Текст книги "The James Bond Anthology"

Автор книги: Ian Fleming

Leiter looked thoughtful. Some of the cloud lifted from his face. He said, ‘I know the plans for this afternoon. Off on this miniature train through the cane fields, picnic, then the boat out of Green Island Harbour, deep-sea fishing and all that. I’ve reconnoitred the route for it all.’ He raised the thumb of his left hand and pinged the end of his steel hook thoughtfully. ‘Ye-e-e-s. It’s going to mean some quick action and a heap of luck and I’ll have to get the hell up to Frome for some supplies from your friend Hugill. Will he hand over some gear on your say-so? Okay, then. Come into my office and write him a note. It’s only a half-hour’s drive and Nick can hold the front desk for that time. Come on.’ He opened a side door and went through into his office. He beckoned Bond to follow and shut the door behind him. At Leiter’s dictation, Bond took down the note to the manager of the WISCO sugar estates and then went out and along to his room. He took a strong nip of straight bourbon and sat on the edge of his bed and looked unseeingly out of the window and across the lawn to the sea’s horizon. Like a dozing hound chasing a rabbit in its dreams, or like the audience at an athletics meeting that lifts a leg to help the high-jumper over the bar, every now and then, his right hand twitched involuntarily. In his mind’s eye, in a variety of imagined circumstances, it was leaping for his gun.

Time passed and James Bond still sat there, occasionally smoking half-way through a Royal Blend and then absent-mindedly stubbing it out in the bed-table ash-tray. An observer would have made nothing of his thoughts. The pulse in his left temple was beating a little fast. There was some tension, but perhaps only the concentration applied to his thinking, in the slightly pursed lips, but the brooding, blue-grey eyes that saw nothing were relaxed, almost sleepy. It would have been impossible to guess that James Bond was contemplating the possibility of his own death later that day, feeling the soft-nosed bullets tearing into him, seeing his body jerking on the ground, his mouth perhaps screaming. Those were certainly part of his thoughts, but the twitching right hand was evidence that, in much of the whirring film of his thoughts, the enemy’s fire was not going unanswered – perhaps had even been anticipated.

James Bond gave a deep relaxed sigh. His eyes came back into focus. He looked at his watch. It said 9.50. He got up, ran both hands down his lean face with a scrubbing motion, and went out and along the corridor to the conference room.

12 | IN A GLASS, VERY DARKLY

The set-up was the same. Bond’s travel literature was on the buffet table where he had left it. He went through into the conference room. It had only been cursorily tidied. Scaramanga had probably said it was not to be entered by the staff. The chairs were roughly in position, but the ash-trays had not been emptied. There were no stains on the carpet and no signs of the carpet having been washed. It had probably been a single shot through the heart. With Scaramanga’s soft-nosed bullets, the internal damage would be devastating, but the fragments of the bullet would stay in the body and there would be no bleeding. Bond went round the table, ostentatiously positioning the chairs more accurately. He identified the one where Ruby Rotkopf must have sat, across the table from Scaramanga, because it had a cracked leg. He dutifully examined the windows and looked behind the curtains, doing his job. Scaramanga came into the room followed by Mr Hendriks. He said roughly, ‘Okay, Mr Hazard. Lock both doors like yesterday. No one to come in. Right?’

‘Yes.’ As Bond passed Mr Hendriks he said cheerfully, ‘Good morning, Mr Hendriks. Enjoy the party last night?’

Mr Hendriks gave his usual curt bow. He said nothing. His eyes were granite marbles.

Bond went out and locked the doors and took up his position with the brochures and the champagne glass. Immediately, Hendriks began talking, quickly and urgently, fumbling for the English words. ‘Mister S. I have bad troubles to report. My Zentrale in Havana spoke with me this morning. They have heard direct from Moscow. This man’ – he must have made a gesture towards the door – ‘this man is the British secret agent, the man Bond. There is no doubt. I am given the exact descriptions. When he goes swimming this morning, I am examining his body through glasses. The wounds on his body are clearly to be seen. The scar down the right side of the face leaves no doubt. And his shooting last night! The ploddy fool is proud of his shooting. I would like to see a member of my organization behave in zees stupid fashions! I would have him shot immediately.’ There was a pause. The man’s tone altered, became slightly menacing. His target was now Scaramanga. ‘But, Mister S. How can this have come about? How can you possibly have let it arrive? My Zentrale is dumbfounded at the mistake. The man might have done much damage but for the watchfulness of my superiors. Please explain, Mister S. I must be making the very full report. How is it that you are meeting this man? How is it that you are then carrying him efen into the centre of The Group? The details, pliss, Mister. The full accounting. My superiors will be expressing sharp criticism of the lack of vigilance against the enemy.’

