Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

17 | THE RED-EYED CATACOMB

Bond, putting on his clothes, dodged the comments of Constable Santos. It seemed there had been sort of underwater explosions, with eruptions on the surface, on the starboard side of the yacht. Several men had appeared on deck and there had been some kind of commotion. A boat had been lowered on the port side, out of sight of the shore. Bond said he knew nothing of these things. He had cracked his head against the side of the ship. Silly thing to do. He had seen what he had wanted to see and had then swum back. Entirely successful. The Constable had been a great help. Thank you very much and good night. Bond would be seeing the Commissioner in the morning.

Bond walked with careful steadiness up the side street to where he had parked Leiter’s Ford. He got to the hotel and telephoned Leiter’s room and together they drove to police headquarters. Bond described what had happened and what he had discovered. Now he didn’t care what the consequences might be. He was going to make a report. It was eight a.m. in London and there were under forty hours to go to zero hour. All these straws added up to half a haystack. His suspicions were boiling like a pressure cooker. He couldn’t sit on the lid any longer.

Leiter said decisively, ‘You do just that. And I’ll file a copy to C.I.A. and endorse it. What’s more I’m going to call up the Manta and tell her to get the hell over here.’

‘You are?’ Bond was amazed at this change of tune. ‘What’s got into you all of a sudden?’

‘Well, I was sculling around the Casino taking a good look at anyone I thought might be a shareholder or a treasure hunter. They were mostly in groups, standing around trying to put up the front of having a good time – sunshine holiday and all that. They weren’t succeeding. Largo was doing all the work, being gay and boyish. The others looked like private dicks or the rest of the Torrio gang just after the St Valentine’s Day massacre. Never seen such a bunch of thugs in my life – dressed up in tuxedos and smoking cigars and drinking champagne and all that – just a glass or two to show the Christmas spirit. Orders, I suppose. But all of them with that smell one gets to know in the Service, or in Pinkertons for the matter of that. You know, careful, coldfish, thinking-of-something-else kinda look the pros have. Well, none of the faces meant anything to me until I came across a little guy with a furrowed brow and a big egg-head with pebble glasses who looked like a Mormon who’s got into a whorehouse by mistake. He was peering about nervously and every time one of these other guys spoke to him he blushed and said what a wonderful place it was and he was having a swell time. I got close enough to hear him say the same thing to two different guys. Rest of the time he just mooned around, sort of helpless and almost sucking a corner of his handkerchief, if you get me. Well that face meant something to me. I knew I’d seen it before somewhere. You know how it is. So after puzzling for a bit I went to the reception and told one of the guys behind the desk in a cheery fashion that I thought I’d located an old class-mate who’d migrated to Europe, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember his name. Very embarrassing as he seemed to recognize me. Would the guy help? So he came along and I pointed this feller out and he went back to his desk and went through the membership cards and came up with the one I wanted. Seemed he was a man called Traut, Emil Traut. Swiss passport. One of Mr Largo’s group from the yacht.’ Leiter paused. ‘Well I guess it was the Swiss passport that did it.’ He turned to Bond. ‘Remember a fellow called Kotze, East German physicist? Came over to the West about five years ago and sang all he knew to the Joint Scientific Intelligence boys? Then he disappeared, thanks to a fat payment for the info, and went to ground in Switzerland. Well, James. Take my word for it. That’s the same guy. The file went through my hands when I was still with C.I.A. doing desk work in Washington. All came back to me. It was one hell of a scoop at the time. Only saw his mug on the file, but there’s absolutely no doubt about it. That man’s Kotze. And now what the hell is a top physicist doing on board the Disco? Fits doesn’t it?’

They had come to police headquarters. Lights burned only on the ground floor. Bond waited until they had reported to the duty sergeant and had gone up to their room before he answered. He stood in the middle of the room and looked at Leiter. He said, ‘That’s the clincher, Felix. So now what do we do?’

‘With what you got this evening, I’d pull the whole lot in on suspicion. No question at all.’

