Chesterfields had to come in through us. About the only thing they've got plenty of are cigars and Mafia bosses in hiding – I export both, by the way.' 'Mafia bosses?' Paige seemed incredulous. 'Transmissions and gas in; hand-rolled Havanas and hoodlums back out; the cigars in boxes, the hoods in - well hoods and cuffs. Our State Department doesn't ask too many awkward questions and Big Tony gets five to life.'

'O.K. Felix, I get the picture.' Bond cut in, helping himself to a swig of Bourbon from a bottle he had found wedged under the seat. 'We can't exactly talk shop here, but I'm on a job and I've come up a little short. I could use some of that American largess of yours – I'll need a few things, but first this poor creature has gone and hurt her arm, (There was a sharp kick to his ankle) I don't suppose you know any good vets?.'

Smiling, Leiter shook his head. 'Same old James. Always right in the middle of it – and there's always a girl in there with him.' Bond tried his best to appear innocent of the charge, Paige fixing him with a wicked stare. 'Oh really, darling, you mustn't listen to strange men, especially strange men from Texas. 'The air behind the cab was filled with singing, the rough band unwinding from the tense encounter and the shock of gunfire. Gradually the palms gave way to cuban pines and ferns, growing high either side of the track which was taking them ever deeper into the occluded slopes and safety of the Sierra Maestra.

Dawn over the mountains. Bond woke early, to find Felix already making coffee. They were in a large shack in an old mining village. In the main communal room Paige was still sleeping in the cot Felix had made up for her, her arm in a sling. At first the elbow had appeared broken, but between them Leiter and a remorseful Bond had managed to twist and manipulate it back into shape, the girl's courage impressive as she took the pain in grim silence. Taking pity on his friend, Leiter had gone round his gang to return with a rather sparse collection of clothing more suited to the latitude. Bond found a stone trough and hurried through his ablutions. Toweling himself he joined his friend on the veranda, accepting a steaming mug of the coffee, the smoky brew rich and dark like the soil of the green hills.

No-one actually knew the name of this place; the copper miners had laid their tools down here for the last time in the early part of the century, making the dilapidated collection of sheds and huts ideal as a base for Felix and his unorthodox associates. The two men sat together in silence, contemplating the misty valley and taking in the early morning sounds. From somewhere below a squawking was followed by a flash of iridescence as a parrot erupted from the foliage, calling out with raucous cries mid-flight. Bond had hoped to see one of the famous Tocororo birds, but had to make do with hearing them call to each other, the distinctive sound giving them their name. He took a Chesterfield and closed his eyes, enjoying the simple feel of life.

'So, James, how am I going to get rid of you this time – and what's the story; you and the girl, I mean?.' 'Okay Felix, I'll show you mine... but you first; how did you know where to pick us up?, Thewlett?.' 'Right on the money, your Royal Marine pal. He'll live, by the way, but he won't be diving any time soon. When the frogman job went sour your people hit the button – we were watching that boat right out of the Azores, the Navy technical boys are fighting to get a better look at her. Our long range patrol planes picked up the Soviet sub too – she was last seen heading back to Murmansk or wherever the hell they keep those babies.' 'So you set up that ambush last night – pretty slick. But you haven't been living up here just waiting for me to come along...'.

Getting to his feet, Felix tossed away the last remnants of his coffee, leaning against a roofing post.

'James its not a good time. Frankly, we've got a lot going on down here and Washington's furious – cables to London and all that. Your Mister 'M' is going to need broad shoulders to catch what's coming over this. Now this is strictly between us; I'm putting together a network of anti-Castro people sympathetic to US interests in the region. With orders to remove him, by peaceful means if possible...' Bond stood. 'And if not?.' Moodily, Leiter threw his mug down. 'Look, I don't always like my job, but I've got orders. You're out of here on the next boat – that's final, by the way. I haven't got orders about the girl, take her with you for all I care. I'm sorry James, but the interests of the United States come first.'

So that was it – he was stepping on toes... Bond was angry, he was in an impossible situation, but pushed on regardless. 'And what's the US position on a mad scheme to take over Florida – that's Florida in the United States by the way?. Or atomic blackmail?; he's threatening to set off an atomic bomb in the middle of Moscow, if his employers welch on their end of the deal. Now, supposing he does that?, who do you think will get the blame?.' Felix thought about it for a second, then nodded. 'Okay James, nice speech. In the light of what you've told me I need to make a few calls, as we're buddies I'll even spin you a quarter for an international call – I'm sure dear old 'M' is just dying to hear from you.' The shack Felix kept his radio gear in was set apart from the others, on a hummock further up the hillside.

As they walked, Bond was surprised to see a group of women washing clothes on the rocks by a small stream, there were even a few children, the urchins playing in the water or with the older women collecting leaves in baskets – presumably to roll into the crude cigarros smoked by both the compañeros and their women. Idly Bond wondered what would become of these people once the inevitable orders arrived for Felix. Assuming Castro's survival, these peasant-bandits would be hunted down, with the ruthlessness for which the revolutionary leader was becoming known.

Inside, the shack itself was a sparse business; no more than an old chair and a table, the set waiting expectantly on top. The power came from a trio of truck batteries wired in series. 'O.K. James – Guests first, now this is the latest equipment, so I'll give you a run-down...' 'Ah yes, the RS-1 field set – let me see now.' Seating himself astride the chair, Bond's fingers moved expertly across the dials. 'Lets see...3-6 Mega Cycles, its half past six so Station C should be listening on this band. Really Felix, you should have done your homework – we borrowed two of these for evaluation from the manufacturer last year.' 'I might have known.' Chastened, Felix watched as Bond worked the set, one earphone to his left ear as he began tapping out high-speed morse on the key, repeating his call-sign at ten second intervals.

Over his shoulder, Bond spoke quietly. 'What are the Cubans like at direction-finding?.' 'Russian equipment and instructors – so first-class, I'd say three minutes is a risk, five is dangerous.' That meant Bond had two minutes before the Cuban intelligence men were alerted to their presence by the radio waves coming from the hill-top. Luckily, Kingston was on the ball, sending the pre-arranged reply within thirty seconds. Keeping one eye on the second-hand of his watch, Bond switched over to voice transmission – the time factor making the risk a necessity. 'Station-C from Barracuda, urgent. Respond over.' There was the briefest of delays before the voice from Kingston replied; female – a Wren, no doubt, the tones neutrally British (and deliberately so for clarity and reassurance to agents under pressure in the field).

'Station-C to Barracuda. Verify please, Yellow-Three, Over.' Bond shut his eyes, trawling his memory for the correct response. 'Barracuda, Blue-Five. Emergency report; Barracuda at cousin Virginia's house. Inform Father current situation unresolved. Inform Father possible situation Black Sun at Red Castle, I repeat possible Black Sun Red Castle. Do not verify, many thanks, Barracuda Out.' Stretching his legs, Bond pushed back from the set. 'Well, that ought to set alarm bells going – thanks Felix, I'll be outside, but first I need another favour, strictly between us, you understand.' 'Go on.' 'Just this; the girl. She said something back on that boat that set me thinking, something about her father, chap by the name of Sir. Anthony Peter Stanley Turner no less. He was feeding the other side secrets; the new bomber fleet, that kind of stuff. He's dead, suicide by drowning, but we thought at the time there was more to it than that and...'

Felix's eyebrows were raised quizzically, willing Bond to get to it. 'It's probably nothing, but I can't quite figure out how she knew.' 'Knew?, James, this really needs to make more sense.' 'Exactly; how in hell did she know that Max was involved with her father's death?, I mean, he admitted as such himself. Who put her on to him?.' 'Maybe dear old daddy told her himself.' 'Its possible. I don't like it, Felix, not a bit of it, but I can't mention this to London or the old man will have my head. My cover's blown as it is and I need more time to get to the bottom of all this.' Smiling, Felix turned to the radio set. 'Okay James, I get the picture. Leave it to Uncle Felix, I'll ask my Uncle Sam if he knows anything about a certain green-eyed redhead.'

Patting his friend's shoulder in thanks, Bond wandered outside the shack while Felix sent his own report. Bond's report had been kept to a minimum, but he knew that a coded signal was being sent straight off to London. He smiled to himself at the vision of 'M' choking on his pipe over the Black Sun and Red Castle bit – the code-words for an Atom Bomb and Moscow respectively. Three short minutes passed and Felix was standing next to him. 'Well, James that was interesting – seems my reports are being flashed straight to Kennedy's desk – and I just got this, straight from the top; lets hit the town.'

CHAPTER 14

CUBA LIBRE!

Much to Bond's surprise, Havana seemed largely unchanged despite the Revolution. There were signs, of course, from the trucks full of soldiers that rushed past at intervals, to the slogans that adorned almost every large flat surface. Venceremos – ANTIIMPERIALISTA – Patria o Muerte! And images of Castro's benevolent smile seemed to follow the trio's progress into the city. They were in Felix's pride and joy – a practically new Chevrolet Impala, with Bond at the wheel. Even for someone who usually detested over-sized jukeboxes, he had to admit the car was a beauty. Enjoying the smooth power of the 300 horses mated to the Turboglide automatic transmission Bond was enthralled. The coil suspension made for easy cornering – not something for which Detroit was famous.

The downtown traffic was fairly hectic, a mix of ancient farm-trucks and horse-carts at the outskirts had been replaced by taxis and motor traffic. Cruising through the streets of Habana Vieja with its Spanish colonial and baroque buildings the centuries crowded in on all sides around the singular threesome. A market was in full flow, all hustle and shouting, the goods on offer either riotous with the cheerful local colour and tastes or everyday groceries, the familiar made oddly unfamiliar by the labels and packaging. 'Turn left here, James. We need to do something about your wardrobe.' Bond merely glanced over at his friend, himself in a loud floral shirt and white panama hat, shaking his head. Amused, Paige's smile turned to a wince of discomfort as they went over a pothole. 'How's that arm, Miss Turner?.' 'Nothing that a hot bath couldn't cure, thank you.' 'All in hand, but we need to make a stop first.'

The Chevrolet purred into a dark alleyway lined with shops. Halfway along the crumbling buildings with their faded wooden shutters Felix indicated a space beside a second hand furniture warehouse. Leading the way, the American took them through the warehouse past the piled antique mahogany and newer pine, Bond noting the decline in quality; a sure sign of economic hardship. There was a courtyard behind the warehouse, beyond that the noise and bustle of a busy cafe next door to the tailor's shop that was their destination. 'Ramon! réveiller mon pote!, voici les clients! - Ramon is a Frenchman exiled here for, lets say Political reasons. He's the best cloth cutter outside of New York.'

Ramon himself was, at first glance, a fish out of water. His features were lined from what looked a mixture of a life of hardship and the creases around his forehead from long hours of concentration. If Bond had to guess, he'd say a quarter jewish with morrocan or algerian lineage mixed in with a drop of gaelic for odd measure. The tape around his tired shoulders was worn as a doctors stethoscope, there was even the cliché of chalk behind the ear. Standing by a wall of draws and shelves Bond idly tried one, finding it full of handkerchiefs.

Leiter was eyeing himself in a full-length mirror, trying a selection of ties. 'Ramon we're in your hands. My friend here needs a couple of suits and evening dress for tonight.' 'The last minute – always, I know this, but half a day?, I should change my name to Ramon Half a day, Ramon Halfday is better – you are from England?.' Bond's look at Leiter was batted down by the yellowed hand. 'Don't worry, no questions and no lies – I know the score. I used to work in Jermyn Street before the war.' The tape measured, the chalk wrote. 'Let's have a natural shoulder with canvas – a plain weave, nice and light. I'm pushed for time here so single-breasted, two buttons and the usual. For shoes its a derby – I don't do them myself, but I know a nice man...size?.'

'I take a ten and a half wide, US eleven.' Bond looked through a selection of ties, picking a few he hoped were suitable. 'Side-adjusters or loops?' Bond chose the former. 'Right – where do I send it all, Monsieur Felix?.' 'We'll be at the Capri.'

Back in the Chevrolet, Bond followed Felix's instructions, the old town giving way now to broad avenues, the buildings here more angular and purposeful than the rococo facades before them.

'I was hoping for the Nacional, by the way.' 'Well, you'll be there tonight if my information is worth the twenty sawbucks it cost.' 'Tonight?.' 'Tonight, James. First we need to check in at the Capri, I just hope Benny's still around.' 'Benny?.' 'Yes James, Benny – lets just say he's the man who put the Capo in the Capri.'

To Bond's disdain the Capri was a modern concrete brick of a place, the kind that flourished under Batista, where rich Americans left their Cadillacs with the valet and crocodile-skin luggage with the porters to head straight for the tables or the slots. Castro was famously opposed to gambling, having closed down the casino at the Nacional just the previous year. The Capri was mob money, an investment in greed that saw big returns in the post-war boom. The actor George Raft had owned a chunk of the place, along with the gangsters Trafficante and Lansky but the times had changed and the action fell away to Vegas. Felix shoved a bundle of notes into Bond's hand and they headed for the air-conditioned coolness behind the glass doors.

The desk clerk seemed suspicious of the oddly dressed young couple who walked nervously into the lobby, more so of the brash American who busied himself stuffing bills into the pocket of the porter and making a point of letting everyone know that he was loaded – in both senses of the word. Visibly anxious, Bond was still waiting for his papers to come through; a mix-up at Miami, his bride hadn't realised she needed papers in her married name, the Americans trust no-one going to the Republic and what nicer place to be stranded?. Falling in with the deception, Paige complained about the luggage – they didn't lose your bags in London, she would have to go shopping all over again and what would the Barrington-Smythes make of it all?. Picking his moment, rudely elbowing over to the counter, Leiter slapped down his passport (Mr.Whitman), snapping his fingers for his room key and leaning with his back to the desk. The clerk bought none of it, until Leiter butted in with his tourist guide, open at an inviting little place called bribery – a crisp US $100 bill. Having checked in, they went up to their rooms, 'Whitman' on the eighteenth while 'Mr and Mrs.Forbes' took the Laguna Suite above on the top floor. The clerk waited a full minute before dialing through to the Policía Nacional Revolucionaria.

The Laguna Suite was impressive in the American way; everywhere was a lake of green carpet of the deepest possible pile, split-level, with anti-clockwise stairs down to a lounge area beyond the reception platform and the bedroom area opposite up another set of stairs curving to the clockwise. There was a gallery running along the back of the suite linking bedroom to bathroom to the entrance area. Bond tipped the porter and went for a walk around. The furniture was modern and looked expensive, the centre-piece of the lounge started with a monstrous crystal chandelier, a waterfall of a thing that twinkled and spiraled down to just above a large circular glass table, which itself covered a miniature rockery pool. There had probably been fish once, but not now. Idly Bond wondered if Castro had declared them political prisoners and set them free. Fishy revolutionaries.

Paige emerged from the bedroom and placed her hands on the gallery rail next to Bond. 'Quite a place your friend has found for us.' 'Yes, he's worth his weight in platinum.' 'I'm going shopping. If I go another hour without some fresh clothes I'll go quite mad. Since you nearly broke my arm I don't expect any complaints.' 'Not at all. I'll stay here – just in case Felix decides to let me know what he's up to. By the way-' Bond was genuinely contrite. '- I am sorry for hurting you; no really, I am. I had to stop you because that maniac is involved in some extremely dangerous business, when I find out more you can kill him all you like. Do we have a deal?.' 'Do I have a choice?.'

Bond took her by the good arm, gently her to face him. 'You're in over your head here, Paige – this is no place for a girl with revenge on her mind. Go and get your fresh clothes, before I say any more.' Detaching her arm, she strode out, leaving Bond angry at everything and nothing. To hell with it. Time for a bath and a drink.

'In at the deep end again, huh?.' 'Benny!. Benny the Breeze – am I glad to see you. Thank Christ for the mob.' Felix had been nursing a coffee at the bar in the Hotel nightclub. He was the only patron there. Apart from the bartender there were a couple of dancers going through a routine for tonight's cabaret. The girls were pretty, but the dancing was more hope than talent. Ordering a beer, Benny helped himself from a bowl of peanuts, watching the girls while he waited. 'Not exactly the Rockettes, but they were all we could get.' 'They look like a couple of chamber maids playing dress-up.' 'They are chamber maids, Felix. All the pros hoofed it back to Miami when the locals found religion. So, you came for the show?.' Holding his hands up, the CIA man's smile was tight-lipped.

'Okay Benny. Look, some business is coming that, well it won't be nice – or quiet.' The look on 'The Breeze's' face was so markedly everyday it was a give-away. All this was meat and potatoes to this man. 'Well, what's our end? - what are the numbers?. Come on Felix, quit the choirboy routine – we both know you wouldn't be in this joint if your Hillbilly Zapatas could have done the job. Which means two things, my friend; One; Money, a lot of it. Two; More of Item One...'.

Setting his glass down, Felix lit a Chesterfield. 'Money's no problem.' Benny spluttered into his beer. 'Whoa-whoa-now I'm worried. Somebody says 'No problem' there's problems. Who's going to get upset by this not-very-nice, not-very-quiet business?.' Felix told him, from what he knew; the opposition was professional, but he didn't know their true extent, or if they had ties with the Cubans themselves beyond the tenuous bond of Political fraternity. 'I'll need an army, that's about all I know. If they could be exiled Cubans it would make a good cover – it's all simmering over here anyway.'

'So I hear. Me, I got friends in a lot of places, friends who tell me the future's rosier back home. Maybe you got friends. Maybe I should head for the easy life – I know a few girls in Miami. Of course, there's no way I can show there. Unless...' Felix understood. 'Unless you have a cleaner record. Okay Benny, I think I can wipe some slates clean.' stubbing his cigarette out, he stood. 'How long do you need?' 'Catch the midnight show, I'll keep a table back for you and those two love-birds you are babysitting.'

Room Service was neither fast nor efficient, Bond decided, calling down in annoyance to cancel the sandwich that hadn't arrived, no doubt to the amusement of the secret police. It was no great leap to guess that every line into the place was tapped. Deciding to skip lunch, he plumped for a swim instead. The hard work that had gone to making this place clockwork-smooth had obviously left to follow the money. At least the rooftop pool made up for it; the view was breathtaking, the long, dramatic curve of the bay on one side and the whole of the island the other, stretching away into its own horizons. Paige hadn't returned – still shopping with the money Felix had given her, no doubt. Bond had managed to scrounge a pair of Bermuda Shorts from one of the maids – no doubt left by a previous guest.

He'd hoped for a bar up here, but least there was a trolley. In experimental mood, he tried the local beers; the Cristal was passable, the second bottle less so. Abandoning the experiment, he went over to the glass railing, reasoning that he had might as well act like a tourist. Here was the view of American conquerors that could never have been enjoyed by the real Conquistadors – and suddenly Bond knew what it was about this place; a killer from a strange race arriving from the sea – the thrill of blood and lure of gold, the lustrous metal that drives man to murder his friend, his neighbour. Only there was no gold; just the blood of innocents washing into the surf, hopeless, lost. The Spaniards' blades washed clean in the sand. At once the centuries hit Bond like a fist in the stomach, and he felt sick to its pit. Suddenly he needed the cleansing embrace of the cool water. The surface erupted into foam as he dived in.

It was after six when Bond woke up, calling down to the front desk again, he ordered for two, reasoning the girl would be back before the meal – if it arrived at all. The bathroom was a lavish riot of mirrors and natural stone, all in keeping with the lagoon theme – all too natural to be anything but man-made. He poured himself a bath, finding some bath salts which he thew in to help ease the tension he was beginning to feel. He knew the feeling of old, this deep in what was effectively enemy territory. It would pass. Turning the taps off he leant back, eyes closed. After a much-needed soak he heard the door to the suite opening. It was the girl, Bond covering himself quickly with a towel as she waved in a troupe of porters laden with cases, boxes and bags of every kind. Tipping each extravagantly, she waved their gratitude off with a smile. Finding a pair of bath robes bearing the hotel's moniker Bond emerged just in time to catch her hiding something behind her back, the mischievous sparkle of emeralds in her eyes. 'Darling – there you are, I hope you don't mind I picked up a few things.'

Bond was incredulous; clearly she had thawed out somewhat. 'Well, at least the room's big enough – where did you get all this?, I thought luxury goods were hard to come by here.' 'Not for American Dollars. Felix was incredibly generous – he said business was good, that the money couldn't leave the island anyway. Everyone's simply bursting with enthusiasm for the Revolution, James, so much so they'll sell anything to get out. The nice man in the tobacconist said he'd been keeping the box since before the war.' 'Box?.' She handed him a package wrapped in old brown paper, standing close, all pout and eyelashes. 'Don't be angry with me James, after all it is our honeymoon.' Bond didn't try to hide his surprise as the paper tore to reveal a plain-looking cigar box. There was a label inside, a faded piece of paper bearing the inscription Montecristos with the signature A.Menéndez. 'I wouldn't have believed it. How much did you...'

But there were no more words, just her lips seeking his. They kissed hungrily, almost hurting each other in their need. Bond felt her tongue between his lips, pushing it aside with his, as if struggling with her for dominance. They were interrupted by the arrival of dinner, Bond stepping out for a quick – much needed - cigarette on the balcony while the waiters arranged the trays on the glass and side-tables. From their suite he could see, could hardly miss the imposing facade of the Hotel Nacional, one of the most remarkable hotels anywhere in the World, the Spanish Colonial style actually a product of a New York firm of architects. Simply the place for the 'In' crowd, a haven for every-one from The Prince of Wales and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to the stars of sports and screen; names such as Dempsey, Keaton, Flynn, Grable and Gardner, Astaire, Romero, Cooper and Sinatra, so many names! Add Churchill and Hemingway! And the stars were serenaded by yet more names; Eartha Kitt and Nat 'King' Cole just two of the greats that had played the Grand Hall.

A discreet cough signaled the table was set. Paige tipped the waiters as Bond joined her, pulling a bottle of Dom Perignon '43 from the bucket. Bond pulled the bottle smoothly from the cork, pouring two coupes. Handing Paige hers he raised his glass, with mock ceremony and dramatic intonation; 'Champagne! In victory one deserves it; in defeat one needs it.' 'De Gaulle?.' 'God no – almost as bad; Napoleon.' Giggling, she took a sip. Saluting, she proposed a toast. 'To Napoleon; to all short Frenchmen everywhere – and their horses.' Her smile fell away at the cold, flint-hard look on James Bond's face. 'To us. To tonight – and the devil take tomorrow.'

She touched his outstretched glass. 'To us, James.' He drank thirstily, draining his glass.

'Now, lets see what the chef is made of.'

Lifting the lids on their platters he uncovered their meal with a flourish of the hand. 'Ceviche de Langosta' - Lobster Ceviche followed by 'El Pez espada a la Plancha con Patatas dulces – Grilled Swordfish with sweet potatoes. For dessert we have Dulce de Platano, thats ripe plantains cooked in wine, sugared and spiced.' They helped themselves, in the local style – from the bowl, eating the meal with gusto and abandon. The Ceviche was wonderfully light, the Dom Perignon perfect for cleansing the palate between each delicious mouthful. Bond had to pace himself, his stomach filling rapidly, this meal more than making up for the shabby service earlier. By the second course, any thoughts of recrimination had melted like the sea-salted butter dripping over the chunks of Swordfish, the meat being fresh and firmer than the usual flaky offerings from the freezer of European restaurants.

Paige was in heaven. She had simply never eaten so well, with no Mother to learn from and a Father not prone to wasting time or effort with fancy cuisine. By the dessert, both had to admit defeat. Bond pushing his plate away with the satisfied mien of the aesthete. Slapping her hands together, Paige took her glass over to the couch where she had left the cigars, producing a pair of what looked like nail scissors to cut one. Handing it to Bond, she held out her other hand – as well as the cutter there was a silver Zippo lighter. 'Well James, aren't you going to smoke it?.' 'Yes, of course. But, what's this?.' The lighter was crudely inscribed – For James, Paige. He thanked her with a kiss, but she slipped away to get a packet of Cohibas from a clutch purse that lay on top of her pile of goods.

Each lost in the view, they smoked in silence, Bond enjoying the sacrilege of sending such a rarity up in smoke. The Montecristo was cool, aromatic and burnt with a richness beyond comparison. With the sparkle of Vedado, the nightclub district around them and the low rumble of the surf beyond the inviting lights of the Nacional, they might have been in paradise had it not been for the circumstances. In the gardens surrounding the Nacional, a man lowered his binoculars. He had seen enough. He had seen Bond and the girl, had seen his target for tonight. The shot would be difficult, but that was why he was making it and not some pollino.

While Bond savoured the Montecristo, Paige took a well-earned bath, emerging clad in a towel to find him, amused, looking through the results of her expedition. Slapping his hand away from her waist, she gracefully dodged away with a bag in each hand, disappearing up the stairs with a stern look that brooked no arguments. Bond found the panel for the radio, selecting a latin dance station, practicing a few steps before going for another look at the view.