Bond heard the rasp of a match against a box. He could imagine Scaramanga sitting back and going through the smoking routine. The voice, when it came, was decisive, uncowed. ‘Mr Hendriks, I appreciate your outfit’s concern about this and I congratulate them on their sources of information. But you tell your Central this: I met this man completely by accident, at least I thought so at the time, and there’s no use worrying about how it happened. It hasn’t been easy to set up this conference and I needed help. I had to get two managers in a hurry from New York to handle the hotel people. They’re doing a good job, right? The floor staff and all the rest I had to get from Kingston. But what I really needed was a kind of personal assistant who could be around to make sure that everything went smoothly. Personally, I just couldn’t be bothered with all the details. When this guy dropped out of the blue he looked all right to me. So I picked him up. But I’m not stupid. I knew that when this show was over I’d have to get rid of him, just in case he’d learned anything he shouldn’t have. Now you say he’s a member of the Secret Service. I told you at the beginning of this conference that I eat these people for breakfast when I have a mind to. What you’ve told me changes just one thing: he’ll die today instead of tomorrow. And here’s how it’s going to happen.’ Scaramanga lowered his voice. Now Bond could only hear disjointed words. The sweat ran down from his ear as he pressed it to the base of the champagne glass. ‘Our train trip … rats in the cane … unfortunate accident … before I do it … one hell of a shock … details to myself … promise you a big laugh’. Scaramanga must have sat back again. Now his voice was normal. ‘So you can rest easy. There’ll be nothing left of the guy by this evening. Okay? I could get it over with now by just opening the door. But two blown fuses in two days might stir up gossip around here. And this way there’ll be a heap of fun for everyone on the picnic.’

Mr Hendriks’s voice was flat and uninterested. He had carried out his orders and action was about to follow, definite action. There could be no complaint of delay in carrying out orders. He said, ‘Yes. What you are proposing will be satisfactory. I shall observe the proceedings with much amusement. And now to other business. Plan Orange. My superiors are wishing to know that everything is in order.’

‘Yes. Everything’s in order at Reynolds Metal, Kaiser Bauxite and Alumina of Jamaica. But your stuff’s plenty – what do they call it – volatile. Got to be replaced in the demolition chambers every five years. Hey,’ there was a dry chuckle, ‘I sure snickered when I saw that the how-do-it labels on the drums were in some of these African languages as well as English. Ready for the big black uprising, huh? You better warn me about The Day. I hold some pretty vulnerable stocks on Wall Street.’

‘Then you will lose a lot of money,’ said Mr Hendriks flatly. ‘I shall not be told the date. I do not mind. I hold no stocks. You would be wise to keep your money in gold or diamonds or rare postage stamps. And now the next matter. It is of interest to my superiors to be able to place their hands on a very great quantity of narcotics. You have a source for the supply of ganja, or marijuana as we call it. You are now receiving your supplies in pound weight. I am asking whether you can stimulate your sources of supply to providing the weed by the hundredweight. It is suggested that you then run shipments to the Pedro Cays. My friends can arrange for collection from there.’

There was a brief silence. Scaramanga would be smoking his thin cheroot. He said, ‘Yeah, I think we could swing that. But they’ve just put some big teeth into these ganja laws. Real rough jail sentences, see? So the goddam price has up and gone through the roof. The going price today is £16 an ounce. A hundredweight of the stuff could cost thousands of pounds. And it’s darned bulky in those quantities. My fishing boat could probably only ship one hundredweight at a time. Anyway, where’s it for? You’ll be lucky to get those quantities ashore. A pound or two is difficult enough.’

‘I am not being told the destinations. I assume it is for America. They are the largest consumers. Arrangements have been made to receive this and other consignments initially off the coast of Georgia. I am being told that this area is full of small islands and swamps and is already much favoured by smugglers. The money is of no importance. I have instructions to make an initial outlay of a million dollars, but at keen market prices. You will be receiving your usual ten per cent commission. Is it that you are interested?’

‘I’m always interested in a hundred thousand dollars. I’ll have to get in touch with my growers. They have their plantations in the Maroon country. That’s in the centre of the island. This is going to take time. I can give you a quotation in about two weeks – a hundredweight of the stuff f.o.b. the Pedro Cays. Okay?’