‘Suspicion of what? Largo would reach for his lawyer and they’d be out in five minutes. Democratic processes of the law and so forth. And what single fact have we got that Largo couldn’t dodge? All right, so Traut is Kotze. We’re hunting for treasure, gentlemen, we need an expert mineralogist. This man offered his services. Said his name was Traut. No doubt he’s still worried about the Russians getting after him. Next question? Yes, we’ve got an underwater compartment on the Disco. We’re going to hunt treasure through it. Inspect it? Well, if you must. There you are, gentlemen – underwater gear, skids, perhaps even a small bathyscaphe. Underwater sentry? Of course. People have spent six months trying to find out what we’re after, how we’re going to get it. We’re professionals, gentlemen. We like to keep our secrets. And anyway, what was this Mr Bond, this rich gentleman looking for a property in Nassau, doing underneath my ship in the middle of the night? Petacchi? Never heard of him. Don’t care what Miss Vitali’s family name was. Always known her as Vitali …’ Bond made a throwaway gesture with one hand. ‘See what I mean? This treasure-hunting cover is perfect. It explains everything. And what are we left with? Largo pulls himself up to his full height and says, “Thanks, gentlemen. So I may go now? And so I shall, within the hour, I shall find another base for my work and you will be hearing from my lawyers forthwith – wrongful detention and trespass. And good luck to your tourist trade, gentlemen.” ’ Bond smiled grimly. ‘See what I mean?’

Leiter said impatiently. ‘So what do we do? Limpet mine? Send her to the bottom – in error, so to speak?’

‘No. We’re going to wait.’ At the expression on Leiter’s face, Bond held up a hand. ‘We’re going to send our report, in careful, guarded terms so we don’t get an airborne division landing on Windsor Field. And we’re going to say the Manta is all we need. And so it is. With her, we can keep tabs on the Disco just as we please. And we’ll stay under cover, keep a hidden watch on the yacht and see what happens. At present we’re not suspected. Largo’s plan, if there is one, that is, and don’t forget this treasure-hunting business still covers everything perfectly well, is going along all right. All he’s got to do now is collect the bombs and make for Target No. 1 ready for zero hour in around thirty hours’ time. We can do absolutely nothing to him until he’s got one or both of those bombs on board or we catch him at their hiding place. Now, that can’t be far away. Nor can the Vindicator, if she’s hereabouts. So tomorrow we take that amphibian they’ve got for us and hunt the area inside a radius of a hundred miles. We’ll hunt the seas and not the land. She must be in shoal water somewhere and damned well hidden. With this calm weather, we should be able to locate her – if she’s here. Now, come on! Let’s get those reports off and get some sleep. And say we’re out of communication for ten hours. And Disconnect your telephone when you get back to your room. However careful we are, this signal is going to set the Potomac on fire as well as the Thames.’

Six hours later, in the crystal light of early morning, they were out at Windsor Field and the ground crew was hauling the little Grumman Amphibian out of the hangar with a jeep. They had climbed on board and Leiter was gunning the engines when a uniformed motorcycle dispatch rider came driving uncertainly towards them, across the tarmac.

Bond said, ‘Get going! Quick! Here comes paper-work.’

Leiter released the brakes and taxi’d fast towards the single north–south runway. The radio crackled angrily. Leiter took a careful look over the sky. It was clear. He slowly pushed down on the joystick and the little plane snarled its way faster and faster down the concrete and, with a final bump, soared off over the low bush. The radio still crackled. Leiter reached up and switched it off.

Bond sat with the Admiralty chart on his lap. They were flying north. They had decided to start with the Grand Bahama group and have a first look at the possible area of Target No. 1. They flew at a thousand feet. Below them the Berry Islands were a necklace of brown spits set in cream and emerald and turquoise. ‘See what I mean?’ said Bond. ‘You can see anything big through that water down to fifty feet. Anything as big as the Vindicator would have been spotted anywhere on any of the air routes. So I’ve marked off the areas where there’s the minimum traffic. They’d have ditched somewhere well out of the way. Assuming, and it’s the hell of an assumption, that when the Disco made off to the south-east on the night of the third, it was a ruse, it’ll be reasonable to hunt to the north and the west. She was away eight hours. Two of those would have been at anchor doing the salvage work. That leaves six hours’ sailing at around thirty knots. Cut an hour off for laying the false trail, and that leaves five. I’ve marked off an area from the Grand Bahamas down to south of the Bimini group. That fits – if anything fits.’