In the back of the taxi, a pair of gloved hands opened a long case, extracting a long tube of steel and a receiver, which snapped together with a twist. An 'L' shaped piece of steel with a thick rubber pad on the bottom was next, slotting into the back of the receiver. Finally, a smaller tube, a telescopic sight was clipped on top and the rifle was complete. There were two magazines in the case; one containing five rounds of standard 7.62mm Soviet rifle ammunition, one loaded with five of the steel-jacketed armour piercing type. The glove paused before selecting the standard. At this range the 7.62 round would not miss.

CHAPTER 15

A SHOT IN THE DARK

The sight that greeted Bond as he turned around would have caused a statue to gasp. St the top of the stairs Paige stood in heels and gold ear-rings. She held an evening dress over herself, a gossamer silk number in pink. Another dress – green, dangled from its hanger over her shoulder.

'Well, Mr.Forbes, pink...or green?.' With that she let the silk slip away, to show Bond the green. As she did the switch, he could see she was naked behind the dress, a tantalising glimpse of her breasts and the down of her sex. Climbing the stairs, Bond kept his gaze firmly on her eyes. 'Mrs.Forbes, I'd like to see both, in shall we say, an hour?.'

The shameless whore!, the cross-hairs of the telescopic sight whipped up after the retreating back of the Englishman, but he had gone from sight. Wiping his eyes after the brazen, startling show with his gloved hand the assassin settled back into the aim. He would wait. Patience was the watchword for a sniper.

Felix was impatient, dressed for the town in a cream dinner suit with blue cummerbund he checked he had a full pack of Chesterfields and decided against a drink. It was around around eight pm when Ramon's boy knocked. Quickly checking the package he had brought, Felix waved the boy's horrified protestations away and forced a twenty dollar bill into his hand. Heading to the back-stairs, Felix took them two at a time. A knock at the door of the Laguna suite got no reply so he found a maid and persuaded her to use her pass-key.

Hearing the sounds coming from the bedroom, the CIA man let out a low chuckle, spotting the bucket, he helped himself to a glass of the '43 and a seat on one of the plush sofas scattered around the edge of the lounge. At length, Paige emerged, heading for the bathroom. She was naked. Bond looked out after her, then down at the grinning Leiter. 'I hope you averted your gaze.' 'Not on your life, James. Ramon worked his magic, you shall go to the ball...'

Aware of his nakedness, Bond ducked back into the bedroom for the robe, striding back out along the gallery towards the bathroom, to be engulfed in a blizzard of a thousand shards of razor-sharp crystal a split second before a distinct kerrak! was heard. Instinct took over; throwing his arm up, 007 pivoted on his left heel and threw himself forward over the railing, vaulting over to fall onto a table, breaking its legs as well as his fall, letting himself roll onto the pile below the gallery. The lights went out; Felix, no doubt. 'Paige, stay in there – it's a sniper!.' Bond was at the balcony, down on one knee. He saw a few cars and possibly a taxi driving away, but apart from that there was only the same scene as before.

Felix worked his magic charming the maid into cleaning up the mess without too much fuss, while Bond dressed quickly. Ramon had certainly worked miracles, the black trousers with their military cut fitted to perfection as did the shirt, a plain cotton base with stylised floral accents. Expertly, Paige tied his bow tie for him. There was an off-white tuxedo jacket on the bed, which completed the outfit. 'Well, how do I -' They laughed, having both said exactly the same thing at the same time.

Paige was simply ravishing in green. Finishing above the knees the simply cut dress was set off to perfection by a climbing rose pattern in golden thread, as well as the hair she had piled superbly above her head, a freshly-picked flower in her hair. Her bag and shoes were both glitzy-emerald. Felix was waiting patiently. 'Let's get out of here kids– It's only the next block over, but in case the chandelier murderer is still out there we'll sneak out the service entrance out back.' Bond was all business, his stride bursting with renewed purpose. 'Good. I'm ready – and it's high time you filled us in on what's going on.'

The night air was sobering, as if being the target of a sniper was not enough to clear the head, Bond smoking a cigarette to help steady his nerve. Leiter had certainly been busy – Maximilian kept a suite of rooms at the Nacional for unforeseen emergencies, and Benny's contacts had tipped him the wink that the big man was in town tonight. Deciding to call him out, Leiter had sent word to set up a meet. Neutral territory it wasn't, but Bond trusted the Texan of old, knowing he had unfinished business with the bizarre Max. They reached the hotel, subjected themselves to the expected pat-down search. The goons at the door were thorough, even Paige's purse not escaping their scrutiny. They walked along the main hall, with its high archways and spanish timbers, to the hallway at the end. The strained party was waved through to the Casino – the doors to which had been padlocked shut, a sign proclaiming the Casino had been closed on behalf of the People, by the Vedado Revolutionary Committee. They were searched again while the padlock was ceremoniously unlocked. Once inside, the rattle of the chain signified their confinement.

The casino at the Nacional had lost none of it's majesty, the marbled walls and chandeliers bringing a piece of Versailles to the island. The thickly padded stools were empty, however; the roulette tables covered in dust sheets, as were the baccarat and blackjack tables. The only tables not covered, two at the far end, had Bond's immediate interest. At one, seated beside the loathsome Chago were two unfamiliar figures. A man in a cheaply garish pinstripe suit and homburg hat sat playing with a pack of cards, while the uniformed Policeman next to him cut a ridiculous figure, high-topped boots crossed on the table, his vast belly barely constrained by a pistol belt. A ludicrous cannon of a handgun protruded from its holster, lending the swaggering figure the air of a Mexican Bandit in a cheap film. He made no effort to conceal the bad teeth as he leered at the new arrivals, his eyes firmly on Paige's bosom.

Maximilian was dressed in a black and silver Goyesca outfit that would have suited a Spanish Noble from the last century, a silk jacket high at the waist with a cummerbund and close fitting knee-length leggings with black silk socks and Zapatilla shoes. He greeted Bond expansively, gesturing for him to sit at his table. 'Well, I'm glad I dressed for the occasion.' 'Good evening Mr. Bond, Senorita Turner. And this must be Mr. Felix Leiter of the Central Intelligence Agency.' Felix bowed, taking a seat at the next table, close to the Policeman. Bond winked at Paige, who took the hint and found herself a stool at the edge of the unfolding scene. Seated, 007 waited for the opener. It was not long in coming. 'I could have killed you, my friend, I could have thrown you overboard. I could have told Senor Ortega here to put his bullet through your skull instead of sending a message.' Pinstripe inclined his head towards Bond, raising his hat.

So, this was the sniper!. 'Yes, I rather wondered about that. Three hundred yards, forty-degree angle, little or no wind, not much chance of a professional missing in those circumstances. I'm indebted.'

Bond nodded towards the sniper in acknowledgement, one professional to another. Maximilian leaned back in his chair. 'I am a very busy man, with matters that require my attention. Despite this, I have shown mercy. The men in this room alone will hear what I now offer. You, Mr. Bond are a representative of a small island insignificant to me, but with strategic importance to my Comrades in the global struggle. You, Mr. Leiter represent in many ways the bigger threat, you both could call on your Navies, your Air Forces and your Marines to destroy myself and my plans. My supremacy is only assured with the smooth running of my plans uninterrupted and undiscovered.'

Lighting a Bolivar, the Cuban exhaled, with his eyes firmly on the ceiling. He lowered his gaze to meet Bond's. 'Excuse me, my manners - ' he signaled to a flunky for drinks all round, offering Bond and Leiter a cigar. Felix took one, but Bond simply drew one of the precious Montecristos from his pocket in a wordless display of one-upmanship that did not go unnoticed by those Cubans present. Clearly, this foreigner must have connections!, Paige doing her best to hide the smile at her lips at the reaction her present had provoked. Lighting the cigar, Bond waved the offered drink away, his expression hard and sardonic, his voice matched to suit. 'So, you want us to join the firm, then?. Whats the catch – oh yes, I almost forgot. We have to betray everything we hold dear, every tradition of decency that your Comrades in the Kremlin sneer at. But, of course you aren't interested in playing revolutionary, are you? - I can only guess at the look on Castro's face when he learns of your plans. King Max the First, quite a ring to it, don't you think, Felix?.' The Tall Texan snorted derisively. 'Rings loud, but not very true.'

'Well said, Mr. James Bond, your Queen would be very pleased with her most loyal servant. I suppose maybe she will give you a castle in her Scotland and a big white horse to go around on.' Kicking the chair back from the table, Maximilian was on his feet, fists balled on the green baize.

'I get what I WANT!.' The shining points of the eyes and the howl of the madman's struggle for control were truly frightening, even the hard faces around them seemed frozen in the face of such fury and rage. 'You don't tell ME what I get!. All I want from you two is a month, four lousy weeks!. You tell your bosses nothing, you tell them anything, but you say not one word about me.

Four weeks!. I make you both rich men – or I kill you and I kill the men who come next and then again!.'

Once more the mask of sanity was back on with un-natural rapidity. 'You take chances with me again. Now, I give you three chances to live, three chances of death. One game, six players. Any one of you wins, you all live. To refuse is death, to lose is death. If you win I show you what you could be part of, I show you History itself.' Bond thought hard for a moment. If he and Leiter refused the offer, they were certainly not going to walk out of there alive. It would take the Service, one, two weeks to get a satisfactory response to their inquiries – Bond absent without leave, investigate and report – yes, nearer to two. There would be the slimmest chance of interception, of stopping whatever Maximilian was about to set in motion. What choice remained?. Bond looked across at his ally of so many tight scrapes. It was almost as if the Texan agent could read his mind. With a hint of a smile, Bond popped the question. 'Felix, what do you say to a game of cards?.'

CHAPTER 16

THE GAME IS POKER

Seated at the table were Paige, to Bond's left, then the Assassin Ortega, with Maximilian opposite Bond. To Maximilian's left was Capitán de Policía Manuel Pinera, with Felix Leiter completing the circle. Bond's request to leave the girl out of it fell on stony ground; she was big enough to carry a gun, she could hold a hand of cards. Tonight they played Poker, the Seven Card Stud variety popular in the region - at first Bond had proposed a game of baccarat, but Chemin de Fer was not a game the Cubans were familiar with. The stakes were agreed; if Bond or one of his party won all would live. Each player had a pile of chips to the value of $10,000. The ante was set at $10, otherwise there were no limits on bets, small or big. Captain Pinera acted as dealer – in the Spanish style, i.e. counter-clockwise.

James Bond knew the percentages, playing with the cold solidity of mathematics for his foundation, but he had a keen eye and knew when to play the man and not the numbers. They started conservatively, as most big players do, each reluctant to expose too much for fear of giving their opponents the secrets behind their style or system. From the outset it soon became apparent that while Captain Pinera was a poor player, Senor Ortega's air of mystique was only enhanced at the table, the man proving inscrutable in his delivery of the cards, his raises modest and his expression unreadable. Maximilian was bombast itself then the model of prudence in the next hand, unreliably unpredictable with a nasty habit of raising at the worst times. Felix was the steadying influence on Bond's 'team', the long hours around smoky tables in Texas and around the World a bedrock on which to build a style that offered the odd surprise, but more often the easy familiarity with money that enables Americans to risk so much with so little reserve. Bond's admiration for Felix's style was matched only by concern for Paige. She had clearly spent somewhat of a sheltered existence, her unfamiliarity with the cards apparent as she folded on a straight flush.

The hours began to drop away, the tension around the room never far from the surface. From her early setback, Paige proved to be a quick study, winning two games on the trot. Steadily, slowly the pile of chips began showing favour as the skill began to outweigh the luck. The stakes rose steadily, until the approach of midnight, when Pinera's star finally extinguished itself and he was out of chips. Bond kept his demeanour sanguine as Maximilian and, reluctantly, Ortega both pushed across two thousand dollars in chips to the pathetic, embarrassing noises of appreciation from the perspiring functionary. So be it. Well aware that he was playing for life itself, Bond kept his head, his pile of chips rising slowly. There was $60,000 to shift and he fancied an early night over an early death, both possibilities ending with Paige lying next to him, but knowing she wore nothing under her dress did nothing for his concentration. Who was this girl that made love so eagerly, yet armed herself with silenced Czecho pistols?.

Calling a break at two, Maximilian had retired to his suite for refreshment, Bond and his allies having to make do with a shared bathroom adjoining the Casino. The man waited until Paige had 'freshened up' and 'fixed her face' first. The guards with them made for stilted conversation. Felix was busy combing his hair as Bond immersed his head in a sink of cold water. 'So, James, what do you make of the odds?.' Gasping for air, Bond toweled himself vigorously, borrowing his friend's comb. 'Rotten. I'd say we are as good as dead and that those two charmers with Max aren't very likely to pick up their pensions either. Not much light at the end of the tunnel, I'm afraid.'

'And who says that light won't be on a train coming straight at us?. Well, James, it's been fun.'

The two men shook hands, Bond replacing his shirt and tying his bow while Felix waited.

The room fell silent as Paige Turner, flanked by James Bond and Felix Leiter strode in with the air of determination and purposeful tread of people that knew they faced death, but refused to be cowed by it.

The game began. Paige was dealing. Bond waited for third street before looking at his hand. Pinera had the 'bring' with a three, going for the jugular by setting it at $60, never taking his eyes far from Paige's figure. Maximilian called, Bond immediately alert for signs of a bluff – his show card was the Queen of Diamonds. Ortega was showing a six, calling smoothly with no trace of nerve. Would he pull the trigger?, or did Maximilian do his own dirty work after all?. Bond's jaw tightened at the thought as Paige raised on a nine. He called, showing an eight, with a Jack and the Queen of Clubs in the hole. If he was lucky he might put together a straight, probably wouldn't. Showing the King of Spades Felix seemed reluctant to call, blowing smoke from his cigar and taking a long sip of bourbon. Bond waited until Felix's call to snap his fingers, ordering a vodka martini. Paige dealt the next round, her eyes meeting Bond's as she took the players to fourth street – the second show card, each hand now shaping up. Bond winced at his four, Felix had an eight, Pinera had the Ace of Clubs , Maximilian got the Jack of Spades next to his Queen, Ortega another six whilst Paige dealt herself a two. With his double, Ortega opened, threw down a $100 chip. With admirable spirit Paige raised, throwing the chips from her dwindling stack down with abandon. Bond blew out a column of smoke from his Montecristo, staring Maximilian straight in the eyes before raising. Not wanting to be left out in the bravado stakes, Felix's reluctant call signaled trouble – with any luck a bluff in itself. Then Pinera, now drenched in sweat the fat policeman wiped his brow with the back of his right hand – there!, Bond exchanged glances with Leiter, who had also seen it. The Captain was a cheat – worse, a bad one with a good hand, signifying an ace in the hole with a pudgy little finger.

Somehow Bond had known the final game would be crooked – would have felt cheated if it were not so. He buried the irony with a sip of his drink as Pinera's nerve somehow held, the rotund figure doubling the bet, despite now having only a few chips left in front of him. Maximilian seemed amused, himself projecting an aura of unnerving tranquility as he raised. Bond knew the real danger amongst the opposition was Ortega – but Maximilian was a dangerous player, Pinera less so. If the bloody awful man could keep the telegraph-station shut and his eyes off Paige he might not have made such an idiot of himself. With a barely concealed snort of derision, 007 raised. To hell with it – the bastard would probably kill them whoever won.

Fifth street; Bond; Queen of Hearts, Leiter; a three, Pinera; a four. Maximilian; Nine of Diamonds, Ortega; a ten, and Paige another two. Senor Ortega's $200 was followed by a furious round of betting; Paige's raise followed by a call from Bond that was aimed at raising suspicion in the enemy camp. Felix called, tossing the chips down with indecent haste. Bond covered his thoughts with his glass, knowing Felix was playing along. He could only hope now. Pinera was visibly in trouble – possibly too deep to get out, hands beginning to shake as he lifted his chips. It looked to Bond as if the Policeman was about to have a heart attack, but the palsied fingers opened to drop the chips into the pot. With a smoothing motion Maximilian pushed a pile of chips across, the raise coming as a warning klaxon on a U-boat, Bond knowing that his meagre pair wouldn't be any insurance against a straight – or worse. He was in trouble already, but knew one card wouldn't decide much.

Sixth street came and Bond's luck changed with the Jack of Clubs. Leiter had a seven, Pinera another three, Maximilian a seven, Ortega and Paige a nine and the King of Hearts respectively. Ortega launched off the pad with $1,000, which Paige couldn't match. With nowhere else to go, she folded, throwing her cards down with a stifled cry of bitterness. Bond leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers. From here on in it was just him and Felix. He raised, throwing caution to the wind, suddenly knowing what he was going to do. Puzzled – he had expected Bond to bail the girl out – Leiter wasn't holding the best cards – a five and the Ace of Hearts in the hole. He was dead in the water, but hoped Bond had something. He raised anyway, throwing most of his remaining chips onto the table in the process. The oily grin spreading across Pinera's face as he called fooled no-one; he was bluffing and Bond knew it. If Maximilian raised now, it probably meant he had a flush – and three bodies to dispose of. Maximilian raised.

Finally, Seventh Street, the last card in the hand; the River card – face down and dangerous.

Rather than change dealers, Paige accepted Maximilian's suggestion to remain for the final deal. These are the cards the remaining players received;

James Bond; The Jack of Diamonds.

Felix Leiter; Five of Clubs.

Captain Pinera; Three of Diamonds.

Maximilian; Ten of Hearts.

Senor Ortega; The King of Clubs.

With the best cards – those on show at any rate, once more it fell to the Assassin Ortega to open the round, $500 this time, his last. The play came to Bond, who pushed all his chips over to the pot. Leiter couldn't match or raise, but pushed his chips across anyway. Pinera sneered.

'No use to a dead man, eh?.' Maximilian cut the man short with a softly spoken curse. Immediately contrite, Pinera called, his eyes downcast as the 'Grandee' pushed his own chips into the pot.

The Showdown - If you are still in at this point, you have nowhere to hide. All bluffs are called and the inescapable truth of the cards – that no matter how poor the hand, a good player can still beat a great hand poorly played. Each man showed his hand; Leiter was holding a pair of fives, Pinera had three of a kind, with threes beaten by Ortega's three sixes. Time seemed to slow as Maximilian turned over his cards; he had made a straight, seven through to the Jack!.

Bond took a long pull at his vodka martini, emptying the glass and loosening his bow tie, a bead of sweat at his temple. Slowly, he turned them over. 'Full House - Jacks full of Queens.'

Bond had won!.

Maximilian had been as good as his word, proving himself a gracious loser. To Bond's surprise, he even paid up, clicking his fingers for Chago to bring across a large briefcase stuffed with bills.

'You must forgive me Mr. Bond, but you will not be spending this money.'

'And why is that?.'

'Not, at least for the time being. I must insist you remain, out of – incommunicado, you would say. Three weeks, perhaps four. You will be my guests – you and your friends. Who knows?, perhaps you will like what you see. The choice that you make after this time, that, my friend will be yours entirely.'

CHAPTER 17

THE ISLAND

The Bayamo powered through the startling blue waters at forty-plus knots, an impossible speed for a conventional frigate. The Hydrogen Peroxide system ran at incredible pressures due to the advanced metallurgy provided by the former Nazi engineers working for the Soviets. As a test-bed prototype the turbines had not aroused sufficient interest from the World's intelligence services, which largely believed them to be un-reliable and overly prone to corrosion damage. Bond knew better, as the converted warship hurtled past a series of sandbars, her shallow draft a distinct advantage in these waters. They had left the main island of Cuba now, traversing west along the coastline to avoid the heavily-patrolled waters to the North.

Paige, Felix and Bond were effectively prisoners aboard, albeit in the comfortable surroundings of the State-room. Of Maximilian himself they saw nothing, until after their lunch was served when Bond was summoned to the bridge. Any doubts about the origins of the Bayamo melted away as Bond took it all in. There was enough of the very latest navigational and communication gear to open a trade show, plus what looked to Bond ominously like a fire control panel set against one bulkhead. The 'Grandee of Florida' was on exuberant form, greeting Bond in a quasi-Naval uniform complete with a cap adorned with a golden anchor. 'So, You approve of my speedboat?.' Bond ran a hand over the back of a chair at the communications console. 'Yes, she's certainly unique – Soviet Riga Class frigate with a Walter Turbine, the engineers solved the problems with the Perhydrol I take it?.' 'Precisely, Mr.Bond, precisely. The original systems were prone to exploding due to excessive pressure, but developments in the science of rocketry has brought us extreme high pressure pipes and valves...but this is information I think my Soviet colleagues would prefer stayed hidden.' Gesturing with an open hand, Maximilian went over to the helmsman, conferring in curt, brief phrases.

Bond was beckoned across to the navigator's station, where a map table showed the area of the Gulf of Mexico. 'You see here, the island of Cuba, here is Florida, the Keys, so forth. We are currently here.' Using dividers, Maximilian indicated an area South of Cuba. 'Within a few hours we shall have reached these islands, the largest of which – here, is our destination.' The map showed a line of islands, some little more than a sand spar, others perhaps half a mile wide. 'These islands have gone by many names, since the original Tainos settlements. On the two largest islands, ancient ruins have been uncovered in the jungle, some of which have been dated at before the time of the Aztecs. I have made my base on the very largest, which is known locally as 'La isla de los Hijos de Oro.'

'Sounds like something from one of those old adventure serials – The Island of the Golden Sons.'

'Your Spanish does you credit, my friend. The island is some three miles in length, at its heart a valley in which a temple has been carved out of the volcanic rock. This temple was only discovered in recent times. It really is fascinating, I believe it is the only example of Aztec stonework this far to the West.' 'The islands – deserted, I take it?.' 'To all extents, yes. The original inhabitants disappeared, no-one knows why. Perhaps the ground shook and they fled – the islands were formed by volcanic activity many thousands of years ago. There has been no such activity for many centuries. When I arrived, there were a few local fishermen...'

'Were?.' 'Yes, were. Now, there are no more.' Bond looked out over the bows, deep in thought. He decided he didn't like Maximilian very much, but that would wait for a better time.

The Bayamo lay at anchor, the jolly-boat bringing them into a sheltered inlet. Bond stepped onto the jetty, helping Paige. With Maximilian was Chago, eyes narrowed and boring into Bond with silent hate. Felix was shepherded along by two sullen guards, the party completed by a squad of men carrying metal boxes between them. Clearly, whatever their contents, the boxes were exceptionally heavy, to judge from the way the men had to struggle to move them. The pathway snaked off into the lush greenery of the island, but this was no innocent atoll. Everywhere Bond looked he saw signs of fortification, cleverly disguised and camouflaged. In a clearing a quad-barreled anti-aircraft gun sat hidden beneath netting, manned by soldiers in olive green drab uniform without badges of rank or distinction. The squat outline of a self-propelled gun was expertly concealed by shrubbery, ferns appearing to grow from the tracks. The whole place was a death trap for the unwary, it would take a Naval bombardment and a full-scale air strike plus at least a regiment of amphibious troops to take the island.

'I've heard of being prepared.' Bond muttered so that Felix would hear. Leiter had been observing the hardware himself. 'Quite the Boy Scout, isn't he?. I wonder if Washington knows about this place?.' 'We won't be left alone is my guess. Think you could swim to the next island?, maybe there's fishermen.' They were cut short by Chago, who had turned to watch them both. 'You get on, keep quiet eh?.' Bond pushed past him. 'Why don't you kiss my ahh, there's a little train!.'

There was indeed, a small-gauge mining track underneath the canopy of palms, on which sat a compact little train, a miniature electric locomotive with a battery tender behind with a string of passenger carriages and open freight cars that reminded Bond of a seaside ride he had gone on as a boy. Maximilian's men hauled and hefted the boxes onto the last of the cars, sitting astride them.

The train set off, taking the party deeper into the island. Bond smoked a Chesterfield, enjoying the ride, his trained eye noting the positions and dispensation of the island's defences. The tracks curved downwards into a narrow gorge, steeper now and beneath overhanging rockery that blocked out much of the light here. The tracks went behind a waterfall at one point, the curtain of water gouting over the rocks to leave the train virtually dry. The fauna here was wonderful, bright orchids growing in crevices and the mariposa, the so-called Butterfly of flowers blooming white, fragile. The natural beauty served only as enhancement of the magnificent scene that they saw next.

Protruding from the rock face was what seemed to be a set of massive stone steps, wreathed in foliage and garlanded with creepers. In the centre of the pyramid was an opening, the tracks disappearing into the darkness that swallowed the little train and its passengers. Bond's eyes took a minute to adjust to the sepulcheral gloom. They were now in a tunnel of some sort, low-ceilinged and ancient. The locomotive driver switched on the headlight, throwing the beam down the narrow shaft. After perhaps a quarter of a mile into the rock, the tunnel suddenly opened out into a large man-made cavern, perhaps fifty feet square. The tracks continued, but clearly the ride was over, Maximilian striding across to a large metal cage set in a lattice framework of steel girders, Chago opening the gate and grunting for the others to get a move on.

