sea. Forty stone steps cut into the cliff led down to the grotto, in front of which was a small, sandy beach. It was very dark in the grotto, for the cliffs blocked the moonlight. Up above it was just bright enough for every tree, plant, and stone to emit an eerie glow.
The woman glanced at her watch and tapped the button to illuminate the time. He would not be late. He never was.
The grotto and its private beach faced the Caribbean, not far from Port Maria on the North Shore of the island. The small community of Oracabessa was just along the coast to the west, and Cuba was a hundred miles to the north. The area was considered Jamaica’s most lovely coastal country. The woman had never been here prior to this evening, but she knew the layout of the place inside out. It was her job to know. The land was private property and a modest, three-bedroomed house had been built above the grotto near the top of the stone steps. If her plans were successful, the house would later be the location for an evening of unbridled passion and pleasure. The man with whom she hoped to share the pleasure had a reputation which preceded him. Other women who had known him had indiscreetly prepared her for the man’s intense sexual allure. Although accomplishing the Primary Objective was her main goal tonight, one of her motives for participating in the evening’s escapade was a rather selfish Secondary Objective—the physical rewards she would give and receive after the job was done. She couldn’t help it. Danger stimulated her sexually. It was why she had sought a career as a mercenary, a contemporary Boadicea. It was why she liked to play with fire.
“I’m here,” a male voice whispered behind her.
“You’re on time,” she said.
“Of course I am,” the blond man said in a thick Cockney accent, moving closer to stand beside her, looking out to sea. He, too, was dressed in a black diving suit. “You know what to do?” He gazed at her, taking in the shapely body.
The woman knew she was beautiful and that men found her attractive. She enjoyed being able to manipulate them. As she looked at the man, she wondered again if the night would end as she desired.
He had blond curly hair, a muscular build, and classical Roman features. Most women, she thought, would gladly follow him anywhere.
“When he arrives, I get him to come up to the house. You’ll ‘surprise’ us and kill him.”
The man smiled. “Too right.”
They were both in their mid-twenties and had trained for weeks to get this far, but already possessed the skill and expertise required by any assassin to perform a simple execution. The job in hand tonight was anything but simple, their target a formidable one.
“Leave the first part to me, Mr. Michaels,” she said, smiling and rubbing her hand across the man’s chin. “Give us a little time, and I’ll have him thoroughly distracted.”
“Well, don’t get carried away. I don’t want to have to take you out with him.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself. Remember who he is.”
“He’s history.”
As if on cue, a Royal Navy jet suddenly appeared, passing about half a mile from them, heading north out to sea at about 200 knots. They could just see the figure jumping from it.
“There he is,” the blond man said. “Right on time.” They clasped hands and he kissed her roughly on the mouth. “See you later, love … when we’re done.” And then he was off as she began to walk down the steps into the darkness of the grotto.
The man who made the low-altitude jump from the plane had opened his SAS Modified XL Cloud Type Special Forces rectangular parachute before exiting the aircraft and the jump master threw it out of the plane behind him. It served as not much more than a brake in the short fall, an extremely dangerous manoeuvre over water; but the jumper was a pro who knew what he was doing. He was one of the Double-Os.
The woman reached the bottom of the steps and peered out to sea. The man hit the water hard, and for a few moments only his dark parachute could be seen floating on the surface. Then he emerged and divested himself of the parachute. She walked to the edge of the water so that he could see her. The tall well-built man swam steadily until he was able to stand and walk towards her. He tore off the face mask and snorkel and tossed them aside, and then he stepped out of his fins.
Like the blond man, he had a sexual presence that was so overpowering she had to catch her breath before she spoke.
“The bad air is blowing out tonight,” she said.
“But the sweet air will surely come in the morning,” he replied as agreed.
“Right on time, Double-O Seven. I’m 05, but you can call me Stephanie. You okay?” She pronounced the number “oh-five.”
“I’m fine, thanks, and my name’s Bond. James Bond.”
“It’s pretty dangerous, isn’t it, jumping at such a low altitude?” she asked, taking his outstretched hand.
“So long as the parachute is already open when you leave the plane, it’s okay. Did you bring the transmitter?”
In the dim light, his features looked harsher than Stephanie had remembered them. The first time she had seen him was two weeks ago, at the funeral, when she had been struck by his air of casual selfconfidence. Dark and handsome, he had piercing blue-grey eyes. His short black hair had just a hint of grey at the temples, was parted on the left, and carelessly brushed so that a thick black comma fell down over the right eyebrow. There was a faint three-inch scar on his right cheek. The longish straight nose ran down to a short upper lip, below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth.
“It’s up in the house, Mr. Bond. Come, I’ll show you.” She took his hand and gently pulled him towards the stone steps, then dropped it and walked on ahead. Bond followed her, eyes and ears alert.
She had been told to observe him at the funeral, at which he had remained stubbornly stoical. Commander Bond, like the other pallbearers, was dressed in Royal Navy uniform with three rows of ribbons. Everyone who was anyone had been there, including Sir Miles Messervy, the recently retired “M,” head of SIS; the new “M,” a woman only just beginning to take command of the Secret Service; Sir Miles’s faithful secretary, Moneypenny; Major Boothroyd, the Armourer; and even the Prime Minister. When a country loses someone of the stature of Admiral Derek Plasket, all the important people are sure to be there to pay their last respects.
Admiral Plasket was something of a legend. A war hero, he had organized a commando assault team that specialized in raiding Nazi bunkers, collecting intelligence to be passed on to the Allied forces. After the war he had been Special Advisor to the Secret Service, and a personal friend of the old M.
As she had been instructed, Stephanie Lane had kept her eye on Bond throughout the ceremony. He had performed his duties with military precision, standing to attention and displaying no emotion whatsoever. Only afterwards, when she saw him embrace Moneypenny, did she detect some semblance of warmth.
Stephanie had continued her surveillance of 007 for two more weeks, taking note of his daily habits. She had followed him to his flat off the King’s Road in Chelsea, where he lived alone. She tailed him to Blades, that exclusive gentleman’s club which had only recently begun to admit women. She observed him enter the gaudy building across the Thames from the Tate Gallery, which was the SIS headquarters. Finally, after fifteen days, the operation had been arranged and the time had now come. Stephanie had a lot riding on the outcome of this mission, for James Bond was the target in tonight’s Objective and she and her partner must anticipate his every move.
When the attack came, it surprised her—she had thought Michaels would wait until she and Bond were in the house, but he appeared at the top of the stone steps from out of darkness. With a perfectly executed manoeuvre, the man spun and jump-kicked Bond full in the face. The assault surprised Bond as well, for he fell backwards down the steps. Stephanie stood aside while the blond assassin, who was armed with an ASP 9mm semi-automatic handgun, ran down the steps after him.
Bond had rolled halfway down the steps and then stopped. He didn’t move. He lay on his back at a grotesque angle, his head lower than his legs, his shoulders twisted unnaturally.
Michaels raised his gun and pointed it at the still body. “Wait,” Stephanie whispered. “I think he’s broken his neck!”
Cautiously, the man moved down to Bond’s body and crouched to examine him more closely.
It was then that Bond made his move. He jackknifed out of his frozen position, thrusting both forearms into the blond man’s face. In a split second, he formed a spear-hand and slammed it down on the man’s right wrist, knocking the ASP on to the steps.