‘Did you get on to the Commissioner?’

‘Yes. He’s going to have a couple of good men with day-and-night glasses keeping an eye on the Disco. If she moves from her Palmyra anchorage where she’s due back at midday, and if we’re not back in time, he’ll have her shadowed by one of the Bahama Airways charter planes. I got him quite worried with just one or two bits of information. He wanted to go to the Governor with the story. I said not yet. He’s a good man. Just doesn’t want too much responsibility without someone else’s okay. I used the P.M.’s name to keep him quiet until we get back. He’ll play all right. When do you think the Manta could be here?’

‘S’evening, I’d say.’ Leiter’s voice was uneasy. ‘I must have been drunk last night to have sent for her. Christ, we’re creating one hell of a flap, James. It doesn’t look too good in the cold light of dawn. Anyway, what the hell? There’s Grand Bahama coming up dead ahead. Want me to give the rocket base a buzz? Prohibited flying area, but we might as well go in up to our ears while we’re about it. Just listen to the bawling out we’ll be getting in just a minute or two.’ He reached up and switched on the radio.

They flew eastwards along the fifty miles of beautiful coast towards what looked like a small city of aluminium hutments amongst which red and white and silver structures rose like small skyscrapers above the low roofs. ‘That’s it,’ said Leiter. ‘See the yellow warning balloons at the corners of the base? Warning to aircraft and fishermen. There’s a flight test on this morning. Better get out to sea a bit and keep south. If it’s a full test, they’ll be firing towards Ascension Island – about five thousand miles east. Off the African coast. Don’t want to get an Atlas missile up our backsides. Look over there to the left – sticking up like a pencil beside that red and white gantry! Atlas or a Titan – intercontinental. Or might be a prototype Polaris. The other two gantries’ll be for Matador and Snark and perhaps your Thunderbird. That big gun thing, like a howitzer, that’s the camera tracker. The two saucer-shaped reflectors are the radar screen. Golly! One of them’s turning away towards us! We’re going to get hell in a minute. That strip of concrete down the middle of the island. That’s the skid strip for bringing in missiles that are recallable. Can’t see the central control for telemetering and guidance and destruction of the things if they go mad. That’ll be underground – one of those squat block-house things. Some brass hat’ll be sitting down there with his staff getting all set for the count-down or whatever’s going to happen and telling someone to do something about that goddam little plane that’s fouling up the works.’

Above their heads the radio crackled. A metallic voice said, ‘N/AKOI, N/AKOI. You’re in a prohibited area. Can you hear me? Change course southwards immediately. N/AKOI. This is Grand Bahama Rocket Base. Keep clear. Keep clear.’

Leiter said, ‘Oh hell! No use interfering with world progress. Anyway we’ve seen all we want. No good getting on the Windsor Field report to add to our troubles.’ He banked the little plane sharply. ‘But you see what I mean? If that little heap of ironmongery isn’t worth a quarter of a billion dollars my name’s P. Rick. And it’s just about a hundred miles from Nassau. Perfect for the Disco.’

The radio started again: ‘N/AKOI, N/AKOI. You will be reported for entering a prohibited area and for failing to acknowledge. Keep flying south and watch out for sudden turbulence. Over.’ The radio went silent.