The cage was a cargo lift, which dropped smoothly away into the earth, starting a long descent. Despite himself, Bond was impressed at the cavern that had opened around them, a massive natural cave the size of a cathedral, with a colossal steel and concrete dome reaching up to the forest of natural stalactites hanging down from the roof. The whole place had the air of a construction site, with sparks cascading from several points around the building. Everywhere there was activity, from a gantry crane moving a giant bucket to the trucks that moved around the perimeter on a graded trackway. Something told Bond that this all boded ill, his instinct confirmed by the expectant grin on Maximilian's face as he threw his arms outwards encompassing the scene before them.

'Welcome to the source of my power, I give you Morning Star – or People's Reactor MS-1, to give the prosaic designation bestowed upon the project by the Soviet Union.'

'An atomic reactor?, to what end?. Why down here?, why not on the main island?.' Bond was sure he wouldn't like the answer when it came. 'With relations between the Soviet Union and America so tense, a reactor on Cuban soil would be unthinkable. So, I offered a solution; this cave, part of a complex uncovered by archaeologists exploring the temple site above us. All it requires is a fifteen-mile undersea cable – easily laid using underwater engineering teams and under the cover of a simple telephone line installation. The People's Republic will benefit from free electricity, the Soviet's provide the hardware and personnel – both for the reactor and the defence zone around the islands.' 'So, what do you get? - if the power's free no money changes hands, apart from your own …' Bond knew he had answered his own question; this was where Maximilian's atomic bomb was to come from!.

'I take it none of you have no desire to get closer to our stockpile of uranium, so we shall now go back up. I have one more aspect of my operation that you should be aware of.' The lift took them back up to the railway, the train waiting to take them further along the original tunnel, turning sharply right to enter a series of chambers, their angular symmetry exaggerating the surreal. In the first two, light stands and digging tools such as those used by archaeologists or builders stood unattended, Maximilian explaining their use as cover for all the engineering work – sooner or later there were bound to be questions, what better cover than an archaeological find?. The third room was the end of the line, to all apparent purpose; the rails ending at a set of buffers with a nifty lifting jig, a sort of miniature cradle affair that the locomotive rolled into, to be lifted and turned while smoothly moved back over the carriages to be neatly deposited facing the way they had come.

'Quite a train set you have there, Max.' Shaking his head, their host laughed, clapping Bond unexpectedly on the back. 'I knew you'd like it; here we are in the most amazing temple and the Englishman is admiring the train!. Hey, if you stay loyal maybe I give you trains of your own... how's about the Orient Express?, maybe your famous Flying Scotsman?.' Not for the first time, Bond found himself liking this maniac, despite an urge to simply strangle him there and then. The Cuban was obviously under the delusion that two secret agents could be persuaded to betray their countries at the revelation of his scheme – so Bond would play his part - for the moment.

They smoked while they waited for the locomotive to be re-coupled, watching in bemused fascination as, at a nod, Maximilian and two of his men went to stand as if at attention in the centre of the room, each on a triangular stone set into the floor. Bond was just about to ask the meaning of this when – with a sudden shudder, they all realised the chamber was getting smaller!. At first it seemed that the roof was lowering towards them – but it was an illusion, the floor section below them was actually rising, with a grating sound of smooth rock on rock and some hidden heavy machinery. Just as it seemed they would be crushed against the roof, the whole contraption shuddered to a halt, the driver starting the engine. There was, completely invisible, another level, the slabs of rock cut in a clever fashion to conceal the perspective of the upper level from the chamber below. The tracks continued, joining smoothly with the section on which the train had been raised.

'Clever, eh? - the priests that built this place had many secrets, secrets they guarded jealously. Any of the profane – outsiders – who reached that chamber below, would have been crushed to a horrible death, their remains taken through this passageway to preserve the secrets of the trap. The trap is operated by the unwary stepping on those dark green stones. Unless three men – originally the high priest and his acolytes – stand where we stood...' Maximilian ground his hands together with relish. Bond's gaze followed his host's, there were indeed rows of seemingly-innocent stones, distinguishable by the smooth shine of their surface and darker colour than the others in the floor. 'I wonder how many people have disappeared in this place over the centuries?.'

Paige felt herself tremble at Maximilian's macabre thought, holding Bond's arm. Noticing the girl's unease, Chago said something vulgar in Spanish, the guards laughing until Maximilian cut them short furiously.

The chambers ahead formed an elongated square that wasn't quite a rectangle, the outer side solid rock, roughly - hewn , the other sloping buttresses forming a three-sided gallery that over-looked an open atrium of sorts, an inner courtyard where sunlight just reached down to the first of a series of terraces that carried a stream of water down in a lazy spiral to a pool far below. The riot of vines and greenery that stretched down into the shadows was a reminder of how nature reclaims her own, gently laughing at man's foolish transient vanity. They were now approaching a set of bronzed doors, which opened at the locomotive's approach. The chamber beyond was low-ceilinged and vast, armed guards patrolling a scene that looked like a Dali painting of the Royal Mint. Bond counted upwards of twenty printing presses, most busily engaged stamping and pressing currency of various kinds. As they disembarked, Leiter let out a whistle at the cages being filled with money from several nations. American Dollars lay next to British Pounds, Spanish Peseta next to Swiss Francs.

One machine lay idle, an elderly man complaining to a hulking Hispanic, who was angrily alternating gestures at the machine with a clenched fist under the older man's nose. The resigned face seemed indifferent to the threat. It was the face of a slave. Several others, most of them also in their latter years were variously engaged around the printing apparatus. Maximillian was exuberant and expansive. 'You see my friends, this is the heart of it all. We make the money here, we deliver it after suitable aging and wear has been simulated – we find industrial washing machines and blasts of steam and hot air seem to provide the most convincing of results.' Bond was inspecting a laundry hamper filled with creased, used notes, an array of industrial fans drying whole batches at a time.

'You take it out by train, the Bayamo is the perfect delivery service – quick, efficient and I'm guessing that submarine we saw does the rest.' 'Once again, Mr. Bond, you prove my instincts correct. Perhaps Mr. Leiter would care to guess the rest.'

Felix shrugged carelessly and played along. 'Okay, Maxi – I don't need glasses to see this picture clearly – you spread the phoney dough around, maybe a million here, a few million there – not enough to arouse immediate suspicion if done carefully. I can see the targets from the currency; lets take France; first you build up a network, maybe use the resident crooks, whatsit - the Union Corse?, whatever, you get them onboard with a chunk of the real McCoy, lets say more than a few million Francs – all the while you're busy taking names for when the big event comes, those old business partners can be real liabilities, right?.' 'Continue, please.' 'Well, 'kay...' Felix lit one of his eternal Chesterfields, waving smoke as he talked. 'When it's time, you hit the economy, flood the market with the fake simoleons – and Bingo!, no-one trusts their money anymore. Banks get over-run with jittery investors and the French President is crying into his handkerchief. You do that in enough places... well, you certainly don't need to be a fortune teller to guess who benefits from all this.'

Bond spelled it out, the tension in his jaw evident; 'The World Union of Soviet Socialist Republics... apart from Florida, naturally.' Maximilian seemed reluctant, but he gestured back to the train.

'Quite so. Now, I am afraid the tour has ended. You must understand I cannot afford the luxury of trust at this particular moment. I must insist on your indulgence.'

This time the cargo lift went upwards from the entrance cavern, up into the temple complex itself. There they followed Maximilian through a path of flagstones that went through a large rectangular room with narrow pools running alongside the walls, the far end dropping once more to form a corridor that abruptly terminated in two large bronzed doors, two guards standing to either side, guns at the ready. 'These doors lead to my personal living quarters. I assure you you will be provided for and as comfortable as myself.' The doors swung open, revealing the temple's inner sanctum, now a luxurious suite of apartments, each area delineated by different levels in a large circle, each level set at randomly stepped heights, the thousand year old stone lit by hidden lighting, an oddly well-suited backdrop for the European furniture and Spanish portraits. Mexican wall-hangings and rugs were a tasteful, if predictable complement. The whole effect was of a chaotic blend that shouldn't have worked well together, but did, and Bond found it appealed to his inner playboy.

Maximilian inclined his head. 'As always, I have a schedule, as always I must be elsewhere. I have arranged for your belongings to be brought to you – I took the liberty of settling your bill at the Capri. Mr. Leiter, if you would be so kind as to accompany me – these quarters are only comfortable for two. Mr. Bond, Miss Turner, I shall return at the completion of my affairs, at which point you will be a free man – and lady, of course. We will have plenty of time to discuss our partnership at that time.' With a formal bow of the head, the bizarre figure turned on his heel and left, Felix giving Bond a nod and wave as he followed, the guards closing and locking the doors behind them.

Over four thousand nautical miles distant, in the building near Regent's Park, M was waiting for a connection with Washington DC. Consulting his clock, he saw it was exactly eight-o'clock – making it three in the morning there. He knew the call was being routed to an anonymous office block that housed various government departments, including a modestly titled offshoot of the Bureau of Statistics that was actually a cover for the Central Intelligence Agency's liason office. Despite the unsociable hour, M knew that the Duty Officer – usually a retired Marine Corps Sergeant Major or the like – would see the blue line flashing and know it was from London. After giving his prefix (Specially allocated each month on a random basis), M would be put through to the Office of the Director, sometimes it would be Dulles himself, or his Deputy, a disagreeable type that M found faintly amusing.

'Connecting you now, Sir. Setting Three please.' The voice from the switchboard was followed by the maddening buzz of the scrambler. Stabbing angrily at the box in his unlocked drawer, M picked up, the handset now only beeped quietly and intermittently, the signal that the scrambler was working and the call secure. The voice of the Deputy Director came through, brash, impatient.

'Hello?, this thing on?, Hello? M – that you?.' 'Deputy Director, good morning. M speaking, reference Operation Hotspur, I gather you have a briefing today.' 'Well, what of it?, we get plenty of briefings – what's so special it couldn't wait for the Director?.' 'We've got a man overdue for his report, 007, he's on detached service with your man Leiter, Felix Leiter in the Cuban theatre.'

'Yeah, I see – that's a hot potato right now, anyone mentions Castro and the Oval Office goes nuts over it. I'm looking at the files right now. We got a report from Leiter two days back, around 06:15 Eastern Standard time. Nothing since, he missed his daily radio check yesterday. We are assuming technical failure or station compromise. From the log of the last contact it seems he made his standard report, plus a trace.'

'Trace?.' M was in a sour mood, with no time for the breezy shorthand of modern America.

'Yeah, a trace – what the cops call a make or a jacket on a collar; information about a person, do they have a rap sheet?, suchlike.' Jacket, Sheet, Collar – M was beginning to feel like a laundryman.

'And did they?, have a sheet, that is?.' 'Not with us, but you might have something at your end. Turner, Paige, no middle name. Age Twenty Five, redhead, five feet... well, you get the idea. Now here's the bit; Turner, Peter Stanley – or Sir.Anthony Peter Stanley Turner if you please, you are probably familiar with this gem - now sadly deceased - of your Royal Air Force... turns out he was her Father. Leiter didn't say what the interest was, but its likely the inquiry came from your man.'

M was kneading his temple, briefly considered taking early retirement as the various possibilities and implications began sinking in. 'Assuming they can be located, what are the chances of an assisted evacuation?. Can you set up a contingency for an escape?.' 'Not a chance. M, I'm sorry, but I gotta level with you, when it comes to Cuba all bets are off. Your man knew the risks, so did Leiter. Either they are dead already or in enemy hands, better dead in my opinion. Now, I'm willing to bet you are the kind of guy who'll stop at nothing to get his man back, I can respect that, but there is no way your Prime Minister will allow any British rescue mission; not now, not with this goddam Cold War and Soviet Russia breathing so hot. I just hope Double-O-Seven didn't have a family.'

Storming from his office, M was in a cold fury, fists clenched in impotent rage. He would go to the PM about this, he would go to Kennedy himself!, he would... he softened at the sight of Moneypenny, who had been dabbing at her face when he flung open the thick double-leather doors. With a visible effort of will, she forced herself into a semblance of composure. 'Listening on that damn intercom again?. Well, knowing Double-O-Seven he's not finished just yet.' M handed his secretary a slip of paper with Paige Turner, British National, and her father's details in his unmistakable scrawl. 'Get on to records, would you? - name's on there – just in case you weren't paying attention. As for the Americans, they don't control the weather. Call the Air Ministry if you please Miss Moneypenny. One of our planes is about to be blown off course.'

CHAPTER 18

M TAKES A HAND

The RAF Shackleton MR.3 lumbered across the vast gulf of ocean. From its base on Ascension the Maritime Patrol aircraft with its crew of ten was flying at the absolute edge of its fuel endurance, the area they were tasked to reconnoitre being some four thousand miles distant. The Captain, a Flight Officer Benson was a veteran with eight thousand hours on the type under his belt, so he knew they were taking a calculated risk with the mission. The four Rolls Royce Griffon piston engines produced 2,455 horsepower, but at a cost – rather than the maximum speed of three hundred-plus, they would have to fly at two hundred miles per hour, worse, under two thousand feet. If they were lucky, the long - range wing tanks might enable them to reach the planned landing at Ladyville in Belize. The mission tasking from the Ministry had been the usual curt missive, the larger part of it full of the jargon that is the lingua-fraca of flyers everywhere. If the weather reports held true, there would be clear sky over the target area, some islands adjacent to the Cuban Republic.

The briefing from the Operations Officer had been an eye-opener, Benson thought. He was given strict instructions on procedure, including a rather unconventional order to keep his mouth shut about the whole thing. Instead, he was told, if questioned about the nature of the mission, he was to stick to a pre-arranged cover story; the aircraft was on routine patrol over the Atlantic when a storm blew up. Disorientated, with instrument failure and dwindling fuel reserves, he then decided to make for the nearest airbase. Not much of a cover, Benson thought. A 'hot-box' – a portable asbestos-lined strongbox containing a miniature thermite charge was to be used to store the incriminating film canisters after exposure. At the first sign of trouble, Benson was told, he would personally activate the box, pulling the arming handle to melt the film before jettisoning the box.

A keen amateur himself, Benson had handed over to the second pilot and gone aft to join the photographic specialist, who was busy changing lenses on a K24 Kodak ‘Long Tom’ camera.

'Ready to take some beach shots, Tim?.' 'Yes Sir, with this baby you can get a clear image of a girl sunbathing in her bikini at fifteen-hundred feet, clear as you like.' 'Not sure about the bikinis where we're headed, more likely some old girl doing her washing. Anyway, I'm famished, time to see what Mother's packed for our tea.' With that, Benson made his way to the small galley, little more than an electric hotplate, to open his lunch.

'Ravenous, James, simply ravenous. Shall we call the chef?.' Dreamily, Paige reached for an imaginary phone, careless that her magnificent breasts were proudly exposed.

Both she and Bond were exhausted after several hours lovemaking. The first, desperate urgency of animal coupling had given way to the luxuriant rhapsody of slow, sensual and prolonged sex, the sensations washing over their bodies until both seemed adrift on tingling waves of pleasure, scaling peaks and sliding into troughs. Lazily, smoke curled upwards from the bed as both lovers enjoyed a welcome cigarette. 'I really should try to find a way out of here, “England expects” and all that.'

Rolling over, she extinguished her cigarette with a pout. 'So soon, James? I thought a gentleman never left before dawn?, what would your headquarters say? - I shall write to my M.P.'

'Yes – I was meaning to ask you about that.' Bond put out his own, rolling back over to face those disarming eyes. 'Do you really have M.P.s in Russia?.' 'In Rus...James!, what are you saying?.'

His face was hard, angry. Gone the tender lover now, only a cold ruthlessness.

'Spare me; the routine's wearing thin. You knew Max had betrayed your Father, now why?, was it your Control?, who, Paige? - and where did you get that Model 27?, hardly standard-issue, even for the KGB. Well?.'

Furiously, she snatched up her gown, throwing the blue Chinese silk around herself as if ashamed of her nakedness, at having been such a fool for giving herself to this brute of a man. She slumped onto a chair, running her hands through her hair, in doing so missing Bond flushing with guilt and sudden self-loathing that had threatened to choke him briefly. Tying the cord on his dressing gown, he was standing in front of her. Eyes brimming with tears, she looked up, the moisture lending her eyes even more lustre. 'Damn you James Bond. Damn you, as I shall be damned for loving you.' Weary, she held a hand up to fend him off. 'No, there's no need. I'll tell you. I'll tell you everything, even if they kill me for talking. Have you ever heard the name SMERSH?'

'Dear God, this gets worse. I thought we'd heard the last of them.' M picked up the innocuous looking report from his desk. 'Yes, I'm afraid it looks bad.' The Head of Records had made the rare effort to leave his precious files to visit M in person. 'Its all been confirmed, naturally; the girl went over to the Reds after her Father's death. We knew nothing; only that we think she was approached in Paris, worked in one of those ridiculous up-market dress firms they have there.' 'Is there a point to this?.' 'Eventually. The girl was involved with an under-secretary at the American Embassy, the Russians got wind of it and made the approach. Apparently she was devoted to her father, given his views on atomic weapons it seemed a good bet she would come across, which she did.' M looked grim, tapping the dossier with the stem of his pipe. 'The usual?.' 'Blackmail?, what else? - the note threatening disclosure, the unsuspecting wife and family, promising career and threat of ruin, plus some very interesting photographs; let's just say our American had unusual tastes. The girl disappeared from the scene for some time with the plans for the new American Early Warning System in Europe. We only know any of this because the Deuxieme Bureau uncovered that smuggling ring in Marseilles, one of them had been in Paris working as a double agent for the French; he helped set up the safe house the girl's contact was renting, sang like a canary when the Bureau held twelve years over him.'

M had lit his pipe as he listened. Puffing away, he stood, walking around his desk to the large sash window overlooking the Park. 'We know, at least we think we know that SMERSH was wound up in fifty-eight, if we have our dates right she would have already have received her basic training by then. Supposing she joined the Special Executive Department at the MWD?, they took over all SMERSH operations and duties; perhaps she was sent after Double-O-Seven...' The Head of Records shook his head decisively. 'Not very likely. Given SMERSH's reputation it's doubtful Bond would have lived to make the request regarding her. Cross-reference it all, what are you left with?.'

'Well, there's that blasted super-yacht Bond went gallivanting around on, the suicide of the girl's father, the Early Warning System – I'd discount that, probably unconnected. Then she is listed as a SMERSH operative and finally Bond's Red Castle message and the request to the Americans regarding the girl. It doesn't make much sense, but it looks to me as if the threat to the Russians may have triggered an operation of some kind, but why send a girl with so little experience?.'

'We may never know. That's all we have for now, I'll be in records if you need me.' 'Thanks, Hugh. I'll see you and Margaret for drinks, sometime soon.' M went back to his desk, a worried man. His hopes now rested on an aircrew and a Double-O man who may not even be among the living.

'To us, James.' 'To life.' They clinked glasses and drank. Bond had found the bar while examining the room for any signs of a way out, pushing and pulling at the curved walls, which alternated between sections of rough natural rock and smoothly worked masonry blocks, these last with glyphic carvings of long-forgotten idols. Twisting at what looked like a feathered fish of some kind, 007 had been rewarded with the sudden appearance of a bar, as completely equipped and stocked as any he had seen in London or New York. Two of the blocks had pushed outwards, to become stools, while a large section of the wall had folded back and away. The whole affair had soft lighting – even a small sink at one end. 'So, that's it?. You just typed out an order and left it on your Colonel's desk?, no questions, no verification of any kind?.' 'None.' Paige shrugged, a smile of self-satisfaction on her lips. She drank the Cuba Libre Bond had mixed for her, enjoying the refreshing fizz-tingle from the cola bubbles bursting in the white rum. He had plumped for a Vodka and Tonic with a squeeze of lime for a change.

'I was living in Leningrad, my sponsor took me in until I was granted citizenship. After my clearance came through I had been assigned to Department III of Smersh, in Administration. I was watched like a hawk at all times, I wasn't trusted by the Russian staff. There was a routine inquiry about an agent of SMERSH, known by the Codename CAROUSEL. Well, I found the relevant files and was taking them to the Captain who asked for them, when I dropped them. Silly, but these things can be I suppose. I saw my father's name, then CAROUSEL's details. He was to have picked us up that awful night. I knew then that I was going to kill him for what he had done to my father.'

'So why didn't you?. Kill him, I mean – first chance you got, bring out the gun and BANG! - Max sports a third eye.' 'My plans changed when the MWD men came. SMERSH was out of control, they said, time for reform. Kruschev's public image called for a new approach, so the Special Executive Department was given the task of running all SMERSH business. Suddenly they needed new people – there were a lot of empty desks all of a sudden.' Bond could well imagine where the occupants had ended up, but said nothing, raising his glass as a gesture for her to continue her remarkable story.

'I was promoted quickly to the rank of Junior Sergeant, they sent me on intensive courses to learn various things – I think they wanted me to return to England, but they never said. I was transferred to the Embassy in Paris, with the cover of a pool driver, though my actual duties were with the communications section. That's where I was when I first heard about CORMORANT.'

'Cormorant?, as in the bird?.' 'It's the operation to set up an atomic reactor in this region. It's the most carefully guarded secret in the Soviet Union, well, outside the Union. The signal I received mentioned CAROUSEL, I knew Maximilian's habits from his files, meeting him at the Consulate was my idea, but I had no idea he was going to invite me on a cruise. I would have killed him the other day, but now I can see why you stopped me.' Bond finished his drink. 'Oh, don't mind me; now I've seen what I came to see you can shoot him all you like. Now I've seen CORMORANT for myself I can see Max's importance to the Kremlin. He's setting Castro up with atomic energy, a limitless power source that makes a joke of any embargo the Americans can get the UN to agree to. Blockading Cuba won't make a blind bit of difference. And then, there's the atomic bomb...'.

Bond outlined the A-Bomb threat while he began work, examining every inch of their quarters for something, anything that he could use. He rifled through drawers and looked through the bar, collecting a few things he hoped would be of use. The bathroom was as impressive as the rest of Maximilian's apartments, a large sunken bath set into a marble and slate floor with another idol in the form of a gargoyle jutting from the wall above. This time the carving looked human, with a jug of some kind held over its head. Experimentally, he pushed at one of two bronzed studs below the gargoyle, at which a gout of water issued from the jug into the bath. Despondently, Bond found the lever to operate the plug, emptying the water with a curiously hollow echoing sound. He cocked an ear, certain he had heard something. Yes, there it was – someone was singing, and that someone sounded distinctly American!. Urgently he went back to the main chamber, over to the sofa on which their belongings had been left by the guards, going through his things to find a slim case which Paige had bought for him. 'Thanks for this – mind if I mis-use it?.'

Unzipping the case Bond revealed a small men's grooming set of the kind gentlemen take on their holidays. He took out the metal shaving mirror, waving it at her. Thoroughly puzzled, she followed him back into the bathroom, curious to see what he had in mind. He angled the mirror into the stone jug over the gargoyle, called out. 'Hey!, Felix!.' After a pause the reply; echoing and distorted.

'Hey yourself – what's new your end?.' 'Not much. We should meet, I'll come to you.' 'Fine with me, James. I've got nothing but time on my hand.'

It took most of the night, Paige keeping watch on the doors to the apartment. Bond, stripped to the waist worked like a navvy, levering away with the makeshift tools to pry the gargoyle from its mountings. He had a close shave at dinner-time, the guards bringing them a trolley piled with a cold meat buffet and a selection of fruit. Casually, he sauntered from the bathroom at Paige's call, toweling his soaking hair as if fresh from the bath rather than drenched with sweat. After a light dinner, he resumed work, chipping and hacking away at the rock to enlarge the opening. The pipework for the bath had been laid down an original shaft, probably part of a primitive drainage system. Bond could now see it went both up and down and was probably three feet across by perhaps slightly less deep. What was worrying him was the iron grilles that he could now see – several of them had been fixed to cover the shaft at intervals of about twenty feet. These looked new, but while their purpose wasn't clear, it was obvious Bond wouldn't get past them. Without a reasonable alternative, he persevered.

He called a halt around two, exhausted. There was a pile of rubble in a corner of the bathroom and the bath itself, which he swept out using a towel. Pulling the pipes for the bath through the hole, he turned the water on for a soak. Eyes closed, he was laying back, a hot towel over his face. He felt the hands at his neck, fingers probing his aching muscles, massaging the day away.

'Mmm, Paradise...' 'Yes, here we are in paradise and we can't wait to get out.' Paige lifted the damp towel, leaning over to find Bond's lips with hers. 'Really Darling, we should have called a plumber, just look at the mess you've ma-JAMES!.' Bond hauled her off her feet into the over-sized bath, pulling her to him.