‘And a date? The Cays are very flat. This is not stuff to be left lying about, isn’t it?’

‘Sure. Sure. Now then. Any other business? Okay. Well, I’ve got something I’d like to bring up. This casino lark. Now, this is the picture. The government are tempted. They think it’ll stimulate the tourist industry. But the Heavies – the boys who were kicked out of Havana, the Vegas machine, the Miami jokers, Chicago – the whole works, didn’t take the measure of these people before they put the heat on. And they overplayed the slush fund approach – put too much money in the wrong pockets. Guess they should have employed a public relations outfit. Jamaica looks small on the map, and I guess the Syndicates thought they could hurry through a neat little operation like the Nassau job. But the Opposition party got wise, and the Church, and the old women, and there was talk of the Mafia taking over in Jamaica, the old “Cosa Nostra” and all that crap, and the spiel flopped. Remember we were offered an “in” coupla years back? That was when they saw it was a bust and wanted to unload their promotion expenses, coupla million bucks or so, on to The Group. You recall I advised against and gave my reasons. Okay. So we said no. But things have changed. Different party in power, bit of a tourist slump last year, and a certain Minister has been in touch with me. Says the climate’s changed. Independence has come along and they’ve got out from behind the skirts of Aunty England. Want to show that Jamaica’s with it. Got oomph and all that. So this friend of mine says he can get gambling off the pad here. He told me how and it makes sense. Before, I said stay out. Now I say come in. But it’s going to cost money. Each of us’ll have to chip in with a hundred thousand bucks to give local encouragement. Miami’ll be the operators and get the franchise. The deal is that they’ll put us in for five per cent – but off the top. Get me? On these figures, and they’re not loaded, our juice should have been earned in eighteen months. After that it’s gravy. Get the photo? But your, er, friends, don’t seem too keen on these, er, capitalist enterprises. How do you figure it? Will they ante up? I don’t want for us to go outside for the green. And, as from yesterday, we’re missing a shareholder. Come to think of it, we’ve got to think of that too. Who we goin’ to rope in as Number Six? We’re short of a game for now.’

James Bond wiped his ear and the bottom of the glass with his handkerchief. It was almost unbearable. He had heard his own death sentence pronounced, the involvement of the K.G.B. with Scaramanga and the Caribbean spelled out, and such minor dividends as sabotage of the bauxite industry, massive drug smuggling into the States and gambling politics thrown in. It was a majestic haul in area Intelligence. He had the ball! Could he live to touch down with it? God, for a drink! He put his ear back to the hot base of the glass.

There was silence. When it came, the voice of Hendriks was cautious, indecisive. He obviously wanted to say ‘I pass’ – with the corollary, ‘until I’ve talked to my Zentrale, isn’t it?’

He said, ‘Mister S. Is difficult pizzness, yes? My superiors are not disliking the profitable involvements but, as you will be knowing, they are most liking the pizzness that has the political objective. It was on these conditions that they instructed me to ally myself with your Group. The money, that is not the problem. But how am I to explain the political objective of opening casinos in Jamaica? This I am wondering.’

‘It’ll almost certainly lead to trouble. The locals’ll want to play – they’re terrific gamblers here. There’ll be incidents. Coloured people’ll be turned away from the doors for one reason or another. Then the Opposition party’ll get hold of that and raise hell about colour bars and so on. With all the money flying about, the unions’ll push wages through the roof. It can all add up to a fine stink. The atmosphere’s too damn peaceful around here. This’ll be a cheap way of raising plenty of hell. That’s what your people want, isn’t it? Give the islands the hot foot one after another?’

There was another brief silence. Mr Hendriks obviously didn’t like the idea. He said so, but obliquely: ‘What you are saying, Mister S., is very interesting. But is it not that these troubles you envisage will endanger our monies? However, I will report your inquiry and inform you at once. It is possible that my superiors will be sympathetic. Who can be telling? Now there is this question of a new Number Six. Are you having anyone in mind?’

‘I think we want a good man from South America. We need a guy to oversee our operations in British Guiana. We oughta get smartened up in Venezuela. How come we never got further with that great scheme for blocking the Maracaibo Bar? Like robbing a blind man, given a suitable block ship. Just the threat of it would make the oil companies shell out – that’s a joke by the way – and go on shelling by way of protection. Then, if this narcotics spiel is going to be important, we can’t do without Mexico. How about Mr Arosio of Mexico City?’

