of Staff exchanged smiles. M. had been trying for years to get the Treasury to give him an Auster for the Caribbean Station.
The Chief of Staff continued: ‘And the Beechcraft crashed on landing and killed the two Audubon men. Well, that aroused these bird people to a fury. They got a corvette from the U.S. Training Squadron in the Caribbean to make a call on Doctor No. That’s how powerful these people are. Seems they’ve got quite a lobby in Washington. The captain of the corvette reported that he was received very civilly by Doctor No but was kept well away from the guano workings. He was taken to the airstrip and examined the remains of the plane. Smashed to pieces, but nothing suspicious – came in to land too fast probably. The bodies of the two men and the pilot had been reverently embalmed and packed in handsome coffins which were handed over with quite a ceremony. The captain was very impressed by Doctor No’s courtesy. He asked to see the wardens’ camp and he was taken out there and shown the remains of it. Doctor No’s theory was that the two men had gone mad because of the heat and the loneliness, or at any rate that one of them had gone mad and burned down the camp with the other inside it. This seemed possible to the captain when he’d seen what a godforsaken bit of marsh the men had been living in for ten years or more. There was nothing else to see and he was politely steered back to his ship and sailed away.’ The Chief of Staff spread his hands. ‘And that’s the lot except that the captain reported that he saw only a handful of roseate spoonbills. When his report got back to the Audubon Society it was apparently the loss of their blasted birds that infuriated these people most of all, and ever since then they’ve been nagging at us to have an inquiry into the whole business. Of course nobody at the Colonial Office or in Jamaica’s in the least interested. So in the end the whole fairy story was dumped in our lap.’ The Chief of Staff shrugged his shoulders with finality. ‘And that’s how this pile of bumf,’ he waved the file, ‘or at any rate the guts of it, got landed on Strangways.’
M. looked morosely at Bond. ‘See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares’ nest these old women’s societies are always stirring up. People start preserving something – churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds – and there’s always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it’s private land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I’m supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what’s happened to a covey of pink storks.’ M. snorted. ‘Anyway, you asked about Strangways’s last case and that’s it.’ M. leant forward belligerently. ‘Any questions? I’ve got a busy day ahead.’
Bond grinned. He couldn’t help it. M.’s occasional outbursts of rage were so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as any attempt to waste the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to his feet. ‘Perhaps if I could have the file, sir,’ he said placatingly. ‘It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less because of these birds. Perhaps two more did – Strangways and the Trueblood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we’ve got nothing else to go on.’
‘Take it, take it,’ said M. impatiently. ‘And hurry up and get your holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of the world happens to be in a bit of a mess.’
Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his Beretta and the holster. ‘No,’ said M. sharply. ‘Leave that. And mind you’ve got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again.’
Bond looked across into M.’s eyes. For the first time in his life he hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M. was being tough and mean. It was deferred punishment for having nearly got killed on his last job. Plus getting away from this filthy weather into the sunshine. M. couldn’t bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being sent on this cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.
With the anger balling up inside him like cats’ fur, Bond said, ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ and turned and walked out of the room.
4. RECEPTION COMMITTEE
THE SIXTY-EIGHT tons deadweight of the Super-Constellation hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.
Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of smallholdings showed on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. ‘Xaymaca’ the Arawak Indians had called it – ‘The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.
The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north–south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.
The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.
Bond’s passport described him as ‘Import and Export Merchant’.
‘What company, sir?’
‘Universal Export.’
‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’
‘Pleasure.’
‘I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’ The negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.
‘Thank you.’
Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years before.
‘Quarrel!’
From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ‘How you, cap’n?’ he called delightedly.
‘I’m fine,’ said Bond. ‘Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?’
‘Sure,