The Shackleton rolled to a halt by the tower at Ladyville, the ladder already down as the specialist jumped down clutching the film canister. In the cockpit, Flight Officer Benson wiped his brow, relieved to put the strain of the mission behind him. The fuel indicator dials were resting on their stops. The RAF photographic interpreter rushed the film through, cracking the canister open in the dark room and setting to work. Fewer than twenty minutes later and the resident intelligence specialist was poring over the prints with an eyepiece. With infinite patience he set to his task, his keen eye alert for anything out of the ordinary. The Shackleton's navigational track, a red line on the map on the wall, was his principal guide. The prints were all numbered, each corresponding to an area on the chart. Even the smallest island had several photographs taken, the result laid before the interpreter was a black and white haystack. If there was a needle, this man would find it.

Forty-five minutes passed before the door to the communications room banged open, the RAF man waving the prints and his report in victorious fashion. 'Danny, get on the box to London, call up the Ministry and quick about it! - we've got something!.' His colleague rolled his eyes at the theatrics, no doubt the photo-squinter had turned a manta ray into a submarine again. Nevertheless, he calmly took the report and began tapping out the morse on his key.

It was an old trick, but Bond knew the old tricks were often the best. He gave the section of pipe another turn, the wet towel around it now taut, twisted around two of the bars of the grille. The ironwork was certainly sturdy, the bars must have been an inch thick. Now it took all his strength in the confined space, an uncomfortably loud creaking announcing the metal was surrendering to the immense strain. Basic physics; Cotton fibres can bend iron, the water swelling the fibres to lock them together, forming a bond of incredible strength. Leiter had been busy too, using the threaded bar on which his hand was normally screwed as a lever to remove the bath fitting in his apartment. Squeezing through the gap in the bars, Bond stuck his head through into the bathroom.

'Well, this is cozy. You'd best keep watch while I chip away at this, once it's big enough we can move.' Leiter shook his head, tapping it with his plastic hand. 'James I hate to remind you, but we're still prisoners – in a cockeyed pyramid full of armed goons and Christ knows how many Russians – and that same pyramid happens to be in an island brimming with hardware just off the coast of Red Cuba.' 'Oh Felix, such a drama queen. Where's your sense of adventure?.'

There was no mistaking those lines. M finished studying the images from the wirephoto machine that Moneypenny had brought in. The images were less than perfect, but the Bayamo was easily identified in one, her wake lending the image the impression of speed. The problem was, there was no telling where the yacht had come from – a reverse bearing took her to somewhere in a group of islands South of Cuba, several of which showed signs of recent activity. It had been a terrific gamble sending the Shackleton, but all M could say for certain was the yacht had been there, 007 and the American agent were still unaccounted for. The warning from the Deputy Director of the CIA couldn't have been clearer; no rescue attempts. Grimly, he folded the images into a funnel shape, lighting the top with a match. He let the paper burn down, brushing the last of it into the bin before heading out of his office, past an unconvincingly un-intrigued Moneypenny and down the hallway to the communications section.

Ten minutes later and Moneypenny was typing up the day's notes when M walked into her office, hands deep in his pockets. She had never seen the old man like this, and it was killing her not to be able to say anything. 'Penny, be a dear and drop that – I need you to take down a letter, won't take long.' Moneypenny didn't like the sound of this one bit, but, always the professional she set a new sheet of foolscap into her Adler. 'To the Prime Minister of Her Majesty's Government, Please accept my resignation from the Secret Intelligence Service, effective on appointment of replacement.'

Immediately, Moneypenny's hands were over her mouth, but she composed herself to avoid embarrassing the 'Old Man' further. Clearly, he must have been under intolerable strain over this Cuba nonsense. 'Send that off Immediate, would you?.' Turning back to the leather doors M seemed smaller, somehow bowed. She had a spark of hope when the man she had worked for these long years paused. 'Actually, Miss – Penny, would you care to take a drink with me?.'

'Yes, Sir. Yes, I bloody well would!.' Miss Moneypenny followed M into his office for the first and only drink they would ever have as old friends rather than colleagues.

'Fire!, hey – FUEGO!, FIRE!.' Felix stole a swig of whiskey from his tumbler before throwing the rest on the burning sofa, the flame erupting outwards satisfyingly. Unlocking the door, the young guard on duty was struck dumb, unsure of what to do. His companion, an older man, pulled him out of the doorway to go in to tackle the fire, tackled by 007 who cracked a wine bottle over the unfortunate man's head, kicking him over and launching himself at the first guard. By the time the younger man had thought to use his Sub-machine gun, Bond had grabbed his lapels and swung his forehead into the bridge of his nose with all of his power. Groaning and staggering to his feet, the elder guard was felled again, put out for the count by Felix's solid right hand. Quickly they went over the guards, Bond realizing that neither of their uniforms would fit – unless...

The guard posted to cover the lift area was bored and hungry, counting the minutes until his relief. Illicitly, he smoked, knowing that discovery was unlikely. He blinked as the girl marched smartly up to him. He hadn't seen her before, the few women among the Russians were masculine and unappealing. Not like this, though, certainly not buttoned as low as this girl, her breasts threatening to fall from her shirt. Her boot was unlaced, which he pointed out, eager to be helpful. She started to bend, then, as if suddenly conscious of her alarmingly-revealed chest, she straightened up, a hand thrown across that mesmerising cleavage. 'Por favor?.' 'Oh, Si.' Returning her smile, the idiot bent down to tie her laces for her, her right hand smashing down onto his exposed neck, the pistol she had been hiding in her pocket making a nasty cosh. 'Come on!.' She beckoned her companions over to the lift. 'Going up. Stand clear of the doors.' Leiter grinned, punching the ↑ button. 'Sorry old man, going down.' Both his companions gave a start as Bond pressed the button marked with ↓. 'We need to take a closer look at the reactor first.'

Taking stock quickly the small group now had three weapons, a PPS43 Russian Sub-Machine Gun and two pistols, of the Tokarev type favoured by the Eastern Bloc and Revolutionaries everywhere. The girl was in uniform, so she carried the PPS. Morning Star was clearly in the later stages of construction. Neither of the three interlopers was expert in their analysis, but they were agreed it had the look of something nearly finished. Bond hoped there was no actual nuclear materiel on site, but had no way of telling. He outlined the 'plan' such as it was; split up, attempt to gather some evidence and get out alive. As the gigantic chamber welcomed the tiny cage into it's presence Leiter smoked his Chesterfield with the air of the condemned enjoying the final smoke. Paige was amused, now her true identity of SMERSH cum MWD agent was in the open, her demeanour had changed noticeably. In whispers, Bond had managed to tell Leiter the basics about the girl – basically she was not to be trusted beyond the current sphere of events; this was an alliance of convenience. Leiter had aired his misgivings about the Soviet agent; wouldn't she just betray them to protect Morning Star?. Bond had been adamant; she would do anything to see Maximillian dead, while he was alive she would be an ally; once he was deal with, she was to be considered hostile.

On the ground level, Leiter and the girl made for the nearest of several accommodation blocks in search of something for Felix to wear that might pass inspection; his tropical suit a give-away. Bond opted for the bold approach, simply walking along as if he owned the place. Spotting what looked like an administration block, he took the decision to take a look. There was a guardroom, but it was unfurnished, clearly not operational, so he walked past the open gate to the steps leading to the main entrance of the two-storey building. Presented with a corridor leading into the building and another criss-crossing it Bond turned left on a whim, finding himself in a hallway full of offices. Almost immediately he was challenged – and this was no Cuban, but a massive Russian in a cheap suit. The man stank of KGB security, all cheap cologne and sweat. 'Ostanavlivatʹsya na dostignutom. Dokumentov.' Damn it!, Bond frantically searched his memory for the Russian. 'Dokumentov' was obvious though. 'Khm , izvinite. U menya net ikh so mnoĭ.' (Erm, Sorry, I haven't them with me.)

'Chto? , Gde vy izuchatʹ russkiĭ yazyk ? DOKUMENTY!' (What?, where did you learn Russian? PAPERS!)

Bond had a moment's inspiration, drawing himself up he became belligerent, poking the broad chest to emphasize his words. 'Teperʹ slushaĭ menya! . Eto ne na Lubyanke ! Vy ne mozhete otnositʹsya k uchenym , kak prestupniki zdesʹ! zhdatʹ, poka ya govoryu vashemu nachalʹstvu vy obrashchalisʹ doktor Flyeĭshman eto moda!' (Now listen to me!. This isn't the Lubyanka! you cannot treat scientists like criminals here! wait till I tell your superiors you treated Doctor Fleischmann this fashion!). Instantly the man's attitude changed, doubt then deference spreading across the broad Slavic features. Bond's ploy seemed to have worked, the Russian slave-mentality and the naturally second-rate Russian of the 'German Scientist' in his favour. He was waved off with a grunt for an apology and a note to himself to take the first refresher course available.

The offices themselves were either bare or in the process of being furnished – nothing for Bond here. He pushed further along, coming to a stairwell. It was a risk, but he could see cheap-suit lurking at the entrance to the corridor he had just come through. The second floor opened into an identical arrangement, but after the first row of empty rooms a left turn took Bond into a canteen. He was just turning to leave when he caught sight of cheap-suit lumbering along urgently – clearly the dolt had discovered Doctor Fleischmann was a fraud. Ducking behind the counter Bond automatically snatched up a container marked PERETS, dodging around the dixies full of bubbling soup and stew, past a cook who clearly couldn't care less and into a staff restroom. The KGB-man blundered in to get a face-full of pepper and a groin-full of shoe leather. Bond finished it with a japanese palm strike (A favourite on the Hand to Hand course, delivered with the fingers curled back and a guaranteed knock-out when used against the jaw.).

He was dusting his fingers free of pepper when he noticed the cook's coats hanging from the rail; to a casual observer they might easily pass for the white coats worn by scientists. Time was against Bond now, he needed to get something and get out, quickly relieving the man of his identity pass and the thick rubber cosh that was, oddly the man's only weapon. Doubtless the man had not been issued a side-arm for disciplinary reasons or drunkenness. Fortune smiles upon the brave and today was to be no exception. The section to the rear was a laboratory area, with heavy metal doors and thick red-rubber seals around them. Clearly this was an area intended for either hazardous material or one designed to protect the occupants. As Professor Bond strolled into the laboratory proper he knew he had come up trumps. The air of controlled chaos pervading the area made it a spy's dream, with scientific staff and technicians bumping into each other in their haste to get the whole place up and running. Obviously a deadline had been imposed, the possible reasons for which Bond didn't concern himself with. He found what he wanted in a side-room, filing cabinets stuffed with paperwork.

Casually, 007 shut the door behind him, setting to work quickly, going through a drawer at a time for anything that looked like useful intelligence material. Finally he had amassed a small pile, perhaps fifteen pages of likely stuff; mainly technical diagrams, cost projections and operating procedures for the reactor. As a bonus, he swiped the radiation dosage guide he found fixed to the inside of the door; it looked the part, which Bond knew was as likely to impress the politicians as the technical stuff was to keep the boffins interested. It all went into his waistband at the back, covered with the white coat.

Bond decided to go out the front, but his plan changed when the alarm went off – a nerve-jangler of a klaxon that had to have been stolen from a U-boat. Suddenly there were boots everywhere, with Bond opting for a hasty withdrawal back past the canteen to what might have been intended as a dormitory – whatever, there was a window, which overlooked some large objects covered in dull green tarpaulins on the concrete outside the building. Bouncing heavily off the middle tarpaulin, 007 was flung off into the fence at the back of the building, finishing up sprawled underneath the whatever-they-weres just in time to see a Soviet military jeep pull screeching up to the guardroom. Noting that the mystery objects were, in fact empty trailers, Bond climbed into the nearest one, out of ideas and out of places to go. He drew the Tokarev, silently checking chamber to ensure there was one 'up the spout'. He had eight shots, but had already counted thirty of the opposition. That made seven, plus one for himself. 007 closed his eyes for a moment, taking a series of deep breaths to steel himself for what had to come. Strangely enough, there was no attempt to enter the building, just what looked like a parade. As the Klaxon's last echo slapped off the rock the impression was heightened by the call of men to attention.

This was something Bond could resist no longer, his curiosity peaking as a file of white coated scientists, men and women, began filing out in pairs to form two ranks opposite what now looked to be a company of elite Soviet Guards Airborne troops, high boots spit and polished to a shine that would have a British Guards Drill Sergeant weak at the knees. Bond seized the chance, easing the hammer forward and clicking the safety before hurriedly dusting himself off and joining the file of scientists, standing next to last on the back row. The arrival of the lift could now be heard across the cavern, the work gangs at a temporary standstill. Resisting the impulse to crane his neck around Bond stood loosely at attention. A Sergeant-Major of Guards swaggered out in front of the assemblage, hands on hips and chest out, of all things a cavalry sword at his hip. The man gave a short nod to his men before turning to the scientists and nodding more deeply. Bond got the message; they were simple civilians, but god help them if they so much as blinked!. This was starting to remind him of his passing-out parade all those years before, when as a gauche officer cadet he joined the Navy reserve.

The VIPs arrived, a pair of motorcycle outriders roaring up impressively before three jeeps came to a sliding halt, the last two disgorging Cuban troops to form a slightly less-impressive Guard of Honour. This time Bond risked it, getting the shock of a lifetime before locking his eyes forward again as the Sergeant-Major brought the parade to attention, goose-stepping forward three paces and stamping to attention as if it were May Day on the Square itself. The sword came out and up in salute, which was returned with a wave of the cigar before the muscular bearded figure wrapped his arms round the Guardsman and kissed both cheeks in comradely fashion. Recovering his composure admirably, the Sergeant-Major led Fidel Castro first past the scientists and then his men. James Bond was genuinely at a loss – as he saw the Cuban supremo's approach he knew he had the chance in a million. Two shots to the head, plus a few at the next targets of importance (The senior scientists were easily distinguishable from their greying and balding heads and their position in the front rank); his housekeeper could have done it, let alone a Double-O!.

The famous pillbox hat was level with Bond, those famous brown eyes made contact with his for a heartbeat, Bond returning the gaze with a smile, his hand casually against his coat ready for a fast draw from the hip. Bond knew it was suicide, plus he had no orders regarding Castro – the moment had passed, the hand relaxed and, he had to admit, the man he had nearly killed seemed genuinely likable, laughing and joking, handing out cigars from a box a flunky carried and even trying a guardsman's cap on before playfully punching the nervous young man in the arm and slapping him on the back. Bond knew this would not be in his report, but his feeling of contented satisfaction over his inaction washed away through his shoes at the commotion that had started up in the building behind. Cheap-suit was clearly awake. The Parade was dismissed as the motorcade sped off to the main reactor building, Bond letting the flock of white coats disperse enough to cover his exit towards the lift, his nerve holding as he could hear shouts behind him, the wrong man indignantly vocal in outrage at being accosted.

Bond caught up with the Motorcade as it stood idly outside the reactor building, waiting for the Cuban leader to finish his tour. Ducking out of sight beneath an external metal fire-escape Bond whipped round, pistol drawn – to find a grinning Leiter already concealed there, in a dirty blue boiler suit and hard hat. 'Relax James, don't say you're getting jumpy on the trigger.' 'Okay I won't say it, then. Where's the girl?.' 'My guess is up there with Comrade Fidel selling us out-yes, I've seen him. She went ahead to take a look inside. Turns out our girl learned more than hoodwinking Double-O men at spy school; she's a bona fide expert on nuclear stuff like this get-up.'

'Yes, I rather thought she was too good to be true. How do we get out of here anyway?, that lift is getting busier by the minute.' 'Beats me, James. Here's our girl.' Out of breath, Paige joined them.

'Here's the bad news – don't ask, there isn't any good. Despite appearances, the reactor itself is ready to go hot, all the structural work is complete and todays visit was the official commissioning ceremony – they start generating power sometime this week, with the undersea cable ready for connection to Cuba as soon as a cable laying craft gets here. I had to get out when extra guards started being posted. Some sort of trouble in the complex.'

James looked down, embarrassed, but Leiter was intrigued. 'So, you've taken the advanced course on all this Atomic stuff; what's the deal with this Morning Star?.' 'Morning Star is a water-cooled graphite-moderated reactor. It's a military design using uranium fuel-not the standard enriched-uranium either, this stuff comes out of the ground in the Belgian Congo by the bucket-load. Extremely simple design. Once it's built it only needs a handful of specialist technicians and staff – the rest can be trained in a day or less.' Bond was getting lost. 'Could it be used to make a bomb?.'

'No – not in the Hiroshima sense of the word at least. Its primary purpose is to provide power, which is probably worse.' It was Leiter's turn for confusion. 'Worse than mushroom clouds and instant sunshine?.' 'Yes, worse. Uranium decays, becomes inefficient. The spent material remains highly dangerous to humans, which is why Maximilian is the last person who should have access to so much of it. Put simply; pack a suitcase half full of TNT, pack the remainder full of uranium and set the lot off with a timer.' '

Bond had that feeling again, exchanging a quick look with Felix that told him the Texan was worried too. Paige ran a hand through her hair and explained; 'It needs to be somewhere high, say the Empire State. New York, Manhatten and a large part of the surrounding area would be desolate for five hundred to a thousand years. Manhatten, New York City. No life of any kind for five centuries. Worse enough for you Mr. Leiter?.' Bond had a glimmer of an idea. 'What if the reactor blew up?, wouldn't the blast be contained under all this rock?.' Felix snapped his finger, 'Hey, yeah, like our tests out in Nevada – don't tell me the Reds haven't got their own stretch of desert full of new craters and melted rock. Well?, what about it?.' Paige sat back, taking her head in her hands before answering. 'You're confusing Atomic bombs with Atomic power – this reactor simply cannot be made to explode. Well, not in the conventional sense of things.' This raised the eyebrows of both men. 'There is one way. If the fuel rods come into contact with air, they oxidise violently, releasing large amounts of hydrogen in proximity to the biggest heat source on Earth. The only problem is, the person operating the rods would be among the first to be killed in the explosion. A suicide mission, in short.' 'Well, I'm seeing this gal from Houston, James is single...' Leiter's joke fell flat,

They had to find another way. They had out-stayed their welcome as it was, to judge from the increased Jeep patrols and squads of soldiers that now sealed every entrance. Leiter wasn't optimistic. 'There's no way out.' Bond ducked back into cover as a couple of trucks whined past. Looking up at the steel stairs a thought occurred to him. 'How does the electricity get out – where does it go after the reactor, I mean?.'

CHAPTER 19

THE BEACH PARTY

The guards at the steel mesh gate were becoming bored. It was nearly time for dinner and their relief was overdue, nearly ten minutes now. Had the men been more alert, they might have paid closer attention to the driver of the truck that pulled up at the gate, waving his pass impatiently. Another arrogant Russian, no doubt. They had been on duty in this godforsaken hole for a whole month now and not once had one of these foreigners deigned to treat them as equals. So much for the global Comradeship of Socialism. They would show him!; the two Cubans went over the truck as carefully as if they were thinking of buying it. The search took a full three minutes, one guard climbing up onto the jump-step to look inside the cab, while his counterpart climbed into the back; they even looked underneath. Finally, tiring of their sport, they waved the driver through, waiting until the truck had disappeared down the access tunnel before bursting into laughter. Inside the cab of the truck, Paige had to fight off a fit of the giggles, partly because of the absurdity of the situation, but mainly because her 'seat' kept tickling her.

The truck pulled over into a parking area, joining a row of identical trucks. Identical, that its, except that they hadn't had their driver's seat removed and replaced by two spies crouching down and covered in an old oil-stained blanket. Glad to be free of their burden, the two men jumped down behind Paige to stand in awe at the scene before them. If the cavern containing Morning Star was large, this one was long; not the same height, perhaps, but much longer, with the impression of a natural gallery that had been widened and elongated. There were no stalactites here, whatever had created this chamber had done so mechanically and recently. Nor was it empty; the monstrous concrete box running the full length was easily a hundred feet tall and five times that in length; probably more.

'Gentlemen – the Morning Star Turbine Hall-inside there are two Super-Generators, powered by the steam piped through from the reactor at extremely high pressure, each one could provide enough power to run a medium-sized city... at half normal operating conditions. Easily enough for the whole of Cuba, with plenty left to spare.' Bond was starting to lose patience. 'What's beyond that?.'

'Just the outlet channels; assuming the high-voltage switching gear is in the end of the main building, if they are planning an undersea cable there'll be a set of outlet channels of some kind, where the cable will connect to the transformer stage.' 'And we can get out of these channels?.'

'I hope so.' Bond grabbed her by the shoulders.

'You hope so?. You knew about this place from the very start – don't try to deny it I'm not in the mood, and I doubt Felix is either.' 'You got that right Jim. Keep going, I'm finding this all rather fascinating.'

Angrily, Paige pulled herself free of Bond's grasp, but he threw her against the truck with brutal force. 'All right. Let's have it and no games. How come you know so much about this place?. Dropped another file?, happened to read it?. I want answers.' Her defiance required Bond to go further. Deciding against striking her, he drew the Tokarev, cocked it and stood with his legs firmly planted, the pistol at his side. Felix raised his hands in protest 'Now wait a minute, James.' 'Stay out of this, Felix. I'm damned if I take another step without answers.' His eyes blazed into hers, and she knew she was seeing in them her own death. Of the man she had lain with there was nothing, just darkness, empty and void. It was a truly frightening glimpse of what this man would become when a life was to be taken.

'All right. I told the truth, but only about giving myself this assignment. It had been given to another agent, I just changed the name on the orders. The mission was to get close to Max, keep a close eye on him and report on the progress of Morning Star.' 'Report?, how?.' 'There's a radio hidden on the island. There's more; I was to eliminate him if required. I was also given the name of several potential traitors among the scientists, those classed as politically unreliable, also to be watched and eliminated if necessary.' Bond thought about it for a moment and let the hammer down on the pistol. 'One more question, then we get out of here to that radio of yours. Why did Max leave your father on that beach?.' 'It took me years to find the answer to that same question.'

It wasn't much of an answer, two words; Blue Steel. From what Paige had read in those files, her father was taking the plans for the British nuclear missile to the Soviets, but Max stole them and left them behind. He was paid $100,000 in gold bars for the plans, but raised the price at the last minute, delivering only half. Paige intended to find the second half of those plans and destroy them.

Sitting on a pile of crates, the group took a moment to digest this information, Felix's Chesterfields coming out for an unusual and risky conference. Leiter wasn't sold. 'Destroy them?, surely your father wanted the Soviets to get those plans.' 'He was an idealist, he believed no one side should have an advantage. If you know anything about Blue Steel you'll know what it means. It's simply too dangerous for either side to have such a weapon. I can't do anything about the West having it, but I don't believe that the way to peace will be found through having more weapons.' Bond admired the sentiment, yet felt sick at being used this way. Love!, the thought of it; a slushy word for a slushy sentiment. So!, that's how it felt!, to be used by another... The bile rising in his gorge was quenched by the overpowering bitterness of cynicism, a cruel smile of irony on Bond's face. The girl was a professional after all!. 'Okay, no hard feelings. Just business, right?.' 'Yes James. As you say. Just business.' 'Speaking of business, don't you two love-birds think it's time to get going?.' Bond couldn't have agreed more, shaking his head as he followed his companions towards the building. Once more it seemed life certainly liked to play tricks on 007; all along he'd wanted the Blue Steel job, but this was the last place he'd have thought to have stumbled upon it.

The locker room was busy when Leiter breezed in, which made for good cover as he set about stealing two boiler suits to go with his. The work crews in this area seemed to either be in blue or white, so he took a chance on the blue, hoping that would get them through un-challenged. Returning to the storage bins where he had left them he handed them over, waiting while they changed. The main engineering spaces were as impressive as the size of the building had suggested, gantries to the centre and either side of the great hall with a gantry crane running along below the ceiling. An operating crew was at work on the crane, lending scale to the proceedings by appearing to be insect sized as it slid along regally in the rafters.

The Super-Generators themselves defied description, each like some massive metal city – overall they were pipe shaped as expected, but the inhuman scale of the machines was un-nerving, even to a Texan, Leiter's low whistle was expression enough. The klaxon sounded, startling them, but this turned out to be a shift change, all the blue boiler suits clambering down gantries and out from under machinery, grateful to have another long stint behind them. The three kept moving, ever deeper into the bowels of the monster. 'Do you see what I see?.' Bond answered Leiter's question with a noncommittal grunt. Paige was the last to see it; the shift coming onto the floor were all in white. 'Ahh crap. Trust old Felix to pick the wrong shirt.' 'Keep walking-I can't see the end yet, but that gantry-' Bond pointed a finger-' That looks like it leads somewhere. When the balloon goes up, run like hell.' Paige had left the PPS back at the truck, which left the two pistols. Bond and Leiter were ready to shoot their way out if they had to.

'Hey!, Consiga el culo en movimiento!' At the bottom of the gantry a confused supervisor emerged, looking around for the cause of the shouts, on seeing the three blue figures he started to berate them for their laziness, but fell silent as Felix shoved the barrel of his Tokarev into his chest. 'Hi there. Which way to the outlet channels?.' Bond tried Spanish; 'Canales de salida', at which the dumbstruck figure pointed towards a stairway leading up the side of the building, where it connected with a catwalk leading out over the hall to a large central metal room suspended from a series of pipes leading all the way up from the ground level to exit through the ceiling at an angle.