‘I am not knowing this gentleman.’

‘Rosy? Oh, he’s a great guy. Runs the Green Light Transportation System. Drugs and girls into L.A. Never been caught yet. Reliable operator. Got no affiliates. Your people’ll know about him. Why not check with them and then we’ll put it up to the others? They’ll go along with our say-so.’

‘Is good. And now, Mister S. Have you anything to report about your own employer? On his recent visit to Moscow, I understand that he expressed satisfaction with your efforts in this area. It is a matter for gratification that there should be such close co-operation between his subversive efforts and our own. Both our chiefs are expecting much in the future from our union with the Mafia. Myself I am doubting. Mr Gengerella is undoubtedly a valuable link, but it is my impression that these people are only being activated by money. What is it that you are thinking?’

‘You’ve said it, Mr Hendriks. In the opinion of my chief, the Mafia’s first and only consideration is the Mafia. It has always been so and it always will be so. My Mister C. is not expecting great results in the States. Even the Mafia can’t buck the anti-Cuban feeling there. But he thinks we can achieve plenty in the Caribbean by giving them odd jobs to do. They can be very effective. It would certainly oil the wheels if your people would use the Mafia as a pipeline for this narcotics business. They’ll turn your million-dollar investment into ten. They’ll grab the nine out of it of course. But that’s not peanuts, and it’ll tie them in to you. Think you could arrange that? It’ll give Leroy G. some good news to report when he gets home. As for Mister C., he seems to be going along all right. Flora was a body-blow but, largely thanks to the Americans leaning on Cuba the way they do, he’s kept the country together. If the Americans once let up on their propaganda and needling and so forth, perhaps even make a friendly gesture or two, all the steam’ll go out of the little man. I don’t often see him. He leaves me alone. Likes to keep his nose clean, I guess. But I get all the co-operation I need from the D.S.S. Okay? Well let’s go see if the folks are ready to move. It’s eleven-thirty and the Bloody Bay Belle is due to be on her way at twelve. Guess it’s going to be quite a fun day. Pity our Chiefs aren’t going to be along to see the limey eye get his chips.’

‘Ha!’ said Mr Hendriks noncommittally.

James Bond moved away from the door. He heard Mr Scaramanga’s pass key in the lock. He looked up and yawned.

Mr Scaramanga and Mr Hendriks looked down at him. Their expressions were vaguely interested and reflective. It was as if he were a bit of steak and they were wondering whether to have it done rare or medium rare.

13 | HEAR THE TRAIN BLOW!

At twelve o’clock they all assembled in the lobby. Scaramanga had added a broad-brimmed white Stetson to his immaculate tropical attire. He looked like the smartest plantation owner in the South. Mr Hendriks wore his usual stuffy suit, now topped with a grey Homburg. Bond thought that he should have grey suede gloves and an umbrella. The four hoods were wearing calypso shirts outside their slacks. Bond was pleased. If they were carrying guns in their waistbands, the shirts would hinder the draw. Cars were drawn up outside with Scaramanga’s Thunderbird in the lead. Scaramanga walked up to the desk. Nick Nicholson was standing washing his hands in invisible soap and looking helpful. ‘All set? Everything loaded on the train? Green Harbour been told? Okay, then. Where’s that sidekick of yours, that man Travis? Haven’t seen him around today.’

Nick Nicholson looked serious. ‘He got an abscess in his tooth, sir. Real bad. Had to send him in to Sav’ La Mar to have it out. He’ll be okay by this afternoon.’

‘Too bad. Dock him half a day’s pay. No room for sleepers on this outfit. We’re short-handed as it is. Should have had his snappers attended to before he took the job on. ’Kay?’

‘Very good, Mr Scaramanga. I’ll tell him.’

Mr Scaramanga turned to the waiting group. ‘Okay, fellers. Now this is the spiel. We drive a mile down the road to the station. We get aboard this little train. Quite an outfit that. Feller by the name of Lucius Beebe had it copied for the Thunderbird company from the engine and rolling stock on the little old Denver, South Park and Pacific line. Okay. So we steam along this old cane-field line about twenty miles to Green Island Harbour. Plenty birds, bush rats, crocs in the rivers. Mebbe we get a little hunting. Have some fun with the hardware. All you guys got your guns with you? Fine, fine. Champagne lunch at Green Island and the girls and the music’ll be there to keep us happy. After lunch we get aboard the Thunder Bird, big Chris-Craft, and take a cruise along to Lucea, that’s a little township down the coast, and see if we can catch our dinner. Those that don’t want to fish can play stud. Right? Then back here for drinks. Okay? Everyone satisfied? Any suggestions? Then let’s go.’