Leiter said, ‘That means they’re going to fire a test. Keep an eye on them and let me know when. I’ll cut down the revs. No harm in watching ten million dollars of the taxpayers’ money being blown off. Look! The radar scanner’s turned back to the east. They’ll be sweating it out in that block-house all right. I’ve seen ’em at it. Lights’ll be blinking all over the big board way down underground. The kibitzers’ll be at their periscopes. Voices’ll come down over the P.A. System. “Beacon contact … Warning balloons up … Telemeter contact … Tank pressure okay … Gyros okay … Rocket-tank pressure correct … Rocket clear … Recorders alive … Lights all green … Ten, nine, eight, seven, six … Fire!” ’

Despite Leiter’s graphic count-down, nothing happened. Then, through his glasses, Bond saw a wisp of steam coming from the base of the rocket. Then a great cloud of steam and smoke and a flash of bright light that turned red. Breathlessly, for there was something terrible in the sight, Bond gave the blow-by-blow to Leiter. ‘It’s edging up off the pad. There’s a jet of flame. It seems to be sitting on it. Now it’s going up like a lift. Now it’s off! God, it’s going fast! Now there’s nothing but a spark of fire in the sky. Now it’s gone. Whew!’ Bond mopped his brow. ‘Remember that Moonraker job I was on a few years back? Interesting to see what the people out front saw.’

‘Yeah. You were lucky to get out of that deep fry.’ Leiter brushed aside Bond’s reminiscences. ‘Now then, next stop those spits in the ocean north of Bimini and then a good run down the Bimini Group. Around seventy miles south-west. Keep an eye out. If we miss those dots, we’ll end up in the grounds of the Fountain Blue in Miami.’

A quarter of an hour later, the tiny necklet of cays showed up. They were barely above the water line. There was much shoal. It looked an ideal hiding place for the plane. They came down to a hundred feet and slowly cruised in a zigzag down the group. The water was so clear that Bond could see big fish meandering around the dark clumps of coral and seaweed in the brilliant sand. A big diamond-shaped stingray cowered and buried itself in the sand as the black shadow of the plane pursued and shot over it. There was nothing else and no possibility of concealment. The green shoal waters were as clean and innocent as if they had been open desert. The plane flew on south to North Bimini. Here there were a few houses and some small fishing hotels. Expensive-looking deep-sea fishing craft were out, their tall rods streaming. Gay people in the well-decks waved to the little plane. A girl, sunbathing naked on the roof of a smart cabin cruiser, hastily snatched at a towel. ‘Authentic blonde!’ commented Leiter. They flew on south to the Cat Cays that trail away south from the Biminis. Here there was still an occasional fishing craft. Leiter groaned. ‘What the hell’s the good of this? These fishermen would have found it by now if it was here.’ Bond told him to keep on south. Thirty miles further south there were little unnamed specks on the Admiralty chart. Soon the dark blue water began to shoal again to green. They passed over three sharks circling aimlessly. Then there was nothing – just dazzling sand under the glassy surface, and occasional patches of coral.

They went on carefully down to where the water turned again to blue. Leiter said dully, ‘Well, that’s that. Fifty miles on there’s Andros. Too many people there. Someone would have heard the plane – if there was a plane.’ He looked at his watch. ‘11.30. What next, Hawkshaw? I’ve only got fuel for another two hours’ flying.’

Something was itching deep down in Bond’s mind. Something, some small detail, had raised a tiny question-mark. What was it? Those sharks! In about forty feet of water! Circling on the surface! What were they doing there? Three of them. There must be something – something dead that had brought them to that particular patch of sand and coral. Bond said urgently, ‘Just go back up once more, Felix. Over the shoals. There’s something –’

The little plane made a tight turn. Felix cut down the revs and just kept flying speed about fifty feet above the surface. Bond opened the door and craned out, his glasses at short focus. Yes, there were the sharks, two on the surface with their dorsals out, and one deep down. It was nosing at something. It had its teeth into something and was pulling at it. Among the dark and pale patches, a thin straight line showed on the bottom. Bond shouted, ‘Get back over again!’ The plane zoomed round and back. Christ! Why did they have to go so fast? But now Bond had seen another straight line on the bottom, leading off at 90 degrees from the first. He flopped back into his seat and banged the door shut. He said quietly, ‘Put her down over those sharks, Felix. I think this is it.’