'Doesn't look like a way out.' Bond might have agreed with Felix's doubts, but Paige had already set off at a trot to the stairs. 'We'll soon find out. Go, go!' Bond waved Leiter on after the girl, smiling at the supervisor, then whipping his pistol up to fire two quick shots.

By the time the man had opened his eyes again Bond had gone, leaving him alone with the badly wounded guard behind him, two bullet holes through his arm and shoulder. This time the Klaxon blasts sounded in alarm as the new shift evacuated the floor, to be replaced by squads of heavily-armed guards. It took a full minute to reach the catwalk, all three gasping for breath as they jog-shuffled along the span. A sudden whining howl and a spark from one of the supports announced the outbreak of hostilities, the shot soon followed by another. Bond saw a group of tiny Lilliputian soldiers directly below, a flash from one becoming a zzup! As the bullet flashed by his leg. From up here the whole building stretched away dizzily below and around the alarmingly narrow metalwork. Paige in particular seemed to be fighting an attack of nerves, but a reassuring hand on her shoulder from Felix lent her courage.

The room ahead was occupied, shapes visible through the windows, the bulk of a huge man appearing in the opening door ahead, a large spanner clutched menacingly in one hand and a toothless grin on the broad features. 'Down!, Paige get down!.' Cursing, Felix couldn't get a shot off at the advancing bulk, the girl was frozen on the spot. Seeing the danger, Bond grasped both rails, pistol still in hand, kicking up to get his feet onto the thin bars. Forcing himself to stand, with a brief moment's loss of balance – and the clattering, dismaying loss of his pistol – he flailed his arms once, yelling down to Leiter. 'Felix!, pistol!.' The Texan understood, tossing the pistol up for Bond to catch as the spanner was poised to smash down onto Paige's skull. Heart-stoppingly, Bond fumbled the catch, the Tokarev slipping from his right hand... into his left. He fired. The shot took the man in the bicep, the spanner tumbling down from the rafters to smash the rifle from the hands of a soldier as he was about to shoot Bond.

'Get up. Up! Bystro!' Using the wounded giant as a shield, Bond entered the room. It was a large space filled with rows of electrical control panels and an observation gallery. There were upwards of people inside, including two women, all standing or in the process of doing so having heard the shots and commotion. Pushing the injured man into a chair Bond directed the nearest woman to attend to his wound, waving his companions past to the hatchway at the far end. Standing on the roof of the building the outlet channels were either side of the hatchway, each with its own access hatch in the side of the gigantic steel pipes, the diameter of these easily over two metres. Opening the nearest hatch Bond could see the high-tension cable at the core of the channel, a rubber coated beast as thick as a man's thigh. These stretched away, both down and up, being held central by sets of springs mounted at intervals along the pipe. The angle was steep, but he reckoned they could make it – assuming no-one thought to start shooting up the pipe – or switched the reactor on, the heat from the cables probably fatal to a human. 'These wires, they must go up to the surface, right?.' Leiter sounded dubious. 'Well, we've only got five shots left, so we'll be finding out soon enough, won't we Paige?.' Bond's sickly-sweet smile was not returned. Leaning back into the roof hatch, he called out for the workers to get out of the way and cover their ears, firing the remaining five shots rapid fire into the electrical control panels. He hoped it would be enough. Jamming the empty pistol into the roof hatch lever, Bond reckoned they had bought a little time, going over to the outlet channel pipe. 'Ladies first, Texans second.' Paige paused for a second, going into the pipe cautiously, stepping onto the springs and reaching upwards. With his one good hand, Felix was naturally worried about the climb. 'Well?, how is it in there?.' 'Come on, Felix, its easy. Just don't look down.'

It certainly wasn't easy, but they managed, clambering up the steep incline with no more than the odd slip or slide into each other. Several sweat-soaked minutes later and they emerged into a concrete box room, the hatchway for which was dogged – from the outside. Bond slumped onto the floor, beaten. 'Now what?, knock and say Open Sesame?.' Felix wasn't used to seeing his friend give up. 'Sure, James, why not?.' Banging on the hatch with his plastic hand, he shook his head in shock when the hatch was opened, a tanned face peering in.'Que pasa?.' Anyone watching the Cuban would have seen his head jerk back, then his body suddenly being dragged from sight into the open hatchway. No-one was watching.

The cache was contained in three boxes, each waterproofed, buried in the loose topsoil and camouflaged. The first had contained the radio and batteries, the second food and water, as well as a rubberised sheet for shelter and a set of canvas jungle boots and camouflage overalls in Paige's size. Several handy items had been thoughtfully included, such as a belt with water bottles and pouches containing the boy scout stuff that soldiers all over the world actually rely on for their survival; a torch, knife and so forth. It was the contents of the third box that Bond and Leiter were busying themselves with, however. As well as an AK-47 there was a Makharov pistol with silencer, a bag of grenades and two satchel demolition charges, plastic explosive type. The most interest had been reserved for the rocket launcher-a new type neither of the men had seen before. Paige had given them a quick run-through; the launch tube was fixed to the ground by a folding bipod, then a sighting arrangement was slotted on before aiming. The tube was then loaded with the rocket – a high-explosive warhead with a massive punch, launched by a mechanical timer that could be selected manually or by a booby-trapped wire. When fired, the tube and sight arrangement were melted into unrecognisable scrap by the rocket flame.

Headphones to his ear, Bond tapped out the morse on the Russian set. BARRACUDA STOP URGENT STOP BARRACUDA STOP URGENT ANY STATION STOP ANY STATION – The signal was kept to the bare minimum, just co-ordinates and a coded reference to Morning Star. He waited for the reply, taking a deep pull at the water bottle Paige handed to him. The reply came in typically terse style; a brief acknowledgement plus a set of instructions. Felix was busy preparing a snack – of sorts, from the food supply. Bond finished listening to the reply, making sure he had memorized the details before signing off gratefully. Suddenly things had changed, withdrawal now far from his thoughts. 'Well, that changes things. Felix, I'll need a word when we've got a moment.' Paige said nothing, but Bond could feel the annoyance from where he now sat. 'You said you had a radio, not an armoury and food. Standard MWD issue I take it?.' 'Something like that, yes.' She accepted a saltine cracker and beef paste sandwich from Leiter. Bond sniffed his suspiciously, taking an experimental bite. Paige couldn't help laughing at the face he pulled and Bond joined in despite himself. 'Now I can see why Soviet agents are so tough. If you can survive the food, you'd be indestructible.' The two old friends took the chance to speak alone, apart from the girl. From where they stood, just inside the treeline the view across the island was magnificent. The calm before the storm. Felix handed Bond one of the last of his precious Chesterfields, lighting another for himself. 'So, what's the news from the outside world?.' 'Theres going to be a beach party – and we're the hosts.'

The Shackleton lumbered off into the pale blue dawn at Ladyville, just over two hours flying time distant. Unknown to all on the island, M's last official act as Chief had been to send a signal authorising the rescue mission, but until Bond had called in with his location, the aircraft had remained at a state of instant readiness. The hold of the Shackleton contained an unusual cargo; a small force of Elite Royal Marines. Just twelve in number, the men crammed into the back were drawn from the highly secretive Special Boat Squadron, itself descended from the legendary Cockleshell Heroes that wreaked havoc in many daring missions behind enemy lines. Each man knew Sergeant Thewlett personally, inevitable in such a close-knit unit, and this was a matter of honour. With blackened faces they sat, each lost in his own thoughts. Some smoked, despite the prominent STRICTLY NO SMOKING signs, others checked their equipment and weapons. They wore the new experimental camouflage pattern tropical weight shirts and olive green trousers over canvas and rubber jungle boots. On the ground personal choice dictated the choice of headgear from bush hats and sweat bands, only one man, 'Sandy' Carew wearing the distinctive Australian 'digger' hat, a nod to his roots with the Australian Commandos. Jumping with the Mark Two parachute, it would be-unusually-a day-time operation. The Royal Navy was to make the pickup later that day, the details were sketchy due to the covert and last-minute nature of it all, but the Submarine HMS Trafalgar was operating in the Caribbean and the current betting was on a rendezvous at sea and a ride back to Belize, where the men had been on a jungle training course.

Bond checked the time again, holding the torch carefully so as to shield the light from prying eyes. On the way to the isolated beach they had already had to dodge two patrols and it was certain there would be more now the whole island knew of their escape. The torch, with red signal filter attached, was a nifty East German type based on the German wartime model used by the infamous Brandenburger Kommando units. He sent three flashes, waited thirty seconds then repeated the signal. There! Flash – flash – flash, a tiny pinprick of red light out to sea. Thirty seconds then another three came, followed by the sound of waves gently slapping against rubber then a vagueness that slowly resolved into a boat, several dark figures dimly visible.

'Commander Bond, Felix?, that better be you – Godammit Pancho, keep the lousy boat steady!. Where is that Goddamn limey anyhow?.' Laughing, Felix stepped forward from his concealment place between the rocks and waved his lighter. 'Benny?, well I'll be... what the hey?.' The voice came again, closer now. 'Well, you said you needed an Army. I brought one.'

Benny the Breeze finished his hurried explanation, shrugging and gesturing wildly to emphasise the trouble he had gone to to help the stranded party. 'So then you missed the Midnight show, great act by the way, Carmen Roxana, best singer we had in months... Anyway, I gets a call from a guy, can't say who, says he's looking to get his friend Bond out of a nook, thats what we call a hole in Brooklyn, so I says sure, where is this Bond?. Anyway, he says he's on some island, but its all sewn up tight with Cubans and Russians and theres no way. So, I figured the odds and called in some favours, which is to say every favour I was ever owed...'

'Benny, I hate to interrupt a pal, but we're kinda out on a limb here if you get my drift.'

'Okay, sure, I get it. Benny always comes through – I brought some guys, actually bought 'em is more correct. They're all ex-Cubans, like you wanted, all keen to take back the old Motherland.'

Leaning closer, the flamboyant Mafioso lowered his voice. 'Just don't tell 'em this ain't Cuba. They all think we're on Cuban soil – I didn't want them to lose interest. Speaking of which, this all adds up to, well it won't be cheap Felix, so I gotta tell ya, this job don't pay there would be unpleasantness.' Leiter was incredulous. 'Why you lousy crook... are you threatening the CIA?.'

'Just business Felix, nuttin' personal. Anyway, I figure your credit's good. Okay, Pancho, better bring the boys in.'

At a signal from Benny's man Pancho, first one, then two, then four boats began emerging from the black waters. As each made the shore, it was quickly dragged up into the treeline. After nearly half an hour, the group was complete. Bond took a rough count, coming up with an estimate of around sixty men-Benny had claimed there were a hundred, but when Bond confronted him over the discrepancy the New Yorker had just shrugged and smiled coyly. They would have to do; sixty men, armed with a motley collection of weaponry that ranged from rusty shotguns to what looked to be brand new Thompsons, the 'Tommy Gun' of gangster notoriety.

The group had appointed several men as Lieutenants, Bond grouping these men around a hasty plan of the base he had drawn in the sand, seashells standing in for artillery pieces and machine-gun posts. 'Now, listen carefully. This is where we are, this arrow is North and these are the directions we will attack from. There are two main areas of defence, judging from what we've seen an inner and outer ring...' Briefing the irregular troops took just ten minutes; Bond estimated they only had ammunition for that long, besides which he was sure that after that time they would either be dead or have forgotten the plan anyway. With a last look round, he made his AK ready, cocking the weapon and making sure the fire selector was in the 'Safe' position. Felix cocked the Colt .45 he had borrowed from Benny and Paige, in her camouflaged overalls followed suit with the Makharov.

Bond stood in front of the expectant group. He knew none of these men, only that they had risked their lives for their country and he felt admiration and gratitude; these men were not professionals, but still had answered the call. 'Gentlemen. For Cuba.' 'Por Cuba!, Por Cuba!.' The shout went up into the trees, taken up by sixty voices. Benny's army was going to war.

CHAPTER 20

A CONQUEROR REBORN

The military Headquarters building for the island was concealed in the stone of a ruined temple adjacent to the main pyramid. On duty in the radio room Corporal Gonzales of the Cuban military was losing hand over fist, throwing his hand away angrily. Sergeant Perez gloated as he made twenty-one for the third time in a row, as well he might since the cards they used were his specially marked deck. The buzzer from the radio console saved him from discovery as he pocketed his winnings and the cards. Reluctantly, Gonzales answered the call, getting a screech of static and an unintelligible babble through the loudspeaker. Pressing the 'transmit' button he realised that the fool at the other end was holding theirs down, so couldn't hear him anyway.

"Sargento, yo no puedo conseguir a través de - ¿Cuáles son sus órdenes? '.

('Sergeant, I can't get through – what are your orders?.') 'What do you think?, some drunken idiot is keying the mike. Call the stations on the emergency channel, channel twelve-a radio check, find out which moron doesn't answer and I'll go kick their ass.' Unconcerned, the Sergeant looked over the map on the wall, which showed the island divided into sectors, each with its own radio post.

There was no need for the emergency channel-at that second a massive explosion blasted up into the sky from the area designated as Sector G. Knocking the stunned Corporal aside, Perez stabbed at the button, yelling into the microphone. 'Attencion!, attencion!, informe de todos los sectores!, guardias para el Sector G!'. While he waited for the sectors to report in, he cuffed his subordinate round the ears, ordering him to sound the General Alert on the air-raid siren outside.

The sounds of gunfire and the distinctive crump of grenades exploding came from several directions, while on the ground Benny's men were making steady progress towards the main pyramid. Felix had taken command of a group of twenty Cubans, with the aim of hitting the outer ring of defences around the island as a diversion for the main attack. Bond had taken up position opposite a pair of heavy anti-aircraft guns, the ominous shape of a tracked vehicle behind, a communications and headquarters vehicle. He scanned the greenery intently, hardly blinking, concentrating on his surroundings. Jungle warfare is one of the most demanding kinds, the shadows and greenery natural camouflage for those deadly little tricks and traps; miss an exposed equipment pouch and you miss the sniper, miss the tripwire and be certain the shrapnel won't miss you. Seeing nothing, it was time to move closer.

'Now what the?... well, somebody sure has good friends in the Kremlin. Felix ducked back down behind the earth bank, careful not to be seen. If there had been any doubt about the Soviet commitment to this Atomic plant, Felix now had none. He knew about the Davina missile, of course, the latest Russian anti-aircraft missile got a mention in every briefing now-the man who got hold of one intact would be an Agency legend. Officially, NATO called the rocket the SA-2 Guideline , although details were sketchy it was estimated to have an operational height exceeding fifty thousand feet, with a separate radar guidance system. Felix was glad they had no planes over the island. Such as the Shackleton which was at this very moment ten minutes out to sea.

On the other side of the island, Bond had crawled to within a few feet of the nearest gun position, the four barrels pointing lazily skyward, the gunner carelessly smoking. The fighting was yet to reach this sector, so there was no need for alarm. The man was a veteran of the revolution, and knew better than to panic at the first sign of trouble. He died smoking, Bond's knife cutting his windpipe, left arm tightly holding the Cuban as he kicked, Bond making sure of death before releasing the body. Taking the man's bush hat and cigar, 007 climbed into the gunner's seat.

The men manning the second gun were jumpy, neither had been in the military long and they were unsure of themselves. The gunner was staring into the jungle, eyes wide at the sound of gunfire. His mate was crouched alongside the gun carriage, equally tense. A glance over at the first gun gave him hope; look at Alfredo!, smoking coolly without a care!. He waved, getting a laconic wave of the hand back in reply. His gunner was about to scold him for taking his eyes off the danger area when the whole world exploded. At this range and used in the ground role the Soviet 14.5 mm anti-aircraft system is one of the most fearsome weapons known to man, the high-explosive shells designed to punch massive holes through aircraft left the second gun an unrecognisable mess of twisted steel. Of its crew only the mate remained, lying in the mud behind the wreckage and praying he would survive. Bond swung the barrels round to engage the communications vehicle, but the Russian crew were obviously professionals, the tracks screaming in protest as the driver sent it lurching off into the foliage. Bond gave it a few bursts anyway, but doubted he had done any damage to the armoured beast.

The fighting was getting closer, the proof in the number of stray rounds blasting past; a loud krak-thump as the odd round came through the trees, with a thwok! sound when one hit solid wood. Things were getting hairy, so Bond decided to head to the pyramid, determined now to destroy Morning Star. Paige had been behind him, part of a group with Benny, but she was no-where to be seen. From out of nowhere a clattering announced the arrival of a helicopter, the craft roaring overhead at just over tree height to hover above the nearest group of attackers. Bond saw the danger, but it was too late, as he loosed off a long burst at the chopper a silver canister rolled from its belly, to fall amongst the patriots bursting open in an explosion of flame and smoke. Horrified, 007 was powerless to help the poor devils who writhed around in mute agony, living balls of fire in their own private hell. Mechanically, 007 raised the kalashnikov, thumbing the switch to automatic. Firing short bursts he moved round the perimeter of the holocaust, ending the misery for those he could see. A shot from nearby sent him crouching into the aim, but it was a Russian Sergeant of Guards, administering mercy shots of his own. Locking eyes, Bond looked into the blue eyes opposite for any sign of hostility, but the Sergeant merely nodded in acknowledgment. Returning the gesture saw both men reach a kind of personal truce, each going on his way unharmed.

In the cabin of the helicopter, Chago tapped the pilot on the shoulder, whirling a finger round to indicate another pass. The pilot nodded, banking the machine into a tight pass around the pyramid and leveling out in a low run towards the area where the fighting was fiercest. On the ground Benny took a break, swigging thirstily from a hip flask one of his Cubans had passed round. The men were in good spirits, despite several casualties. They did tend to bunch together, but this was to be expected from untrained men. Giving the thumbs-up, Benny hefted his tommy gun, giving the opposition half a magazine. The machine-gun at the base of the treeline opened up, sending chunks of wood and sand spinning and spraying up. 'Hey, senor Benny.' Pancho pointed at the sky, where the helicopter was flying away from a large fire on the ground. Benny eyed the whirly-bird nervously as it flashed overhead. Unless they got past that machine-gun, into the safety of the trees they were finished.

Chago leaned out from the open doorway, grinning evilly as the helicopter turned to attack the main group. He hauled the canister to the edge of the door, ready to slide it out onto the fools below.

Fumbling with the spanner, Felix wished he'd left this to Bond, the tricky perch and all the noise not helping one bit. He had to hand it to 'his' Cubans, they sure were game – throwing un-primed grenades at the rocket crew to send them running off in a panic, the prize the intact missile system itself. Nearly there! - one more turn and he would be the proud owner of the guidance box from a Guideline missile. What he hadn't bargained for was the damned thing deciding to take off with him still aboard!.

Up on the hillside a glint from binoculars was briefly visible from beneath the camouflage netting cover. Lowering the binoculars, the Captain of Artillery nodded to his next in command. The radar had been correct and the target was indeed an enemy aircraft; a four-engined bomber of British type was the Captain's assessment. No matter; they would bring it down, a legitimate target, no doubt connected to the bandits who were about to be swept into the sea by the Guards troops held back in readiness. 'Tselevaya na poltory tysyachi , priobreteniye semidesyati protsentov vosemʹdesyat pyatʹ, start!' (Target at fifteen-hundred, acquisition seventy percent, eighty five, LAUNCH!.')

To a background of noisy chirping, the fire control officer slammed his hand down on the release button, keeping it down to allow the automatic system to fire the missile from it's launcher in the clearing below, with, unseen a petrified Texan hanging on to the guidance control box for grim death.

'RED LIGHT ON – STAND IN THE DOOR' The RAF Jumpmaster shouted the words, but knew no-one would hear him. Still, it was standard drill, and the men shuffled forward towards the door as one, each hooked onto the cable running above the door. In his headphones, the Loadmaster gave his colleague three fingers followed by a finger to thumb zero. Thirty seconds.

Far below, Felix hit the ground hard, knocking the wind out of his lungs. He rolled away as the rocket-blast blew his boys off their feet, surprised to find he was still holding the guidance box. Thirty-odd feet of missile screamed off the rail and with a phenomenal WHURSSHHH lifted into the sky at a frightening velocity.

Chago heaved at the incendiary bomb, but was sent sprawling over it as the Russian pilot saw the launch plume from the forest below. 'Boga nyet!' The Russian heaved at the control stick, but to no avail; the rocket went crazy, spinning and gyrating out of control. From the ground Felix saw the thing bucking around the sky and, for a moment he was convinced it would fall back into the clearing. It roared around the helicopter and toppled into the tail boom. Nearly a mile away, Bond whipped his head around, shocked at the scale of this latest explosion, parts raining down across a wide area.

'GO-GO-GO!' With scarcely a second between them a the men jumped, anxious to keep it tight, a second at this speed the difference between landing in a group or a hundred feet away in the jungle. The plane was down to five hundred feet for its run, the height chosen to help keep the men together and avoid too much time spent helplessly dangling in the air.

The first pair crashed down into the canopy, coming to a sudden halt. One man felt his parachute slipping, quickly pulling at a bag on his leg, sending it tumbling down to the jungle floor eighty feet or so below. Rappelling down the canvas strap that had been rolled in the bag he hit the ground hard, rolling to the side and drawing his pistol to cover them, pulling the last of the strap through the harness each man wore for the purpose as the next man's boots came down next to him. This was repeated until nine of the men had either landed in the trees or clearings, months of training proving their value as the parachutists transformed into SBS teams. Jumping on a small island, the inevitable; the last three men went into the drink, jettisoning their parachutes as they came down to the water-they knew the trick; when the horizon looked normal, they were about to go in (More than one parachutist had a long and fatal fall before this became common knowledge.). Partially inflating their buoyancy vests, the three stragglers began striking out for shore.

Maximilian listened to the stream of chatter on the radio. Instructing the Captain to take the Bayamo to full speed he went to his state-room. There, he found Ortega coming from his bathroom, in a track-suit. The man was in excellent shape; he would need to be to kill this James Bond. What a fool he had been to imagine this pendejo gringo would have the intellect to comprehend his plans!. Well, this would end with the knife. Going to a sofa Maximilian pressed two of the button studs, the back falling open to reveal a small safe. Spinning the dial, the 'Marques' pulled out a folder containing the precious Blue Streak plans. Whatever happened on the island he knew these were as good as hard currency, but he would not leave the gold the Russians had paid him, or the printing plates. The reactor had been a dangerous diversion, more for Castro's reputation than any real gain. He would raise the price again-perhaps even offer the all-important blueprints to the Americans!, surely if the Reds would pay the rich US would pay double, triple to keep the plans from the Soviets. With the plates, the operation could still go ahead. Better to take at least one of the old forgers as insurance... 'Ortega, you will find Bond, then kill him.' 'And the others?, the American and the girl, Senorita Turner?.' 'The same. Do not delay. We leave tonight.'

'All right gentlemen, you know the score.' Sergeant-Major Mickey Greene was an old hand at this sort of work, with a career going back to the closing stages of the war in Italy. The no-nonsense figure was short, but built like a barrel, a true Cockney from Stepney. 'Now that we're all here,' his eye took in the recent arrivals, the three men dripping wet from their swim. 'We've got three teams to cover the whole place, so we just keep it simple. First; find this Bond chappie, get him out, no messing. The Yank and the girl-they're not our responsibility, but we'd best bring them out anyway.'

'What about the Reactor?, the personnel, scientists, that sort. What's the word on this from upstairs?.' The question came, not unexpectedly from Munro, a dour Scot with a pedants chain of thought. 'Well, we don't know – each team's got a radiation meter, if anyone starts feeling funny best get out sharpish. They'll want some pictures, so Davey G thats you nice and busy, don't ponce about with document photos, just bag the lot and scarper. Jack and Davey B you've each got a radio, get set up and wait for further-sorry about the lack of gen, but I only got this much when we were already in the air. Alright, piss off, the lot of yer.'

With that briefest of briefings out of the way, the men broke up into three four-man patrols, each taking a different route at intervals of five minutes. The last two men swept the beach clear as they went. A minute after they had left the beach, no-one would ever know they had ever been there.

'DE TODAS LAS UNIDADES DE EMERGENCIA STAND-BY POSICIONES, CON TODAS LAS UNIDADES DE EMERGENCIA STAND-BY POSICIONES.' The voice over the tannoy was that of a man used to command, sounding almost relaxed as it echoed around the complex. Bond made sure he was ready, checking himself over quickly. He had hoped to find a uniform to replace the boiler suit-green seeming to be la mode above ground, but his luck seemed to have drawn the line below sartorial matters. As well as the AK-47 he had a Colt.45 tucked into a pocket and a holdall containing the satchel charges and two grenades in his pockets. There were just three magazines for the rifle, not nearly enough, but he hoped there would be more in the complex itself. Silently, he stepped into the freight car, hoping the metal sides were thick enough to stop a bullet. Up ahead, one of Benny's men reached up to move the locomotive's accelerator lever to half-speed and press the starter button. With shouts of alarm, the guards nearest to the train began running to try to stop it as it began rolling down the track. As the nearest came alongside the freight cars, Bond lashed out with the butt of the Kalashnikov, sending the man sprawling to bring the next down in a tangle of arms and legs. The Bond Railway Company continued on it's inaugural – and terminal journey.