Bond was told to get in the back of the car. They set off. Once again that offered neck! Crazy not to take him now! But it was open country with no cover and there were four guns riding behind. The odds simply weren’t good enough. What was the plan for his removal? During the ‘hunting’ presumably. James Bond smiled grimly to himself. He was feeling happy. He wouldn’t have been able to explain the emotion. It was a feeling of being keyed up, wound taut. It was the moment, after twenty passes, when you got a hand you could bet on – not necessarily win, but bet on. He had been after this man for over six weeks. Today, this morning perhaps, was to come the pay-off he had been ordered to bring about. It was win or lose. The odds? Foreknowledge was playing for him. He was more heavily forearmed than the enemy knew. But the enemy had the big battalions on their side. There were more of them. And, taking only Scaramanga, perhaps more talent. Weapons? Again leaving out the others, Scaramanga had the advantage. The long-barrelled Colt .45 would be a fraction slower on the draw, but its length of barrel would give it more accuracy than the Walther automatic. Rate of fire? The Walther should have the edge – and the first empty chamber of Scaramanga’s gun, if it hadn’t been discovered, would be an additional bonus. The steady hand? The cool brain? The sharpness of the lust to kill? How did they weigh up? Probably nothing to choose on the first two. Bond might be a shade trigger-happy – of necessity. That he must watch. He must damp down the fire in his belly. Get ice-cold. In the lust to kill, perhaps he was the strongest. Of course. He was fighting for his life. The other man was just amusing himself – providing sport for his friends, displaying his potency, showing off. That was good! That might be decisive! Bond said to himself that he must increase the other man’s unawareness, his casual certitude, his lack of caution. He must be the P. G. Wodehouse Englishman, the limey of the cartoons. He must play easy to take. The adrenalin coursed into James Bond’s bloodstream. His pulse rate began to run a fraction high. He felt it on his wrist. He breathed deeply and slowly to bring it down. He found that he was sitting forward, tensed. He sat back and tried to relax. All of his body relaxed except his right hand. This was in the control of someone else. Resting on his right thigh, it still twitched slightly from time to time like the paw of a sleeping dog chasing rabbits. He put it into his coat pocket and watched a turkey buzzard a thousand feet up, circling. He put himself into the mind of the ‘John Crow’, watching out for a squashed toad or a dead bush rat. The circling buzzard had found its offal. It came lower and lower. Bond wished it ‘bon appétit’. The predator in him wished the scavenger a good meal. He smiled at the comparison between them. They were both following a scent. The main difference was that the John Crow was a protected bird. No one would shoot back at it when it made its final dive. Amused by his thoughts, Bond’s right hand came out of his pocket and lit a cigarette for him, quietly and obediently. It had stopped going off chasing rabbits on its own.

The station was a brilliant mock-up from the Colorado narrow-gauge era – a low building in faded clapboard ornamented with gingerbread along its eaves. Its name ‘Thunder-bird Halt’ was in old-style ornamental type, heavily seriffed. Advertisements proclaimed ‘Chew Roseleaf Fine Cut Warranted Finest Virginia Leaf’, ‘Trains Stop for all Meals’, ‘No Checks Accepted’. The engine, gleaming in black and yellow varnish and polished brass, was a gem. It stood, panting quietly in the sunshine, a wisp of black smoke curling up from the tall stack behind the big brass headlight. The engine’s name ‘The Belle’ was on a proud brass plate on the gleaming black barrel and its number, ‘No. 1’, on a similar plate below the headlight. There was one carriage, an open affair with padded foam-rubber seats and a daffodil Surrey roof of fringed canvas to keep off the sun, and then the brake van, also in black and yellow, with a resplendent gilt-armed chair behind the conventional wheel of the brake. It was a wonderful toy even down to the old-fashioned whistle which now gave a sharp admonitory blast.

Scaramanga was in ebullient form. ‘Hear the train blow, folks! All aboard!’ There was an anticlimax. To Bond’s dismay he took out his golden pistol, pointed it at the sky and pressed the trigger. He hesitated only momentarily and fired again. The deep boom echoed back from the wall of the station and the station-master, resplendent in old-fashioned uniform, looked nervous. He pocketed the big silver turnip watch he had been holding and stood back obsequiously, the green flag now drooping at his side. Scaramanga checked his gun. He looked thoughtfully at Bond and said, ‘All right, my friend. Now then, you get up front with the driver.’

