was answered at once. There came the crack of Quarrel’s Remington. A spark flew off the domed cabin and there was a dull clang. Quarrel fired another single shot and then a burst. The bullets hammered ineffectually against the cabin. There was not even a check in speed. The thing rolled on, swerving slightly to make for the source of the gunfire. Bond cradled the Smith & Wesson on his forearm and took careful aim. The deep cough of his gun sounded above the rattle of the Remington. One of the headlamps shattered and went out. He fired four shots at the other and got it with the fifth and last round in the cylinder. The thing didn’t care. It rolled straight on towards Quarrel’s hiding place. Bond reloaded and began firing at the huge bulge of the tyres under the bogus black and gold wings. The range was now only thirty yards and he could have sworn that he hit the nearest wheel again and again. No effect. Solid rubber? The first breath of fear stirred Bond’s skin.
He reloaded. Was the damn thing vulnerable from the rear? Should he dash out into the lake and try and board it? He took a step forward through the bushes. Then he froze, incapable of movement.
Suddenly, from the dribbling snout, a yellow-tipped bolt of blue flame had howled out towards Quarrel’s hiding place. There was a single puff of orange and red flame from the bushes to Bond’s right and one unearthly scream, immediately choked. Satisfied, the searing tongue of fire licked back into the snout. The thing turned on its axis and stopped dead. Now the blue hole of its mouth aimed straight at Bond.
Bond stood and waited for his unspeakable end. He looked into the blue jaws of death and saw the glowing red filament of the firer deep inside the big tube. He thought of Quarrel’s body – there was no time to think of Quarrel – and imagined the blackened, smoking figure lying in the melted sand. Soon he, too, would flame like a torch. The single scream would be wrung from him and his limbs would jerk into the dancing pose of burned bodies. Then it would be Honey’s turn. Christ, what had he led them into! Why had he been so insane as to take on this man with his devastating armoury. Why hadn’t he been warned by the long finger that had pointed at him in Jamaica? Bond set his teeth. Hurry up, you bastards. Get it over.
There came the twang of a loud-hailer. A voice howled metallically, ‘Come on out, Limey. And the doll. Quick, or you’ll fry in hell like your pal.’ To rub in the command, the bolt of flame spat briefly towards him. Bond stepped back from the searing heat. He felt the girl’s body against his back. She said hysterically, ‘I had to come. I had to come.’
Bond said, ‘It’s all right, Honey. Keep behind me.’
He had made up his mind. There was no alternative. Even if death was to come later it couldn’t be worse than this kind of death. Bond reached for the girl’s hand and drew her after him out on to the sand.
The voice howled. ‘Stop there. Good boy. And drop the pea-shooter. No tricks or the crabs’ll be getting a cooked breakfast.’
Bond dropped his gun. So much for the Smith & Wesson. The Beretta would have been just as good against this thing. The girl whimpered. Bond squeezed her hand. ‘Stick it, Honey,’ he said. ‘We’ll get out of this somehow.’ Bond sneered at himself for the lie.
There was the clang of an iron door being opened. From the back of the dome a man dropped into the water and walked towards them. There was a gun in his hand. He kept out of the line of fire of the flamethrower. The fluttering blue flame lit up his sweating face. He was a Chinese negro, a big man, clad only in trousers. Something dangled from his left hand. When he came closer, Bond saw it was handcuffs.
The man stopped a few yards away. He said, ‘Hold out your hands. Wrists together. Then walk towards me. You first, Limey. Slowly or you get an extra navel.’
Bond did as he was told. When he was within sweat-smell of the man, the man put his gun between his teeth and reached out and snapped the handcuffs on Bond’s wrists. Bond looked into the face, gunmetal-coloured from the blue flames. It was a brutal, squinting face. It sneered at him. ‘Dumb bastard,’ said the man.
Bond turned his back on the man and started walking away. He was going to see Quarrel’s body. He had to say goodbye to it. There was the roar of a gun. A bullet kicked up sand close to his feet. Bond stopped and turned slowly round. ‘Don’t be nervous,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look at the man you’ve just murdered. I’ll be back.’
The man lowered his gun. He laughed harshly. ‘Okay. Enjoy yourself. Sorry we ain’t got a wreath. Come back quick or we give the doll a toastin’. Two minutes.’
Bond walked on towards the smoking clump of bushes. He got there and looked down. His eyes and mouth winced. Yes, it had been just as he had visualized. Worse. He said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Quarrel.’ He kicked into the ground and scooped up a handful of cool sand between his manacled hands and poured it over the remains of the eyes. Then he walked slowly back and stood beside the girl.
The man waved them forward with his gun. They walked round the back of the machine. There was a small square door. A voice from inside said, ‘Get in and sit on the floor. Don’t touch anything or you get your fingers broke.’
They scrambled into the iron box. It stank of sweat and oil. There was just room for them to sit with their knees hunched up. The man with the gun followed them in and banged the door. He switched on a light and sat down on an iron tractor seat beside the driver. He said, ‘Okay, Sam. Let’s get goin’. You can put out the fire. It’s light enough to steer by.’
There was a row of dials and switches on the instrument panel. The driver reached forward and pulled down a couple of the switches. He put the machine into gear and peered out through a narrow slit in the iron wall in front of him. Bond felt the machine turn. There came a faster beat from the engine and they moved off.
The girl’s shoulder pressed against his. ‘Where are they taking us?’ The whisper trembled.
Bond turned his head and looked at her. It was the first time he had been able to see her hair when it was dry. Now it was disarrayed by sleep, but it was no longer a bunch of rats’ tails. It hung heavily straight down to her shoulders, where it curled softly inwards. It was of the palest ash blonde and shone almost silver under the electric light. She looked up at him. The skin round her eyes and at the corners of her mouth was white with fear.
Bond shrugged with an indifference he didn’t feel. He whispered, ‘Oh, I expect we’re going to see Doctor No. Don’t worry too much, Honey. These men are just little gangsters. It’ll be different with him. When we get to him don’t you say anything, I’ll talk for both of us.’ He pressed her shoulder. ‘I like the way you do your hair. I’m glad you don’t cut it too short.’
Some of the tension went out of her face. ‘How can you think of things like that?’ She half smiled at him. ‘But I’m glad you like it. I wash it in coconut oil once a week.’ At the memory of her other life her eyes grew bright with tears. She bent her head down to her manacled hands to hide her tears. She whispered almost to herself, ‘I’ll try to be brave. It’ll be all right as long as you’re there.’
Bond shifted so that he was right up against her. He brought his handcuffed hands close up to his eyes and examined them. They were the American police model. He contracted his left hand, the thinner of the two, and tried to pull it through the squat ring of steel. Even the sweat on his skin was no help. It was hopeless.
The two men sat on their iron seats with their backs to them, indifferent. They knew they had total command. There wasn’t room for Bond to give any trouble. Bond couldn’t stand up or get enough momentum into his hands to do any damage to the backs of their heads with his handcuffs. If Bond somehow managed to open the hatch and drop into the water,