'¿Qué demonios?.' The men manning the self-propelled artillery piece looked on in surprise at the unmanned train, then chaos as automatic fire began hailing down on them from the car. Bond ran through half a magazine, giving an observation post up in the trees the last few bursts. He had the satisfaction of seeing a body topple down before ducking back down to change magazines.

'Mensaje entendido, vamos a detenerlo' Clipping the walkie-talkie to his belt, the soldier at the guard-post outside the pyramid entrance unslung his rifle, cocking it as he relayed the message 'He's in one of the mine cars-you jump up on the loco and stop it, soon as he shows himself, pow!.' The chosen man nodded, steadying himself to make the jump. The locomotive was going at perhaps twenty miles an hour, but the man was quick, vaulting into the seat to slap the lever back to 'stop' then rolling off to help cover the cars. Nothing. Both men looked at each other, shrugging. They moved forward, down the carriages, but the train was empty!. There was just a green canvas bag in the last car. As he opened it, the soldier heard an ominous klik and just had time to see the grenade pin attached to the neck of the bag... BOOMF!. The second Cuban staggered back, covered in bits of his colleague and riddled with shrapnel. His last thought as he saw the man walking around the corner of the train was; 'Oh.' Then there was nothing.

Bond walked up the train, throwing down the satchel charges on the front passenger carriage. Wedging himself low on the floor of the locomotive, he reached up to push the lever forward to drive into the pyramid.

The guards at the lift were from the Soviet Airborne forces, there were four of them, well armed and trained, behind a hastily erected sandbag barrier. They watched the black mouth of the tunnel, the lighting above making it seem even darker. As the sound of the train intensified the Sergeant released his safety catch with a click, the signal for the others to follow suit, the machine-gunner pulling the cocking handle back on his RPD and releasing the safety, ready to send a belt of 7.62 ammunition into the target. The train, however, did not arrive, squealing to a halt, brakes sparking in the darkened tunnel. Silence. A long minute passed, the four soldiers keeping all weapons trained on the tunnel. Eventually, the Sergeant realised they were being foolish, acting like frightened schoolgirls. Chastened, yet angry at himself he sent two of the men over to investigate. They reached the tunnel, one behind the other, going in fast. Six shots sounded, followed by a long burst – then again, silence.

From his viewpoint under the locomotive, Bond had been cramped, the view less than ideal. The boots rushing towards him were too tempting, the shots had been his, shattering the men's ankles, one firing a burst into the tunnel wall. His ears ringing from the noise, 007 hit the lever, running back to dive into the first mine car. As the little train rolled out into the chamber, the RPD gunner opened up, the machine gun blasting the passenger carriages full of holes. Throwing himself flat in the little car, 007 tossed his last grenade out, which exploded fairly harmlessly against the sandbags, the two remaining guards ducking away. By the time they had cautiously raised their heads – behind their barrels, the train had gone on its way off into the next tunnel. The moans from the wounded men in the tunnel brought them back to reality, the Sergeant walking out cautiously to stare after the departing train, as it rounded the next corner to disappear from view into the 'Archeology rooms'. Well, that was a dead end – and a lethal trap for the crazy durak who had attacked them. He waved his remaining man over to help him get the wounded over to the lift.

The lead scout froze, as did the next man. The third man in the patrol slowly closed up to number two, while the last man simply slid off to the side to go down on one knee, watching the rear, the barrel of his sterling sub-machine gun slowly following the movements of his head, alert to the minutest signs of danger. After what seemed an eternity, the scout took his left hand from the grip of his pump action shotgun to signal with a waving motion forward, the third man – the patrol commander - stepping past number two, who was armed with a Light Machine Gun, (the old-fashioned Bren gun given a new lease of life with a conversion to NATO 7.62 calibre). Like their rear security man, the commander hefted a sterling. The scout, still rigid, brought his hand up, splaying his pinkie and thumb out to form a line, then nodding forwards. A tripwire was just visible, but only just – strung at waist height across the path. The commander took a quick look himself, finding a Soviet anti-personnel grenade had been rigged up, fixed to the trunk of a palm. As he expected, anyone who survived the trap and who tried walking around it would simply trigger the real booby-trap, the string of mines hidden in the soft earth. It took no more than a minute for him to render the grenade safe, simply running some waterproof tape around it before cutting the wire with his naval-issue clasp knife. The scout waited another minute then moved forward at the crouch, shotgun questing for targets as he made his slow, silent and deadly progress towards the Headquarters building..

Now on full alert, the Soviet troops in the booby-trap chamber were poised to open fire, literally; the others giving the flamethrower man a wide berth as he stood in the 'invisible' gallery ready to spray death down onto the intruder on the train. Sitting on the lip of the last car, Bond waited for the right moment, when the first passenger car would emerge beneath the gallery. He tensed, ready to roll backwards from the train. With horrific force a jet of oily flame lanced down to envelop the locomotive, licking back greedily to consume the carriages, the satchel in the first enveloped in flames.

'CHRIST!' Bond had a split-second to push himself down to the floor of the mine car, before the orange-yellow bloom that ripped the air from his lungs and sent the last two cars careering back down the track. He had just enough time, just to clap his hands over his ears and open his mouth, but although he had avoided ruptured eardrums he would be effectively deaf for some time. He never saw the man with the flamethrower stagger, immolated, falling to the ground next to the macerated corpses of his companions. The blast itself continued down the paths of least resistance, slamming through the bronze doors into the printing room and down the tunnel, where after knocking Bond aside the next victims were the two remaining guards by the lift. In the outer entrance to the tunnels, the incoming SBS men ducked down as the rolling boom breathed its last over them as a sharp gust of warm air and dust.

Maximilian pushed the old man in front of him, behind two of his most loyal men, four more bringing up the rear with their burdens in two fireproof metal boxes. Each box contained two sets of printing plates, plus a generous amount of forged currency. Maximilian would not be short of funds to continue his operations, he would... but the thought fell from his mind as the doors ahead exploded inwards, a searing blast of super-heated air raging towards the party, the two men in front taking the worst of it, but both declared themselves fit to continue. Luckily for him, the current owner had discovered the passageways installed by the originals, whatever caused that blast it would be foolish to go out that way – plus he doubted his Russian comrades would be impressed by this withdrawal. Not for the first time, Maximilian decided to leave his friends behind. With curt commands, he summoned more of his men. He would need more than this party to move it all.

In the lift chamber, the Russian Sergeant climbed groggily to his feet, to see his machine gunner lurching drunkenly. Comically, both men were now naked, apart from their boots. The SBS patrol had hit the ground, low and to the left, alternately lying prone or kneeling, ready to deliver a lethal volley. There came a scuffling noise, as if people were running, coming closer. Sergeant-Major Greene frowned into the darkness, then bellowed a warning as he waved the two Russians forward.. 'Stone the crows, look at these two!, all right, lads we've got some prisoners-don't think the search will take long, mind.' Faces to the floor, the cowed Russians walked out, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. Smiling, one of the SBS men handed each a leaf to cover their embarrassment.

CHAPTER 21

THE CHAMBER OF SACRIFICE

Bond had been lucky not to have been incinerated. He realised he had lost the AK somewhere, but still had the Colt and his teeth... he stumbled out towards the lift, wondering what the best way would be to destroy the reactor below. Ears still ringing, he reached the lift shaft, finding it empty. Reaching for the button, he became dimly aware he was not alone. 'Permanecer quieto !, no te muevas!' He froze, his hand dangerously close to his pocket.Two of the team moved in, one to check the man in the dirty boiler suit for weapons with the other covering. Bond was relieved of the Colt, letting himself be controlled by these newcomers, recognising their equipment and the accent of the one who had spoken. At a nod to the remaining two Marines, the patrol commander stepped forward. Bond sized him up. 'You're English?.' 'Commander Bond?' 'My friends call me James.'

'Lovely. Come on, we're getting you out.' 'And just when I was enjoying myself...' The commander, a plainly-spoken corporal from the Rhonda was in no mood for argument. 'Now listen to me would you. I've got orders to get you out, see. I take it there's an Atomic power reactor on the island, lets not hang about chatting, lets go. Boys.' He snapped his fingers and pointed to Bond, the signal for two burly Marines to grab hold of him.

'Take your hands off me!. Listen, I don't have the time for explanations, but clearly we're on the same side. You've got orders, but I've got a lunatic who's capable of anything. If I don't stop him he's going to cause chaos – he'll destroy our country and many more, no-one will be able to trust their money, everything will collapse!.' The Welshman looked at this mad Englishman pityingly, clearly whatever the poor sod had been through had un-hinged his mind. One of his team came back from the tunnel. 'Sorry Taff, I think you'd better see this.' He held a fistful of currency. Outside, it was raining money – a look to the top of the pyramid revealed the source; a group of old men who were delightedly throwing handfuls of the stuff into a massive fan, one of those used for drying the notes. Bond couldn't have asked for a better moment to slip away, instead he confronted the patrol commander, who was squinting thoughtfully at a five pound note he held to the sunlight. 'There's one of those water-marks, even. Well, it looks real, doesn't it?. All right, James to my friends – I'll be generous. You tell me why I shouldn't drag you off this island and best be quick about it.'

As Bond outlined the plot, the plotter was stepping out into a vast subterranean space, a crescent-shaped chasm formed when the volcanoes had given birth to the islands, a place of smoke and fire that had seen the temple builders come and go over long centuries. In addition to the six men Maximilian now had a further eight bringing up the rear. The shelf near to the rim of the shaft was an extension of the natural, a platform built out over the pit that had then still glowered an angry red, smouldering and un-satiated. The bowl in the platform floor was roughly cruciform, those few who had seen it needed no explanation of purpose; this was an altar for human sacrifice, channels and apertures designed to drain the victim's lifeblood away to fall to the thirsty gods that dwelt below. Even though long dormant, the volcano gods long since forgotten, this place of evil still retained the aura of the macabre. Overlooking this a stone-lined bowl against the side of the cavern was a throne of sorts set in what had seemed to be a crypt, a stone coffer below the throne itself. Inset with a filigree of brass the coffer was clearly intended to honour a personage of importance, but the designs engraved into the brass were clearly Spanish of origin. The old forger-a Hungarian by birth-couldn't contain his curiosity, which did not go un-noticed by his keeper.

Placing a hand on the bony shoulder, Maximilian's voice was kindly. 'This is my greatest treasure. See, come, you have worked well for me, you should see why.' At his command, four of his men hauled the cover-stone from the coffer. Reaching in, Maximilian took out an object wrapped in an oiled leather roll and then more, each of differing shapes and sizes, each placed carefully to one side. Remaining in the coffer were several wooden boxes, with rope handles. 'Gold. The universal currency, bullion bars each worth a man's life.' 'If I may say so, you seem to value life rather cheaply, Sir.' Maximilian took a moment to absorb the old man's temerity, then laughed. Why not? - he could afford to.

Turning his attention to the leather rolls, he unwrapped the longest, revealing a scabbard of surprisingly simple beauty, the silver was dented and scratched, but the design was as artistically worked as the demands of function allowed. Likewise the sword, which Maximilian drew to reveal an etched Toledo blade, burnished rather than polished, with a silver and brass handle. The basket-hilt was dented and pocked, suggesting many years of service. The pommel itself was adorned with a ruby or garnet the size of a tuppence. It was the sword of a conqueror, and as Maximilian pulled it from the old man's stomach, he wiped it on his own sleeve with due reverence. Falling backwards, the dying man's arms flopped outwards, his body a terrible illustration of the purpose of the bowl in which it lay. His blood ran down the channels, dripping away into the depths. 'Never mind, eh?. I can always learn to print myself, eh?.' Only Maximilian laughed at the joke.

With the extra men carrying the bullion boxes, they continued on along a narrow ledge that led to a dramatic halt, just a wheel set into the rock. At the turn of this wheel, a modern steel gangway was revealed, detaching itself from a recess in the manner of a folding ships bunk. Stepping onto the grilled sections, Maximilian strode forth confidently, his men following visibly less so, the odd glance downwards amplifying the precariousness of their progress over the abyss. A stone lintel on the far side seemed welcoming by contrast, even with the grotesquely carven face that it bore.

The KGB men finished their search of the apartment, finding nothing save Bond's excavation work in the bathroom. Security Chief Mitrovkhin was busy contemplating his likely future when a subordinate broke into his thoughts, the man's eyes still red and smarting from the pepper Bond had thrown into them. The Chief beckoned him over impatiently. 'On ushel ! , My dolzhny soobshchitʹ ob etom srazu!' ('He's gone!, we must report this at once!'.) But, instead of the usual nod of obedience, there was just embarrassment. Lowering his gaze, the man mumbled; 'My ne mozhem. Radio oborudovaniye bylo unichtozheno.' ('We cannot. The radio equipment has been destroyed.')

Puce with rage, the Chief rounded on the hapless man. 'Chto? Obʺyasnitʹ sebe tovarishcha' ('What? Explain yourself comrade.') 'Gruppa napadayut na nas idet yarostnaya, a lyubitelʹ. Radio peredach byla unichtozhena spetsialistami. Yestʹ seychas neskolʹko nashikh lyudey chislyatsya propavshimi bez vesti .' ('The group attacking us is fierce, but amateur. The radio gear was destroyed by professionals. There are now several of our men reported missing.')

Mitrovkhin knew the ramifications of this. He would be lucky to escape with 're-education' and twenty years in the lead mines – not that anyone had ever survived the full twenty... 'Vot derʹmo! My dolzhny zashchititʹ reaktor lyuboy tsenoy. Poluchite , chto durakpolkovnik , skazhite yemu , chtoby zapechatatʹ yego.'

('Shit! We must protect the reactor at all costs. Get that fool of a Colonel, tell him to seal it off.') Red-eyes left with a perfunctory nod. The Chief opened a box of cigars, selecting one to bite the end off, spitting it onto the floor as he fished in a pocket for his lighter. Puffing away he decided things were not so bleak, sitting in a chair to mull over his options. He could always defect... Lost in his plotting, Mitrovkhin's normal alertness deserted him; he should have noticed the wall hanging behind him as it ruffled and billowed slightly. Perhaps it was some sixth sense screaming at him, he turned to see Maximilian standing there, in full helmet and armour, sword in hand.

The commander of HMS Trafalgar leaned back as the periscope dropped down. He had seen enough. Captain Alastair Fanning RN was the image of a young sub skipper, lean, bearded and alert-looking, with a hawk's eye for danger. Right at this moment, he smelled a rat. Leaving his second officer to keep things in hand, he went off to his wardroom to think it over. The island was, as advertised, a death trap-the whole place was wreathed in smoke it seemed. He buzzed his steward for a coffee, then opened the envelope containing the latest from Admiralty. It was only what he had expected; the routine rubbish plus a re-statement of his responsibilities if caught operating in foreign waters. Blah-blah-blah. It was only when he got to the last page that his interest was piqued. On the receipt of certain codewords, Trafalgar was to close in to the island at a point marked on the charts to receive the party concerned. As if things weren't tight enough on board!-he would have to tell Chief Crooke to find some space for'ard. The orders for the yacht left no room for interpretation, either; if she leaves, sink her-preferably in the deeper waters out to the East. The fatheaded idiots!, what did they think this was?, a torpedo boat? - Trafalgar was no slouch, but even on electrical power her best was no more than seventeen knots submerged. No, if he sank the Bayamo, it would have to be done from the spot. With no cover, he knew using the periscope array was a risk he could not afford, which left the Hydrophone Operator. Blind, they would have to listen for the sounds of their prey's attempted escape-then he would see if they could outrun a Mark VIII Torpedo.

The jolly-boat pulled away from the Bayamo, but instead of the jetty the craft headed for the rocks to the side of the bay. Coming around the bluff, a cave revealed itself, no more than a few feet above the high-tide marks on the stone. A powerfully-built crewman held the boat from the rocks with a fender pole. Jumping down into the boat, two of Maximilian's men started the transfer of the boxes, while the bosun kept the boat stationary.

'Contact 240 range seven hundred yards. Single screw, probably a boat.' The voice from the Hydrophone station was the only sound from inside the sub. Even at this range and submerged, the dull crump and boom of battle reached the ears of Trafalgar's crew. Leaning in intently, Captain Fanning was relying on the young rating to provide him with the vital warning of the yacht's movement. 'Thank you, Simmons, keep it up.' The Captain went into the control room to confer with his duty officers.

Maximilian, resplendent in full costume and armour stood in the shadows of the cave, watched the boat taking his fortune to the yacht on which he would soon escape. All that remained for him to do now was to find and kill that hijo de puta Englishman Bond. He knew that he would be taking a risk, but not now... no, now he could not back down. Clad in the very armour of the great Cortes, there would be no question of his simply running away like a whipped dog. Hand on hilt, he turned to exact his vengeance. The vengeance of Cortes.

CHAPTER 22

THE DAY OF THE CONQUISTADOR

James Bond would have preferred to have had complete darkness, but the moon had other ideas. Combined with the crystalline light of the Caribbean stars, the result was a risk he had to take. With no sign of Maximilian, it made sense to get aboard the Bayamo and do what he did best; destroy. He chose-or rather, had chosen for him-a team for the job, six of the Special Boat Squadron lads, the best at this work according to Mickey Greene and from what Bond had seen, the Sergeant-Major had not been exaggerating. Indeed, these men must have been half-fish, swimming out to the yacht under the surface using no more than their own lung capacity to sustain them. Despite his best efforts, Bond himself had to surface for air twice on the way in.

In the water, the men took turns assembling a slim metal pole, each man adding his own section. This obviously practiced routine concluded with the last man hooked it quietly onto the stern rail, one of those flexible ladders of the sort favoured by climbers and potholers now hanging from the pole. Bond went first, over the rail and straight into the nearest cover, half kneeling behind a capstan, .45 at the ready, wearing a borrowed pair of shorts and a diver's knife on his thigh. On the Starboard side of the yacht opposite one of the SBS men crouched in the shadow of a davit. The others were waiting for them to deal with the guards aft; Bond's man going down with a sigh as the heavy pistol lashed down onto his exposed neck, the guard opposite dropping down like a stone thanks to a killing blow to the larynx with the skeleton stock of a sub machine gun. At the signal, the others were over and gone in under a minute, two making straight for the bridge, the remaining men secreting themselves besides the hatchway leading to the crew's quarters and below the bridge ladder.

The team were armed with silenced sterling smgs, as well as browning 'hi-power' pistols, the knives each carried more for dealing with obstacles than for any murderous purpose. There was the briefest exchange of shots from the bridge, the THWACKAKAK noise of the subsonic rounds striking flesh seeming excessively loud in the absence of the normal sterling racket. A thumbs up from the open bridge door was Bond's signal to move up and to allow the men to begin the leap-frog clearance of the lower decks. The surviving bridge crew were face down, hands on heads, one man covering while the other searched them for weapons or incriminating documents. Bond stepped past the body to take a look at the bridge, pulling the chart draws open as he began a rapid search. The bridge was fairly clean; the only thing of interest was the body; a Russian Paratrooper, chest now riddled.

'Looks like they don't trust each other, dunnit, mate?.' Bond answered the man's question with a shrug and a noncommittal 'Perhaps.'

It took ten minutes to be absolutely sure, but finally the team pronounced the yacht was cleared. There were no obvious booby traps, plus there were now upwards of fifty prisoners – the entire skeleton crew that had been left aboard to keep her at readiness, held in the crew canteen. Bond joined two of the men as they searched Maximilian's opulent quarters. One of the team was a well-spoken home counties type, elsewhere certainly an officer, but in this company he was as likely to be a Corporal. 'Well, what now, Commander?.' Bond pocketed a packet of smokes and a gold lighter from the desk before answering. 'I was thinking of scuttling her. Pity really, some of this is probably worth a fortune.' 'Well, stone the crows... would you take a look at this little lot?.' The other man, a Geordie was holding up a gold bar for inspection. The man had noticed a handle set into the deck beneath a rug, a turn of which and a spring-loaded hatch cover had opened, revealing the metal and wooden boxes, the entire haul ready for transport in the hidden hold. Idly Bond toyed with a silver letter opener on Maximilian's desk, some Aztec god by the design, inlaid with precious stones, emeralds for eyes. The green stones reminded him of Paige's eyes. He tossed the thing away as one of the men burst in.

'Boss, Commander-there's, well, you'd best get up to the radio room.' Bond lit up, leaning back on a shelving rack in the tiny compartment. With headphones on over one ear, the SBS man scribbled on a water-proof pad furiously, finally placing his chinagraph pencil behind his ear. Keying the message out using high-speed morse, he sent a reply with a quick, sure hand, holding the pad over his shoulder with his free hand. Bond read; BARRACUDA FROM FURBALL (REPEAT) RSVP

'Furball?' Home counties frowned the question at Bond. 'Yes, as in Felix – Felix the Cat, hence Furball – I'm working with him, he's from CIA.' 'You cloak and dagger types must have an odd social life.' 'Yes, but at least the pay is lousy.' To the radio man, 007 added; 'Send this, would you?; FURBALL FROM BARRACUDA, REPEAT, SEND, OVER.' There was a short pause before the pencil resumed its scribble. BARRACUDA, FURBALL PAN PAN UNDER HEAVY FIRE AMMO LO. Felix was in trouble, deadly trouble. Bond instinctively knew that 'Pan Pan' – meaning assistance required – should have been a Mayday. 'Tell him helps on its way – then I want your full strength, only leave the minimum guard on this ship and get ready. You've just joined the Cavalry.'

Bond took four of the men, all that could be spared for the business at hand. Working quickly, with the maximum of grunting and sweating, they hefted the boxes from the secret hold to the jolly-boat and back onto the island. The train would have been handy, but it was in pieces back in the tunnels. Bond's luck held, however, with the discovery of an overturned jeep. Heaving the vehicle back onto four wheels took the strength of four, plus a tow rope that they found coiled over the rear bumper. One of the team set to work on the engine, while two others worked quickly to replace a tyre that had been riddled with shrapnel. Bond and the remaining man swore and cursed the heavy boxes into the back as the jeep was declared serviceable, if a touch scorched. He waved the others off to join the rescue mission, starting the jeep up and sending sand flying as he hit the pedal. The jeep's engine roared in approval of the mechanic's touch, 007 sending the machine off the track and into the blackening jungle.

'Felix, I need more ammo!.' Benny's plaintive call elicited a grimace from Leiter. They had regrouped, armed themselves with captured weapons, but their progress had stalled an hour back. Maximilian's Cubans had put up a stiff fight, but Benny's Cubans were fighting with their backs to the sea. 'Hard' and 'cruel' were the words that best described their lives, after exile these men had fought to prove themselves with some of the toughest gangs in the United States. From the original force of around sixty, no more than half that now survived; the rest dead or in the process of dying, many with horrific burns. The thirty-odd remainder included at least a dozen wounded, some seriously. The volume of fire had died down in accordance, from the continuous barrage of the early battle to the sporadic outbursts of fire to single shots. The enemy knew this, were clearly preparing another assault on what had been the attackers. Where the hell was Bond and that 'help' of his?.

On his side of things, Colonel Borodin was a satisfied man; his elite Airborne troops had smashed the invaders to matchwood. Using standard tactics and heavy weapons, he had decimated the imperialists. His mortars had proved annoyingly ineffective on such sandy soil, true, but his heavy machine guns and flamethrowers had done the trick nicely. Soon, it would be time for him to lead his men to victory – the men would expect nothing less of their leader. Yes, it was true that until now his actual participation in the battle had been conducted from the command bunker, but wasn't he a busy man?, didn't he have to submit to that ass Mitrovkhin's inane rantings about security?. Well, the Morning Star reactor was safe, that much he would soon report – when those duraks from the engineers got their stupid heads together and fixed the radios. Yes, it was about time. Careful – he was always careful about his appearance – careful not to scuff his highly polished cavalry officer's boots, the Colonel drew his pistol, taking a moment to admire the workmanship. He had had the pistol specially made in a nickel finish, with hand engraved decoration, by a gunsmith who had gone to sleep in Germany and found himself waking up in East Germany. Those capitalists certainly knew how to make a fine pisto... but such thoughts would be unpatriotic, so he re-fastened his holster, cocked the pistol and checked his cap was at an appropriately jaunty angle.