Bond smiled happily. ‘Thanks. I’ve always wanted to do that since I was a child. What fun!’

‘You’ve said it,’ said Scaramanga. He turned to the others. ‘And you, Mr Hendriks. In the first seat behind the coal-tender, please. Then Sam and Leroy. Then Hal and Louie. I’ll be up back in the brake van. Good place to watch out for game.’Kay?’

Everybody took their seats. The station-master had recovered his nerve and went through his ploy with the watch and the flag. The engine gave a triumphant hoot and, with a series of diminishing puffs, got under way and they bowled off along the three-foot gauge line that disappeared, as straight as an arrow, into a dancing shimmer of silver.

Bond read the speed gauge. It said twenty. For the first time he paid attention to the driver. He was a villainous-looking Rastafari in dirty khaki overalls with a sweat rag round his forehead. A cigarette drooped from between the thin moustache and the straggling beard. He smelled quite horrible. Bond said, ‘My name’s Mark Hazard. What’s yours?’

‘Rass, man! Ah doan talk wid buckra.’

The expression ‘rass’ is Jamaican for ‘shove it’. ‘Buckra’ is a tough colloquialism for ‘white man’ .

Bond said equably, ‘I thought part of your religion was to love thy neighbour.’

The Rasta gave the whistle halyard a long pull. When the shriek had died away, he simply said ‘Sheeit’, kicked the furnace door open and began shovelling coal.

Bond looked surreptitiously round the cabin. Yes. There it was! The long Jamaican cutlass, this one filed to an inch blade with a deadly point. It was on a rack by the man’s hand. Was this the way he was supposed to go? Bond doubted it. Scaramanga would do the deed in a suitably dramatic fashion and one that would give him an alibi. Second executioner would be Hendriks. Bond looked back over the low coal-tender. Hendriks’s eyes, bland and indifferent, met his. Bond shouted above the iron clang of the engine, ‘Great fun, what?’ Hendriks’s eyes looked away and back again. Bond stooped so that he could see under the top of the Surrey. All the other four men were sitting motionless, their eyes also fixed on Bond. Bond waved a cheerful hand. There was no response. So they had been told! Bond was a spy in their midst and this was his last ride. In mobese, he was ‘going to be hit’. It was an uncomfortable feeling having those ten enemy eyes watching him like ten gun barrels. Bond straightened himself. Now the top half of his body, like the iron ‘man’ in a pistol range, was above the roof of the Surrey and he was looking straight down the flat yellow surface to where Scaramanga sat on his solitary throne, perhaps twenty feet away, with all his body in full view. He also was looking down the little train at Bond – the last mourner in the funeral cortège behind the cadaver that was James Bond. Bond waved a cheery hand and turned back. He opened his coat and got a moment’s reassurance from the cool butt of his gun. He felt in his trouser pocket. Three spare magazines. Ah, well! He’d take as many of them as he could with him. He flipped down the co-driver’s seat and sat on it. No point in offering a target until he had to. The Rasta flicked his cigarette over the side and lit another. The engine was driving herself. He leant against the cabin wall and looked at nothing.

Bond had done his homework on the 1:50,000 Overseas Survey map that Mary had provided and he knew exactly the route the little cane line took. First there would be five miles of the cane fields between whose high green walls they were now travelling. Then came Middle River, followed by the vast expanse of swamplands, now being slowly reclaimed, but still shown on the map as ‘The Great Morass’. Then would come Orange River leading into Orange Bay, and then more sugar and mixed forest and agricultural smallholdings until they came to the little hamlet of Green Island at the head of the excellent anchorage of Green Island Harbour.

A hundred yards ahead, a turkey buzzard rose from beside the line and, after a few heavy flaps, caught the inshore breeze and soared up and away. There came the boom of Scaramanga’s gun. A feather drifted down from the great right-hand wing of the big bird. The turkey buzzard swerved and soared higher. A second shot rang out. The bird gave a jerk and began to tumble untidily down out of the sky. It jerked again as a third bullet hit it before it crashed into the cane. There was applause from under the yellow Surrey. Bond leant out and called to Scaramanga, ‘That’ll cost you five pounds unless you’ve squared the Rasta. That’s the fine for killing a John Crow.’