Leiter took a quick glance at Bond’s face. He said, ‘Christ!’ Then, ‘Well, I hope I can make it. Damned difficult to get a true horizon. This water’s like glass.’ He pulled away, curved back and slowly put the nose down. There was a slight jerk and then the hiss of water under the skids. Leiter cut his engines and the plane came to a quick stop, rocking in the water about ten yards from where Bond wanted. The two sharks on the surface paid no attention. They completed their circle and came slowly back. They passed so close to the plane that Bond could see the incurious, pink button eyes. He peered down through the small ripples cast by the two dorsal fins. Yes! Those ‘rocks’ on the bottom were bogus. They were painted patches. So were the areas of ‘sand’. Now Bond could clearly see the straight edges of the giant tarpaulin. The third shark had nosed back a big section. Now it was shovelling with its flat head trying to get underneath.

Bond sat back. He turned to Leiter. He nodded. ‘That’s it, all right. Big camouflaged tarpaulin over her. Take a look.’

While Leiter leant across Bond and stared down, Bond’s mind was racing furiously. Get the Police Commissioner on the police wavelength and report? Get signals sent off to London? No! If the radio operator on the Disco was doing his job, he would be keeping watch on the police frequency. So go on down and have a look. See if the bombs were still there. Bring up a piece of evidence. The sharks? Kill one and the others would go for the corpse.

Leiter sat back, his face shining with excitement. ‘Well, I’ll be goddammed! Boy oh boy!’ He clapped Bond on the back. ‘We’ve found it! We’ve found the goddam plane. Whaddya know? Jesus Kerist!’

Bond had taken out the Walther PPK. He checked to see there was a round in the chamber, rested it on his left forearm and waited for the two sharks to come round again. The first was the bigger, a hammerhead, nearly twelve feet long. Its hideously distorted head moved slowly from side to side as it nuzzled through the water, watching what went on below, waiting for the sign of meat. Bond aimed for the base of the dorsal fin that cut through the water like a dark sail. It was fully erect, a sign of tension and awareness in the big fish. Just below it was the spine, unassailable except with a nickel-plated bullet. He pulled the trigger. There was a phut as the bullet hit the surface just behind the dorsal. The boom of the heavy gun rolled away over the sea. The shark paid no attention. Bond fired again. The water foamed as the fish reared itself above the surface, dived shallowly and came up thrashing sideways like a broken snake. It was a brief flurry. The bullet must have severed the spinal cord. Now the great brown shape began moving sluggishly in circles that grew ever wider. The hideous snout came briefly out of the water to show the sickle mouth gasping. For a moment it rolled over on its back, its stomach white to the sun. Then it righted itself and, dead probably, continued its mechanical, disjointed swim.

The following shark had watched all this. Now it approached cautiously. It made a short snapping run and swerved away. Feeling safe, it darted in again, seemed to nuzzle at the dying fish and then lifted its snout above the surface and came down with all its force, scything into the flank of the hammerhead. It got hold, but the flesh was tough. It shook its great brown head like a dog, worrying at the mouthful, and then tore itself away. A cloud of blood poured over the sea. Now the other shark appeared from below and both fish, in a frenzy, tore and tore again at the still moving hulk whose nervous system refused to die. The dreadful feast moved away on the current and was soon only a distant splashing on the surface of the quiet sea.

Bond handed Leiter the gun. ‘I’ll get on down. May be rather a long job. They’ve got enough to keep them busy for half an hour, but if they come back, wing one of them. And if for any reason you want me back on the surface, fire straight down at the water and go on firing. The shock-wave should just about reach me.’

Bond began to struggle out of his clothes and, with Leiter’s help, into his aqualung. It was a cramped, difficult business. It would be still worse getting back into the plane and it occurred to Bond that he would have to jettison the underwater gear. Leiter said angrily, ‘I wish to God I could get down there with you. Trouble with this damned hook, it just won’t swim like a hand. Have to think up some rubber webbing gadget. Never occurred to me before.’