'Pssst! - Look at this peacock, pretty inne?.' The SBS man nudged his mate, who looked over and smiled at the sight of the pompous Russian Colonel marching over to his men, moonlight glinting off the idiot's highly polished brass and boots. With two men left on the Bayamo, the remaining ten Marines were crawling into position off to one side of the Soviet firing line. True to form, the Russians had posted men to watch their flanks, but being true to form, these men were also bored, long overdue for relief. Clearly audible were the nearest men's complaints at being left out of the fighting. As the saying goes; be careful for what you wish...

Damnit! Wrenching the wheel over, Bond only just missed her in the dark, the jeep screeching to a halt in the middle of a large cluster of zamia bushes. 'James! James – I think I've found a way... well, don't just sit there, give me a lift and I'll show you...' As they drove Paige alternated between talking and gesturing. She had gotten lost, but found herself caught in the middle of the fighting. Using her training, she had worked past the Soviet positions and found another entrance to the subterranean complex; an emergency exit designed to facilitate evacuation in the event of a reactor meltdown or similar disaster. Bucking and bouncing, the jeep careered through ferns and around fallen palm trunks, the girl's flow unbroken by the teeth-cracking ride. '...So, there I was; back in the jungle, where you found me, James. Anyhoo... what's the cargo?.' Bond glanced across as he fought to stop a skid turning into a crash. 'Its Max's gold – the payment for Blue Steel, plus some interesting engravings of various American Presidents and Her Majesty.' 'I won't ask how you got them, just what you intend to do with all of it.' 'I wasn't entirely sure; I had an idea of drawing him out, bait the trap, that sort of thing.' Paige seemed confused. 'Had?.' 'Had. I think I'd like a look at that exit of yours.' They exchanged glances, before both bursting into laughter at the unintended double entendre.

'ADVERTENCIA! Todo el personal a permanecer en sus puestos' 'VNIMANIYe! Vsego personala ostayutsya na svoikh postakh' The tannoy announcements echoed around the vast cavern, the order to all Morning Star personnel clear; remain at your posts. Paige's emergency exit turned out to be a concrete pipe wide enough to drive the jeep down – unfinished, the idea was clearly for some kind of 'flying-fox' rail arrangement – the rail in question suspended from the roof of the pipe by stanchions. Bond had seen something of the sort on a visit to Cape Canaveral-finished, a chair of some kind would slide down the pipe to take the occupants from the immediate danger zone. It took a few of the metal boxes to act as a ramping step, but the jeep was driven into the mouth of the pipe. Boxes back aboard, the journey continued, into the heavily guarded Soviet Atomic reactor.

Grim-faced, Leiter fired his last few rounds, dropping back below the sandy ridge, exhausted. Across the firing line, Benny was in the same boat, blasting away with his Tommy gun until the sudden, heart-stopping klik spelt the end of his ammunition. Risking a quick look, Felix saw an immaculately turned-out Soviet officer rallying his men for the death blow. Well, they had tried...

'Nice knowing you, Benny!.' There was a snort of laughter, then; 'Me, dyin' for Uncle Sam... who'da thought it, uh?. Well, screw 'em, commie basteds didn't get us widowt a fight, for sure...'. Suddenly, there was what sounded like a dozen gloves being slapped hard against a leather sofa, with the odd KRUMP! Of a grenade exploding on the sand, which then rained down on the huddled men.

This time Benny joined Felix in examining the situation; a group of dark figures were going through the terrified Russians like ghosts passing through a graveyard, which this was fast becoming. Brrp Brrrp!; To the left of the attacking wraiths a firing line composed of two machine guns barked and stuttered out a hail of suppressive fire. Whoever these newcomers were, Felix knew they had to be 'pros'. Silenced automatic weapons used this well against hardened Soviet Paratroops, that cut the field down to a handful of outfits. As quickly as they had arrived it was over; the remainder of Soviets surrendering, including their officer – after a brief, if dramatic struggle in which he was prevented from suicide by one of his own men, furious at his commanding officer's cowardice.

Cautiously, Felix stood, slowly, arms out to his sides, instantly facing two stubby barrels.

'Hold it chum!, wait there, we'll come to you.' The two SBS men came forward cautiously, checking the ground with their toes for any sign of booby traps. 'My names Leiter. I'm CIA. I take it you guys are the help we were promised.' 'OK then, what's our callsign?' 'Damned if I know, but Barracuda finds my pal Bond, wherever he is.' 'Close enough; Commander Bond sent us.' A stocky, short man ambled up, having overheard the exchange. 'Leiter is it?. Well, Bond's gone off after someone, seems your friend has a bit of a bee in his bonnet.'

Running his hand over his hair, Leiter sighed, exasperated and unsure of his next move. Catching sight of the disgraced Colonel, who was being held apart from his men, gave the Texan an idea, however. 'Vy govorite po-angliyski?'. Nodding curtly, Borodin spoke, his voice heavily accented.

'Yes, I speak English. What do you want?.' 'Oh, nothing much, just a few words really. Let's take a walk-smoke?.' The suspicious Russian stood erect, refusing the offer, instead producing a pack of Red Star-the cigarettes favoured by the Soviet Officer class. Leiter was not so circumspect as to refuse the Colonel's own offer, but soon regretted it, forcing the smoke to remain in his lungs, eyes watering at the harsh blend.

Bond knew time was running out. From the lip of the pipe, he could see the whole of the reactor. There was no hope-the ramp that spiraled up from the tunnel was wide enough for the jeep-just. The problems he faced; the place was bursting with Soviet troops, KGB security and scientists, the time was running out, all in the odds were stacked against him. He had not found Maximilian, but the din of battle had fallen away to sporadic outbursts. It would soon occur to someone in the Cuban Military that they hadn't heard from the island-that, or the fires started by the burning wreckage would be spotted and investigated. If only... but no, there was no way he could get the precious boxes further to put his plan into effect. Put bluntly, he needed a miracle. Paige broke into his thoughts. 'O.K. James-why exactly are you doing all this?.'

Keeping his gaze on the nearest troops, Bond told her his sketchy plan. Looking up, Paige saw the overhead rail was missing a section. 'Pity-their monorail isn't finished.' 'Monorail?, only a lunatic would put a blasted monorail in a volcano-its an emergency escape system; its to get them out in a hurr-hurry...' Get them out in a hurry!. 'Paige, you're a marvel.' Kissing her firmly, Bond was off, going through the back of the jeep to find a small brown bakelite box before sprinting back down the pipe, leaving the girl to marvel at men's idiosyncrasies.

Outside, by the entrance to the pipe a concrete structure resembling a dog kennel sat hidden and unremarked among the leaves. Had Bond not been forced to improvise a ramp for the jeep it was doubtful he would have even spotted the junction box. Now, he wrenched the small double cabinet doors open, revealing a tangle of wiring. Annoyingly, Soviet engineers tended to use odd combinations of colours for their work, but after a false start (in the form of a mild electrical shock) he had it, wrenching two wires free from their terminals. Opening the box revealed a military field telephone – which Bond hooked up to the wires, at first getting an alarming burst of static before getting it right. With both wires securely screwed into the post terminals the phone was live. Bond checked the battery and turned the switch. Almost instantly, the operator's voice;

'Tsentralʹnyy kommutator'. ('Central Switchboard.') 'Eto professor Kirova. YA khotel by pogovoritʹ s dispetcherskoy reaktora.' ('This is Professor Kirov. I wish to speak with the reactor control room.')

'Da, ser . Kakovo vashe razresheniye?'. ('Yes, Sir. What is your clearance?.') Bond's mind struggled with both the Russian grammar and the unexpected challenge – but his nerve held, as always steady under pressure. 'Moskvu premʹyer . Mozhet bytʹ, vy predpochli by proveritʹ s TSK?'.

(Moscow Prime. Perhaps you would prefer to verify with the Central Committee?.) Clearly, the operator did not; a pause then another voice, a woman. 'Da?' 'Eto professor Kirova. YA izuchil dannyye iz aktivnoy zony reaktora - ona neustoychiva . Evakuirovatʹ nemedlenno! .

(This is Professor Kirov. I have examined the data from the reactor core - it is unstable. Evacuate immediately!.) Ringing off, Bond unscrewed the wires, then, on impulse, twisted them together. A short circuit wouldn't help them if they tried to call 'Professor Kirov' back. Back at the jeep, there was no sign of Paige. Women...

In the control room of Morning Star, Assistant Chief Controller Komarov shrugged, replacing the telephone handset in the cradle. Her superior, a nervous type from Riga, was off-duty until the morning, giving her responsibility for the reactor. Most likely this was another false alarm-the quality of the monitoring equipment was appalling. Her console gave her immediate access to all the danger areas-although the reactor wasn't yet 'hot' there was still an awful lot of potential risk. If only they hadn't run the damn thing up to half power for that man Castro!. The whole core was still well above safe tolerances for the work party that would have to finalise the electrical outputs, at this rate... no, it seemed there was no problems, the dials were all well clear of the red. Sitting back in her chair, Komarov smoothed her nerves with a sip of tea. This would happen when she was in the hot seat!. Well, what harm would it do?-she could always claim it was an unscheduled test of the alarm systems if this 'Kirov' turned out to be mistaken. Yes, she had made a decision – she reached up and hit the large red button.

Bond tossed away his cigarette and started the engine at the sound of the siren – a female voice over the tannoy, her tone urgent; 'Vnimaniyu vsego personala, yestʹ test chrezvychaynoy protsedury - yekhatʹ v rayon priyuta izlucheniya srazu! YA povtoryayu …' ('Attention all personnel, there is a test of emergency procedure - go to the radiation shelter area at once! I repeat...') The troops and staff seemed to freeze, before exchanging glances or looking up at the tannoy speakers. The next second, it was as if some unseen signal had passed through them; pandemonium. The figures running for the shelters collided with others who hadn't a clue where the shelters were, whilst the nervous troops were ordered to remain at their posts by their equally nervous NCOs.

No-one paid any attention to the jeep driving up onto the ramp, until the two guards at the gate. Imperiously, the nearest held his hand up to stop the jeep, standing in front of the lowered barrier, but was sent flying by the splintering wood as the vehicle crashed through the gate. Swaying drunkenly, the driver climbed out, shaking his head, a water-bottle in hand. 'Pokazhi mne putʹ domoy …' Bond sang the words unsteadily, lurching into the second guard, confidentially winking and 'sssshh'ing. As the enraged guard regained his feet he grabbed Bond by the shoulder – getting a faceful of petrol from the bottle. Staggering backwards, he missed 007's elbow ploughing backwards into his comrade's groin, Bond yanking the man's rifle barrel downwards and backwards, sending him spinning, straight out of the Commando textbook. Using the Kalashnikov as an axe finished its owner, Bond flipping the weapon in his hands to deliver a crippler of a stomach jab with the barrel then swinging the butt up under the chin. Both men would live, but one would have a permanent crick in his neck and the other would be drinking his food for a few months.

The party atop the pyramid had been in full swing, the old men free at last. As they threw the last of the bundles of notes into the fan, however the jubilation died down suddenly. Standing on the stone dais was the hated figure of their oppressor, clad in the armour of Hernan Cortes, none other than the man who had brought such terrible fear to this very place those long centuries past. 'I see you are all busy throwing my money away. No, do not apologise my friends. I ask only that one of you accompany me.' Indicating one of the aged forgers with a finger, the grandiose figure drew his sword, walking slowly and with a frightening slowness and purpose towards the others. The guards seized the chosen man, a Polish jew who had seen men like this before. The sword sliced down, and again, the old men helpless as they were butchered, their blood spraying onto the madman's armour. Even Maximillian's hand-picked bodyguards flinched inwardly at the horror before them, as for the old jew that they held, he was determined not to blink. One day, Benjamin Levine swore, one day there would be a reckoning. He would not forget what he had seen here.

It was not the first time that the place of the priests had seen bloodshed. Some of those 'comrades' who were quietly catholic could almost have sworn they heard the great temple shudder, as if the primordial gods of the volcano had been awoken in anger at the desecration. The days of the Conquistador had returned.

CHAPTER 23

THE AVENGER OF BLOOD

The dying man turned his face to the stars, having found the strength to drag himself to the edge of the stone. In low tones he began the invocation, praying fervently that he remembered it correctly from the tabernacle. 'Yeytekn heva lenqevm at dem mesherteyv yesh 'eber 'eleyh, kepy ketveb tevrh shel meshh, hayesh shel alevheym...'

As he finished his call for vengeance, he prayed that there would come a 'Go'el Haddam' – an avenger of blood....

'Madre de Dios! ¿Dónde está ese hijo de puta?' Slamming his fist into the rock, Maximilian's eyes flashed red, he was fast losing control of himself. By now thoroughly disconcerted, his men were all aware of the change in personality since he had put on Cortes' armour and sword. The 'Marques de Bayamo' was clearly in the grip of a terrible possession, even his face seemed to have altered, becoming somehow older and narrower – it was as if a demon from the dark times of the conquerors had been let loose.

Bond's voice came over the tannoy, strangely hollow and echoing across the island. 'MAXIMILIAN!, It's all up, Maximilian... I'm waiting for you Max, with the boxes I took from your boat... were you really leaving, Max?, no goodbyes?... Morning Star, Max, I'm in Morning Star. Do come alone, company makes me nervous and there are so many switches and buttons in here-I wouldn't want to press the wrong one... ' The tannoy fell silent, but the tunnel above echoed to the shout of rage and hatred as Maximilian turned and marched towards the lift, trailed by his men.

'Hello Max.' Paige stepped from the shadows, raising the silenced Makharov and 'PHUT!' shot the man nearest to him through the forehead, leveling the barrel with remarkable coolness at his chest.

'Goodbye, Max.' Smiling cruelly, armour flashing dully, he stepped towards her. She pulled the trigger, 'PHUTWANG!' dropping to the floor almost instantaneously, the pistol on the floor next to her as her face began to register the pain from the richochet. Quickly drawing the sword, Maximilian lunged, flicking the gun away with the tip that he then flashed to her exposed throat. It was all she could do to remain fairly still, her hand clamped over her shattered shin-bone.

'Very good!, but again-I do not die. It seems your bullet has returned to its owner!.'

Summoning his remaining bodyguards to the wounded girl, Maximilian sheathed his sword, convinced more than ever that destiny had, indeed singled him out for greatness. Now to deal with that fool Bond.

'Well, that should set the cat among the pigeons.' Cheerfully, James Bond winked at Assistant Chief Controller Komarov, who watched him with horror as he began donning the radiation suit. Standing in the middle of the room with her were two technical staff, who looked as frightened as she. Her English was far from perfect. 'You, why you do this?. You are crazy man, you kill us all, but you die first I think. Radiation will poisoning, is big danger yes?.' 'You can go when my guest arrives, now, you two give me a hand with that trolley.'

It took both men to push and pull the heavy load, Maximilian's fortune aboard one of the constructor's trolleys Bond had found in the loading dock. Tugging and cursing, the trolley just fitted into a service lift with the two Russians. Thumbing the button, Bond made sure the lift was lowered before he took the stairs down to the access level-glad he had had a quick look at the documents he had stolen earlier. Most of it was gibberish, but he felt he knew enough about the reactor to have a chance. A hammering at the outer door to the control room announced the arrival of the blood-spattered 'Grandee', Miss Komarov hurrying to unbolt it as instructed. His voice no more than the hissing of a serpent, Maximilian looked through the frightened woman with eyes that seemed to belong to another time.

'Where is he?.'

Eager to escape the lunatic with the gun, the technicians rushed up from the stairs. Flanked by two of his bodyguards Maximilian found Bond in a massive circular room that itself reflected the curvature of the top section of the spherical monster that was Morning Star's main reactor building. In the centre was a large, raised circle of concrete and steel, a set of built-in concrete steps curving around the structure, on the middle of which a figure in a white radiation suit stood, arms folded, looking down on the new arrivals.

At their approach, the figure raised an arm in greeting, his voice distorted by the speech module in the helmet. 'Max, you made it. We both seem to be dressed for a party. I've come as a Cosmonaut, you must be-don't tell me... ah, I've got it...' Bond stepped across a lattice-work of metal to stand in the centre of the room by a console attached to a steel pipe, the protruding end of which was the size of a large oil drum. '...You've come as Don Quixote.' Waving Maximilian's henchmen away with the barrel of the big Colt, Bond admonished his adversary, taunting, goading with his tone. 'I didn't invite Sancho though, or any donkeys so if you gentlemen would step outside I'd be grateful.'

'Where is my gold?.' 'Up here. All you have to do is come and get it.' 'With pleasure.' Eyes narrowed, Maximilian drew his sword with a quiet rasping sound that seemed to emphasise his dread purpose. He stepped up onto the concrete.

In the suit, Bond was not sure if he was roasting through poor ventilation or radiation from the atomic inferno below. As the helmet appeared he placed a gold bar on the top of the pipe and put his hand on the lever by the console, waiting until the cuirass was visible before turning it. Emergency red lighting began flashing around the room as, with a loud hiss, the precious metal fell from view, a loud clanging noise announcing its departure. Maximilian's curiosity at Bond's unexplained behaviour was replaced by nagging concern, quickly replaced by mounting panic. 'What is this?, what did you do?.' 'Well, Max, at today's prices I reckon that just cost you $5,000.' Quickly, Bond had reached down for more bars, this time putting two of them on the pipe. Again, the hissing and clanging. Aiming the .45 at the middle of the metallic breast, Bond reached down, this time making it four as an alarm began sounding.

Sweating freely inside the suit, Bond forced himself to remain focused. 'This is the main inspection chamber for the reactor; it has a thermo-gauge and a condenser chamber and all sorts of gadgets to see into the heart of the beast. It was designed to take samples, but imagine my delight at discovering it could be used as the World's biggest piggy-bank. Right about now, I'd say theres about fifteen thousand dollar's worth of gold beginning to melt right under our feet...' Hiss-CLANG. '...Or was it thirty five thousand?, I'm starting to lose count...' 'Enough!.' Hands up, the Cuban was desperate to stop this waste, desperate to kill Bond, but obviously this British lunatic was past caring-but there was perhaps one thing he would care about. He began leaning forward, hand on heart, sincerity and probity etched on his features. 'The girl!-I give you the girl; you can go, go with the girl.' 'You haven't got the girl, Max, just...just this gold.' It was getting hard to shift the bars now, the confines of the hellish suit and the need to keep his gun hand steady combining to make for hard work. Still, Bond had a tempting pile on the chamber this time; a miniature pyramid made of seven bricks.

Urgently, Maximilian shouted back down to the doorway where, out of sight, a group of his men were huddled. 'La chica!, conseguir a la chica aquí! - Y rápido!. I get her, you can see for yourself, Bond. Why would I lie?.' 'To keep me from turning all this to radioactive sludge?' Bond's hand hovered over the lever, threateningly. To his dismay, through the thick glass of the helmet he could see they had her; Paige was pale, being supported by two stooges. Those swine!, what had they done to her?. Forcing himself to remain outwardly unaffected, Bond returned to the reason for the dramatic scene he had staged. 'Anyway, I'd say she's a fair exchange for the gold. You want the plates too?-hand over those plans you've been holding. Her Majesty's Government is rather keen to have them back. The girl and Blue Steel-there's still a good few boxes here, it's a good deal, Maximilian, think it over. There's enough gold left to take you anywhere and with the plates you'll be nicely set-up.'

Maximilian nodded, smiling as if accepting the inevitability of Bond's argument. 'I do not have the plans here. They are on the Bayamo.' In fact, Maximilian had them concealed behind his back beneath the cuirass. To Bond, however, it made sense; the gold had been found through luck and diligence; doubtless the vital plans were hidden in some vault aboard. He would need to impound the vessel... but Paige was at the lip of the platform, Maximilian's men helping bring her up for inspection. 'James, I'm sorry. I tried...' 'Yes, Mr.Bond – she thought she could kill me with her silent gun. You see? - not a dent.' Her head slumped, Paige saw her chance to avenge her Father slipping from her grasp; she had tried, she had failed. She knew Bond would never get out of this death-chamber alive, but perhaps he stood a better chance of at least killing the hated Maximilian. She shammed a stumble, the man next to her instinctively taking her weight. Grasping his pistol, she drew it, twisting round.

What happened next would stay with Bond until the moment of his death. BLAM! BLAM! Paige shot the second man, the bullets slamming through his chest into his heart. Wrenching herself free, she turned back to shoot the gun's owner, but was transfixed by Maximilian's sword, the steel running through her body driven by the force of madness. Laughing at her agony, the demons were truly freed from the constraints of humanity. As he pulled the long blade free with a flourish, he turned to the horror-stricken Bond. For the first time, James Bond knew what it was to face the Devil. Any vestige of the man he had known as Maximilian had fallen from this creature as chunks of rotten flesh from a corpse. Bond now knew only hatred, hatred mixed with the fear of the priests who, despite their evil sacrifices had eventually been slaughtered on this island of darkness. He would have walked through hell itself to avenge the girl, but he suddenly sensed they were no longer alone. It was a mystifying experience, a sensation like no other, but Bond could have sworn there was a presence in the room-as if a spectral jury had assembled to witness justice. The infernal incarnation of Cortes, the uncanny figure stepped towards 007, bloody steel gripped in anticipation of another life.

The remaining guard took one look at the scene and his nerve broke, he staggered back to the steps and ran. Bond stood squarely in front of the approaching figure. Perhaps it was the heat, but he swore the man's face kept changing, one second the familiar Maximillian, the next a gaunt and spectral visage with a wisp of beard and eyes like coals. It took all Bond had left not to run after the guard and yet he felt welded to the spot, as if under the grip of an evil hypnotist. The tip of the sword rose and the girl let out a moan of pain. Bond blinked.

BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! The chest plate shrugged off the first two rounds, but they dented it. The third and fourth punched through, the last bullet bursting through the sternum. A hideous, rasping cackle rose from the creature and still it kept coming towards Bond, reaching up to lay a hand on his shoulder, sword pulled back to deliver the vengeance that kept the creature alive. His fingers, somehow more like claws of bone dug into flesh and muscle, the sword's guard smashing Bond's .45 away to clatter onto the concrete, then up into his chin, knocking him backwards and off-balance. The blade slashed across Bond's chest, ripping through the suit and drawing blood. Clutching his chest, Bond tried circling round the appalling apparition, his shot seemingly having no effect. It spoke, a voice from the tomb. 'Los españoles saben una enfermedad del corazón que sólo el oro puede curar...' Bond froze in his tracks as a bloody figure pulled herself up over the rim of the concrete, dragging her other arm up with the last of her strength, a pistol loosely hanging from her fingers. SPANG! The shot caught Maximillian in the shoulder, the possessed Marques falling forward across the gold and lunging at Bond. Launching himself in a frantic dive 007 wrenched at the lever Hiss-CLANG!-the pyramid of gold fell away into the reactor, the last of the Conquistadors tumbling over into the mouth of the chamber with a final scream of hatred. Almost at once the alarms began sounding with renewed urgency, this time all across the island. Morning Star was going critical.

A tremor of anticipation swept through the assembled men on the surface, to match the one that had briefly shaken the whole island. It was enough to send the parrots squawking off to find the next island in the chain. The sirens had sounded out here, just once, with a decisive effect; the remaining Soviets either surrendered or turned to hide in the foliage. Supervised by four of the SBS men and a group of Benny's Cubans, the prisoners filed past to the beach, hands on the back of the man in front to prevent any accidents. The men were dejected, demoralized-and then relieved, mainly of their valuables by Benny's boys, encouraging generosity with the odd slap or kick that the four affected not to see.

It was only when the Aussie 'Sandy' Carew insisted on being asked the time-revealing a thick forearm gauntleted with cheap Russian tick-tockery-that the looting was judged out of hand.

Benny's cigar arrived, pulsing and glowing in the darkness, followed by Benny himself. 'Not bad, uh, Felix?, have a stogie...' Leiter accepted the gift with a raised eyebrow. 'Got 'em from a box one of the British boys found on the boat.' 'No sign of James?.' 'Nah, I asked around – one of my boys speaks a little Ruskie, none of theirs seen nuttin'. 'Can't say I blame 'em-any pidgens likely end up strangled by their comrades.'

Breathing hard as if from a run, one of the SBS men came pounding from the trees. 'Mr. Leiter?, thought so; listen in, the reactor is starting to go unstable – didn't get all the details, but the support staff, the reactor people, they are all evacuating. We found a few survivors on the pyramid, old boys by the look of them, but they are badly wounded, probably won't make it. We've called up our Navy, we are going to try to evacuate the casualties by sub. Best you and your boys pack up shop and head for home.' Felix pocketed his cigar, deciding now was not the time. 'Well, you go right ahead, soldier-me, I've got a friend in there somewhere and I'm not leaving him.' Benny clapped the CIA man on the shoulder. 'He stays, I stay.' Leiter found himself looking on Benny with newfound respect. Shaking his head, the SBS man couldn't hide his respect. 'Lovely, very touching. Our orders are to find Commander Bond. If you want to come along, fine, but don't get in the way.' At his signal, Benny's men began withdrawing, the word going round with a series of shouts and whistles. The surviving Cubans started back to their boats, carrying the wounded with them. It was at that point the island roared.

Morning Star was dying, as was the girl. Carrying her, Bond rushed to the emergency escape rail, from which a large cage was suspended. There were metal seats for twenty people or more, the whole thing clearly operated by a brightly coloured overhead bar running the length of the crude vehicle, an arrow adorned with cyrillic lettering confirming it to be the release bar. As gently as the situation allowed, Bond laid Paige into the cage, climbing in besides her reaching up and grabbing the bar. Praying the gap in the rail wouldn't prove fatal, he pulled, hanging on grimly.

The KGB men were heading up the ramp, led now by a brutish Slav with strangely red-eyes, keen to prove himself now that that bourgeois Muscovite Security Chief Mitrovkhin was dead. An odd ringing noise began sounding through the rail overhead. Curious to see the cause of this resonance, he was rewarded with the sight of a massive cage screeching around the curve towards him. Right towards him!. In sudden terror, the group realised there was no clearance. Some tried diving off the ramp, but the new Security Chief opted for the novel approach of trying to outrun the speeding contraption. Bond could only watch in captive fascination as the wire ship gained a figurehead, the man flattened against the metalwork as it careered down towards the gap in the rails at approaching sixty miles an hour. The cage shot across the gap with a sickening stomach-churning ZIZZZ, into the pipe- KSSSHHH! Missing the beckoning rail, the cage hit the bottom of the pipe, which is where it lost all semblance of control, with a shower of sparks from the bottom, the curves flinging it up the side to howl round the bend upside-down, dropping back to slew down the concrete.

Felix hung on to the side of the truck cab as it skidded around the smoking wreckage of an armoured vehicle in the middle of a clearing. Digger hat hanging by its string, 'Sandy' Carew was in his element. Sandwiched between them Benny the Breeze was convinced they would be killed. 'For Chrissake slow down, willya?.' 'No worries mate; I been driving since I was a nipper on the station – hey, you don't fancy buying a watch now, do you?. Here look, I got plenty of the things; all best quality, one previous owner and fully guaranteed.' Alarmingly, the Australian SBS man chose to illustrate his wares by holding his arm up for inspection, taking one of the Russian watches off with only his knee holding the wheel steady.

Benny shut his eyes, but Felix was intrigued. Partly out of a desire to own one of the watches – certain to be a talking point back in Langley-partly out of a malicious shared amusement at Benny's distress, he reached across for the shiny timepiece. 'Guaranteed you say?.' With a broad, if toothless grin, Carew answered laconically. 'Sure – I guarantee that watch will be right at least twice every day and thats a guarantee for life. Just don't overwind it.' 'Why not?.' 'Well, if you do, the main spring'll go and cut yer bloody wrist...'. Despite the awful joke, Felix couldn't help but smile.

They were just passing a rocky outcrop when, with a spray of sparks, a massive cage shooshed over the cab, a limp body slamming down onto the truck's bonnet. 'Bloody hell!.' Hitting the brakes, the Australian could only watch in disbelief as the trees swallowed the contraption. With a groan, the KGB man slid off the bonnet, out for the count. Felix was the first to recover. 'That was Bond!. Lets go, Sandy-get going!.' Taking the direct path down the hill would have been madness-to anyone but an Australian. Grinning like a maniac, he took the truck down the steep hillside after the mysterious metal monster.

Holding on to both Paige's limp body and the seat in front, Bond was on the verge of exhaustion. Buffeted, battered and shaken, it was all he could do to stay in the seat, the escape cage giving no sign of slowing as it continued in a mad race down the side of the volcano. Spraying dirt behind it, slapping through the foliage the cage slid across a small stream, showering the occupants briefly before hitting a massive tree root with bone-shattering suddenness, then vaulting up and around into a spin. Flipping over in a barrel roll the helpless Paige and Bond were slammed around, the cage finally coming to a halt on the edge of the beach.

By the time the truck arrived, it was too late. Sandy Carew grabbed a medical kit and would have raced to the slumped figures on the sand, but Felix laid a restraining hand on his arm. 'Hold it chum. We're too late.'

Paige lay cradled in Bond's arms for the last time. Weak and dying, she forced a semblance of a smile, of her old self. Trying to speak, her voice was a shallow rattle. 'J-James...' 'Hey, easy now. It will be alright.' Holding her closely, he found his grip tightening. 'You killed-him for me.'

'You got him; I just got rid of the body.' She shuddered. Don't leave me, James.' The three men stood in silence, unable to help as Bond suddenly bent forwards, kissing the girl intensely. After only a few seconds, his body slumped back, his head down. Automatically, Sandy reached up to remove his hat, holding it respectfully across his chest. Even Benny took his cigar from the side of his mouth.

Bond lifted the girl's body, carrying it past the three in grim silence, to a point above the high water mark. He began digging, using his bare hands. Exchanging a glance with Felix, Sandy went around to the side of the truck where he found a long-handled shovel. Without a word, the muscular Aussie set to work with Bond to dig the grave, while Benny and Felix, anxious not to be left out, sought out a few pieces of wood with which to fashion a crude cross. By the time they had finished, Bond's sense of purpose was resolved with the solidity of a block of ice. He would destroy that reactor once and for all. There was no room for such a monster on Paige's island.

Dawn had broken, the last stars had fallen away to the west. The Special Boat Squadron demolition men were finishing their work and preparing for evacuation to the waiting submarine. The vibrations were more frequent now, the reactor containment was still holding, but it wouldn't be long now before the core breached. Clad now in the green shirt and trousers he had 'found' Bond sat, weary, aching for sleep but too disciplined to allow it. Felix knew better than to try to lift the Englishman's spirits, knowing his friend would be best left alone with his thoughts. The Texan lit a Chesterfield and went in search of something that might pass for coffee.

At the same time Felix was on his thirst quenching mission, HMS Trafalgar was submerged off the coast at the rendezvous point, her skipper watching the island through the periscope. He was aware of the First Officer at his elbow. 'How's it looking, Sir?.' Captain Fanning kept his eyes on the island as he spoke. 'Not good, Maxwell. We should have slipped away under cover of darkness, not in the middle of the day. There's plenty of activity ashore; I can see the boat teams standing by to get away, but not much else. Any news of the Bayamo?.'

Aboard the yacht in question, the Captain, on loan from the Soviet Navy nodded his approval-he was back on his bridge where he belonged. It had not gone entirely to plan; when the emergency plan had been enacted, three of the crew had died when the English Marine had pulled his trigger in his death spasms. Nor had the other man died without a fight, there were another four of his crew in the sick bay with lacerations, broken limbs and even a bite wound. A call from the engine room; the Bayamo was ready for sea.

CHAPTER 24

A LESSON IN MURDER

Ortega breathed in, then out. In...out. Flexing his fingers, he looked away from the weapon, then back, to check it was naturally aligned-he did not want to force the rifle into the aim with his muscles, thereby risking a miss. The weapon was his favourite; he had assembled it earlier during the battle. Vitally, he had also checked the sight alignment-the 'zero point' by firing five shots. Ortega was a man who left nothing to chance. Custom made by Fleischmann himself, this was no ordinary rifle, more a weapons system; the weapon fired virtually any ammunition, due to the ingenious barrel, which could be removed and replaced with any of the ones in the lid of the case. In addition, the breech block could be dropped out and also replaced, which allowed for Ortega to not only vary the shot according to the target, but even to point the finger of suspicion at any country of manufacture. His first kill with this rifle, in fact was blamed on the Americans, a suspicion seemingly confirmed by the recovered bullet-a Winchester round that had been used to assassinate the French Spy Levant in his hotel room in Canada.

Now though, Ortega had literally loaded for bear. Using the barrel and block stamped .416 Rigby he carefully opened a small container marked with a skull and crossbones, checking the bullets inside had not been damaged, anxious not to get a single drop of their deadly contents on his skin. Each round had been lovingly crafted for maximum accuracy and effect-each cast of an amalgam harder than lead yet still malleable enough for purpose. On entering the unfortunate victim's body, the domed point of the round would then splay, slowing the projectiles progress dramatically while allowing the contents to spread. If the shock of the massive bullet-designed to drop a Cape Buffalo or a charging elephant-failed to produce death, the aforementioned contents certainly would. A halide salt, not unrelated to potassium chloride contained in capsule form, the poison was incredibly effective, killing a fully-grown man in under fifteen seconds. (This poison was one of those developed by the former Smersh laboratory on an island in the Aral sea - author.) Checking the dials on his scope still matched the settings he had scribbled down on his notebook, he had declared himself ready.

As a master of the art of murder, Ortega had, typically not settled for the easy kill. Rather than shoot Bond from half a mile away with a conventional round, the assassin had chosen a shorter range shot from a tight, high angle. It had taken all his cunning and stamina, but he had crawled into a defile in the rocks no more than three hundred yards above the assembled invaders. The tall CIA man was a temptation, but Ortega was a man who possessed an enormous stock of self-discipline. Settling the cross-hairs on the face of the Englishman, Bond, he found it amusing that he could see without being seen. Often, poorly trained soldiers felt vulnerable when using optical equipment for the first time-the feeling that the target is looking straight at you, when the fact was they saw nothing of a well-camouflaged viewer. He lowered the sight, concentrating on a spot just behind the collarbone. With such a powerful cartridge, merely shooting straight on would result in the round traveling straight through, possibly the poison capsules too. A good surgeon could possibly save the target, so this shot would be down, through the area of most body mass into the vital organs.

Now he resumed his breathing exercise-he would take a last look at the target area, then acquire the target through the scope, taking the first, light pressure on the trigger then, only then, would he inflate his lungs prior to breathing out halfway-a split-second's pause and in one smooth movement he would draw his finger back towards his thumb.

Down below, Bond watched the demolition men checking their time fuses were rigged correctly. First-Pressure, the finger now curled around the trigger. 'All set, boys?.' 'All set, Commander-when we give the nod its five minutes to these going up-the whole thing will be sealed in by the blast. We used every pack of explosives we had with us, but we also found a whole arsenal's worth of Soviet shells-enough to keep a battery going for the next World War. We wired them in parallel. Would have been a pity not to, really.' Second-Pressure, exhale and hold... Bond laughed shortly-typical Marines, even these elite soldiers were not above having a bit of fun with their work. Now... 'Good work. I'll leave you to it.' SPANG!

Bond dived off to one side, as did the SBS men, each man seeking out cover quickly and bringing their weapons to bear on the hillside above. A tall figure stood up slowly from the rocks, waving an arm over his head as if signalling. 'Moy tovarishch!, Ne strelyayte!' 'Hold your fire!, I know him, I know him!.' Suddenly Bond had recognised the man. It was the same Russian Sergeant of Guards he had reached the truce with earlier in the battle, the man who had then administered mercy had obviously come to his aid again. There was an ominous patch of white powder on the rock where the bullet had struck, not two inches from Bond's arm.

Clambering up the hillside with one of the SBS men the truth became apparent. Hands in the air, the Russian mutely pointed to the body at his feet; it was Ortega all right, there was no mistaking the man's features. Oddly peaceful, he lay sightlessly staring ahead, a wicked killing knife protruding from the side of his chest. 'Etot chelovek, on sobiralsya ubitʹ tebya. Eto bylo ne pravilʹno.' Bond translated for the SBS man; 'He was going to shoot me.' Then, to the Russian; 'Spasibo. YA dumayu, chto vy naydete na lodke vniz na plyazhe.Vozmozhno, Kuba?.' With a smile and a handshake, the Russian with the blue eyes left the pair, making his way down towards the beach.

'Well?, what was that all about then?.' Smiling, Bond replied; 'Oh, not much – I thanked him, suggested he might care to try Cuba. He saved my life, I don't think we need another prisoner, do you?.' 'Suits me, Commander – suits me fine.'

Sergeant-Major Mickey Greene was in a deep discussion with two of his men, who seemed to have some disagreement. As Bond approached the beach, the reason became clear; two bodies lay in one of the inflatable boats the team had brought with them. 'What happened?.' Greene's face was stone as he answered. 'Two of ours. They were guarding the prisoners on the yacht. They were found in the water by one of the teams bringing the boats round to the evacuation point.' Bond followed Felix Leiter as the latter stepped into the boat. As Felix seated himself there was a small thud, then a thunderclap that rang out across the island and out across the water. All that was visible was a pall of smoke and dust rising from the area where the charges had been set. Suddenly, Bond yanked Felix back over the side into the shallow water. As the Texan spluttered and floundered in shocked rage, Bond had pushed the boat out and was waving apologetically 'What the?, hey!.''Sorry, Felix. There's a job to finish. I'll make it up to you.'

Morning Star had been sealed. What no-one could see now, in the deserted reactor complex, was the array of gauges in the control room. On auxiliary power, flickering then fading the dials were all over in the red, the core temperature rapidly rising now that the coolant water pumping station had began to fail. By the time the boats had reached the area of their rendezvous, the core of Morning Star had reached-and exceeded criticality. Deep beneath the surface of the water, in the depths of the watery tomb, a statue of gold and steel stood, arms raised to a heaven it would never see, could never reach. Splashed with molten gold, armour fused by the intense heat, the body of Maximilian had become his own monument.

'Take her up.' 'Up aye, Sir.' As HMS Trafalgar's tanks blew, her conning tower breaking the surface to welcome the boats that had linked in chain formation. The hatches fore and aft popped open, the crew running out with hooks and lines to secure the boats. In one well-practiced move, the SBS men and their guests were aboard, the casualties being stretchered below for treatment by the sub's Doctor. The last man off each boat slashed the rubber bladders with a diving knife, the boats now a liability in these hostile waters. Soaked and dejected, Felix Leiter slumped onto a seat in the tiny officer's mess with some of the others and, accepting a blanket began alternately cursing and praying for Bond. In the control room Captain Fanning was waiting anxiously for the signals that Trafalgar could safely dive again. It was the worst possible moment for the Hydrophone Operator's urgent shout. 'Sir. Contact bearing zero-seventy, range four hundred yards – its the yacht, Sir – she's preparing for departure.'

Bond slammed the truck through the gears with a vengeance, taking the protesting engine up to its limits. Swinging up alongside the jetty he bailed out, grabbing the equipment bag and the silenced sterling he had borrowed. Charging up the planks he was going to be lucky to get aboard-the Bayamo was leaving.

'Arm stern torpedoes, compute, range and mark.' 'Arming stern torpedoes, range-mark aye, Captain.' 'Bring her to one-seventeen, flood stern tubes and open stern doors.' 'One-Seventeen Aye, flooding stern and opening stern doors.' The commands were implemented as they were repeated, the submarine coming around to face the island. Fanning knew his stuff-as the Bayamo passed to stern, she would be bracketed by two Mark VIII torpedoes with little chance of both missing.

As the Bayamo pulled away from the jetty one of the crewmen was busy coiling the line aft when he looked up, to see a strange figure in green shouting at him to throw the line. He did as he was bid, helping pull the soaking figure aboard. The drag from the accelerating yacht and his heavy bag made it almost impossible, but, in the water Bond was determined not to let go. Fortunately for him, the sailor was an ox of a man, their combined strength just enough to allow Bond to gain the lower deck aft. The line went slack suddenly, the Cuban hauling it up in confusion-then horror as he was tipped over the railing. Bond was aboard.

On the bridge, the Captain was already rehearsing his speech-he would be sure to receive at least a staff posting with the Soviet Naval Academy. The man who sank a British submarine?, they would make him a Hero of the Soviet Union!. He rapped out his orders, confident and sure of purpose.

'Ir a media potencia. Preparar armas de la cubierta. Vamos a hacer como si no lo hemos visto esos tontos luego se convierten en ellos.' ('Go to half power. Prepare deck guns. We'll make as if we haven't seen those fools then turn into them.') 'Si el Capitán' 'Vamos a volar fuera del agua Entonces nuestros amigos rusos rana puede bajar y recuperar sus libros de códigos secretos y vamos a echar un vistazo a su sistema de radar de lujo nuevo.'

('Then our russian frog friends can go down and recover their secret codebooks and we will have a look at their fancy new sonar system.')

Aft, Bond set to work quickly, following the instructions Paige had given him what now seemed a lifetime ago. Going past the two Russians he had shot with the sterling, he made his way for'ard to the State-rooms. Once there, he wasted no time, turning the place over in the hope of finding the equipment bag that Thewlett had brought for him. There was no sign of it – apart from the linen roll of gold sovereigns, which he found in a drawer. Tying it around his waist he tucked his shirt back in to conceal the precious horde. He snapped his head up at the klaxon blast, then the tannoy;

'Descubre las armas de cubierta! prepararse para disparar!' 'Deck guns?.' He grabbed the sterling and ran out to deal with the threat, crumpling to the deck as the knife edge of a hand hacked at his windpipe.

The Ukrainian stood over 007, a plaster over the ugly razor wound the Englishman had given him in the alleyway. The blow had been misjudged, an inch too low-he had intended to kill, crushing the larynx. As it was, the English spy was stunned, helpless. Reaching down, he took the man's weapon, tossing it to his partner. The correct procedure would be to kill the man where he lay... but this was personal. He wanted to make the man pay for the alleyway. A tattoo on his forearm depicted a sea-lion and anchor; Naval Special Forces. Slapping Bond until he stirred, he let him fall heavily back onto the deck. 'Gold... Zoloto!- vse, chto vy mozhete potratitʹ !' 'Gold?, what Gold?'

Pulling up his shirt, the Ukrainian hauled at the coins, tearing them free and slamming them viciously across Bond's head. Eyes shut to try to cope with the sickening blow, Bond gasped and raised a hand in supplication, but grabbed the roll as it came back for another swing, wrapping his fist in the cloth and throwing his right fist straight into the brute's nose. It felt good, so he did it again, then dropped the coins and moving into a boxer's crouch he ducked the return blow. A straight left sent the Blonde's head snapping backwards, an overhand right dropping him outright. Bending to retrieve the roll of coins some sixth sense warned Bond and he whirled round to see another crewman. Unfurling the roll, Bond flung it up and around the knife arm, quick as a whip his right hand was down into the crook of the elbow behind the blade, twisting the linen hard and upwards to drive the knife straight into the shoulder of the swarthy unfortunate-virtually a carbon copy of the move he had used to scar the Ukrainian in the alley-but this ended differently, Bond first ramming his left palm into the already broken nose, then the left hand drove the blade in to the hilt. Breathing hard, Bond had no time for self-congratulation, recovering his silenced sterling and going up to the gun deck.

The guns had been hidden beneath cowlings designed to appear as part of the yacht's ventilation system, the crews loaded and ready. Bond risked a glance at his watch, telling him he was fast running out of precious time. A shout went up from the bows, at the same moment the farthest gun loader spotted 007. The man died in a hail of bullets, but then the sterling jammed. Bond worked frantically on the stoppage, but a look into the breech told him the worst; a separated case – the cartridge had broken apart, a problem which would take time he did not have. Casting the weapon aside in disgust, he rolled sideways onto his shoulder-thankful for the hours Double-O men spend on the judo mats-and stood up, hands raised. The gun layer laughed harshly, as he curled his hand around the firing bar, but paused; why was the Englishman smiling?. He looked down to see his death as the grenade Bond had rolled exploded.

The difference between life and death? - often mere chance. Had James Bond known the grenade had rolled into an ammunition locker, he might have expected it; the deck of the Bayamo simply disintegrated into fragments, the blast obliterating the other gun crew and flinging Bond high over the rail to hit the water in a heap. Dragged under by the weight of the sovereigns he had re-tied around his waist, Bond felt rather than heard what happened next. To his horror the whirring noise in his ears was matched to the suddenly gigantic shape that was flashing towards him; an ominously dull bulge that became a huge cylinder in a second. Kicking frantically, he was unable to avoid being slapped sideways with the force of a train speeding through a station. The torpedo hurtled towards the exposed hull of the yacht... and missed, passing beneath the keel by an inch. Bond had missed death by a whisker-the degaussed hull was invisible to the magnetic trigger and the 'fish' had failed to explode. Lungs burning, Bond began kicking for the surface, determined not to leave the valuable sovereigns behind. It was no use; he was forced to untie the roll and drop it to the bottom. As he approached unconsciousness he had the satisfaction of hearing a dull thud which was followed by a colossal underwater eruption, the last thing he saw was a billowing cloud of gas as the yacht was blown to pieces. The Bayamo was no more.

'Forty-five seconds, its a miss Sir.' Captain Fanning swore at the news. 'Bugger it!, bring her about three-sixty and reload stern tubes. I want one more shot at her before she's out of...' The concussion reached Trafalgar with the speed of sound and the power of a tidal wave, knocking the lighting out and sending the crew across the deck plates. A call from the crewman on watch above on the conning tower came urgently; 'Man in the water!, get a recovery team up fast!'.

EPILOGUE

LONDON

While London bustled and thrummed, the building overlooking Regent's Park was, by contrast, a haven of calm, a Sargasso of stone almost set against the turbulence of a World in the grip of a Cold War. Lighting one of his cherished Morlands, Bond regarded the battered gold Ronson for a moment before pocketing it and sitting back in his seat as he finished his recollection. 'So that's really everything, Sir. I set the time fuse for ten minutes-we really should get a proper look at these new Soviet launchers-Trafalgar's torpedos failed to detonate, the Soviet rocket I set up fired into the reserve peroxide tanks aboard the yacht.' M set down the file he had been reading. 'The Cubans are saying the volcano erupted unexpectedly; they'll be believed too by the look of the steam coming out of the crater. Seems when that reactor overheated an old fault opened up; no danger of radioactive leaks, but the place will take an age to cool down again.' 'Well, they won't try anything like that again, Sir. All the same, they need to be watched, and carefully.' 'Quite-the report Leiter sent in to my counterpart caused the hell of a stir. The place will be crawling with CIA after this debacle.' The lined face softened, became almost amused. 'So the equipment we sent you was lost?, the sovereigns included?.' Bond smiled ruefully. 'Er, yes, Sir. Unavoidable given the circumstances, I'm afraid.'

M closed the file. 'Yes, well, that's an end to it. We've given the Russians the tip on the girl's death, I'm told she will have died in a training accident in Siberia-they'll make her a Hero of the Soviet Union or suchlike. I understand you were, ah, close?.' 'I wouldn't put it like that, Sir. She was quite a girl. I will miss her.' 'Well, all in all, most satisfactory, if I might say so.' M reached for his pipe, the signal that the debriefing was at an end. Bond made to go.

'Oh, there is one thing, Double-O Seven. That old Bentley of yours.' 'Sir?.' 'I understand its for the breakers yard. Pity. Good thing you found that Aston Martin-spot of luck that, an ex-works model with racing clutch and gearbox. Must have cost a bomb, what?.' 'You could say that, Sir.' 'Well, drive the bloody thing with more care than the Bentley, won't you?.' 'I wouldn't dream of it, Sir.'

Moneypenny was a fraction late in regaining the safety of her filing cabinet when Bond flung the outer leather door open. 'Spying on me again, Penny?.'

'James!, such a thing never crossed my mind.' He was gratified to see her blush softly. 'A little bird tells me that the Old Man offered his resignation over that last job.' 'And I suppose your little bird was from the typing pool?' With a look of mock severity, James frowned. 'Perish the thought. Well?'. 'Well... let's just say requests to resign can get awfully delayed. So much red tape around here.' Bond almost flushed with emotion. He knew M had put his career on the line for him.

Seating herself on the edge of her desk, Moneypenny gave him a look that was somehow neither coy nor knowing. 'I suppose you are taking some leave now, after nearly drowning?.' 'Something like it; I'm booked on the ferry from Dover for tonight, going to take the new car for a bit of a spin through France.' Holding her nose away, she reached behind her desk and held up the case Chago had handed to Bond in the Casino a hundred years before. 'Well, here's your case. Really James, I wish you would get some new luggage-it's positively ghastly-it smells damp.' 'But Penny, you simply must keep up; don't you know everybody launders their money these days?.' He reached for the door, but halted as he remembered the present. Reaching into a pocket, he placed an object on Moneypenny's desk. 'Something I found diving-the Navy boys lent me a scuba set. Yes, surprising what you find underwater.' Moneypenny smiled as Bond left for his 'spin'. Looking down, she saw the most beautiful sea-shell she had ever seen, picking it up she heard a rattle. She gasped as she tipped the shell over – there, in her hand were the emeralds that had adorned Max's letter opener.

'James, I can't possibly...' But James Bond was gone.

THE END

A note of thanks;

Firstly, thank you for reading this, I hope it entertained you. I had a lot of fun writing it, but I didn't have the late Ian Fleming's deep pockets so I couldn't actually visit Cuba – I went there on the Internet. Wikipedia, Google Translate and a few other 'places' were all useful stops. I do understand smoking and drinking are very naughty – but a story set in the early sixties about a teetotal non-smoking Bond?.

Thanks mainly to my wonderful and not always patient wife Mrs.S – for whom this work is belatedly dedicated. The wonder is you.

A word on Copyright; Mark Sohn has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work. First published on www.volcanocat.blogspot.com

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