Bond said, ‘You’ll have to keep steam up on this crate. We’ve already drifted a hundred yards. Get her back up, like a good chap. I don’t know who I’m going to find sharing the wreck with me. It’s been here a good five days and other visitors may have moved in first.’

Leiter pressed the starter and taxi’d back into position. He said, ‘You know the design of the Vindicator? You know where to look for the bombs and these detonator things the pilot has charge of?’

‘Yes. Full briefing in London. Well, so long. Tell Mother I died game!’ Bond scrambled on to the edge of the cockpit and jumped.

He got his head under and swam leisurely down through the brilliant water. Now he could see that there were swarms of fish over the whole area below him – bill fish, small barracuda, jacks of various types – the carnivores. They parted grudgingly to make room for their big, pale competitor. Bond touched down and made for the edge of the tarpaulin that had been dislodged by the shark. He pulled out a couple of the long corkscrew skewers that secured it to the sand, switched on his waterproof torch and, his other hand on his knife, slipped under the edge.

He had been expecting it, but the foulness of the water made him retch. He clamped his lips more tightly round the mouthpiece and squirmed on to where the bulk of the plane raised the tarpaulin into a domed tent. He stood up. His torch glittered on the underside of a polished wing and then, below it, on to something that lay under a scrabbling mass of crabs, langoustes, sea caterpillars and starfish. This also Bond had been prepared for. He knelt down to his grisly work.

It didn’t take long. He unclipped the gold identification disc and unlatched the gold wrist-watch from the horrible wrists and noted the gaping wound under the chin that could not have been caused by sea creatures. He turned his torch on the gold disc. It said ‘Giuseppe Petacchi. No. 15932’. He strapped the two bits of evidence to his own wrists and went on towards the fuselage that loomed in the darkness like a huge silver submarine. He inspected the exterior, noted the rent where the hull had been broken on impact, and then climbed up through the open safety hatch into the interior.

Inside, Bond’s torch shone everywhere into red eyes that glowed like rubies in the darkness and there was a soft movement and a scuttling. He sprayed the light up and down the fuselage. Everywhere there were octopuses, small ones, but perhaps a hundred of them, weaving on the tips of their tentacles, sliding softly away into protecting shadows, changing their camouflage nervously from brown to a pale phosphorescence that gleamed palely in the patches of darkness. The whole fuselage seemed to be crawling with them, evilly, horribly, and as Bond shone his torch on the roof the sight was even worse. There, bumping softly in the slight current, hung the corpse of a crew member. In decomposition, it had risen up from the floor, and octopuses, hanging from it like bats, now let go their hold and shot, jet propelled, to and fro inside the plane – dreadful, glinting, red-eyed comets that slapped themselves into dark corners and stealthily squeezed themselves into cracks and under seats.

Bond closed his mind to the disgusting nightmare and, weaving his torch in front of him, proceeded with his search.

He found the red-striped cyanide canister and tucked it into his belt. He counted the corpses, noted the open hatch to the bomb bay and verified that the bombs had gone. He looked in the open container under the pilot’s seat and searched in alternative places for the vital fuses for the bombs. But they also had gone. Finally, having a dozen times had to slash away groping tentacles from his naked legs, he felt his nerve was quickly seeping away. There was much he should have taken with him, the identification discs of the crew, the pulp of the log book that showed nothing but routine flight details and no hint of emergency, readings from the instrument panel, but he couldn’t stand another second of the squirming, red-eyed catacomb. He slid out through the escape hatch and swam almost hysterically towards the thin line of light that was the edge of the tarpaulin. Desperately, he scrabbled his way under it, snagged the cylinder on his back in the folds and had to back under again to free himself. And then he was out in the beautiful crystal water and soaring up to the surface. At twenty feet the pain in his ears reminded him to stop and decompress. Impatiently, staring up at the sweet hull of the seaplane above him, he waited until the pain had subsided. Then he was up and clinging to a float and tearing at his equipment to get rid of it and its contamination. He let it all go and watched it tumbling slowly down towards the sand. He rinsed his mouth out with the sweetness of pure salt water and swam to within reach of Leiter’s outstretched hand.