that held him to the stretcher. He freed himself and joined battle with the guard as Holly swung wildly but unavailingly with the scalpel. Bond’s ankles were still bound but he struggled upright and pinned the guard against the swaying wall of the ambulance. As the man drove his knee up, Bond parried the blow and connected with a short left to the jaw that spun him round.
At that instant the ambulance jolted over a pothole and the guard plunged backwards on to the stretcher, with all Bond’s weight on him. With a sharp crack the stretcher broke free from its moorings and crashed against the doors. As Holly screamed they burst open and the stretcher carrying both men plunged out into-a cloud of dust. Bond felt the breath leave the guard’s body as it absorbed the impact, and he rolled sideways to end up lying by the side of a dirt road. When he stood up the ambulance had disappeared and there was no sign of the stretcher. The dust began to clear and he took a few faltering steps down the road. A hillside became visible, falling away to the left, and half-way down it, facing a main road from which the track had branched off, was a large advertising hoarding. The back of the stretcher projected from a hole in the bottom of the hoarding. The poster showed a pretty stewardess and the words: ‘British Airways. We’ll take more care of you’.
On the wide expanse of pampas the three figures in gaucho costume riding abreast would have attracted attention from tourists. But tourists were a commodity that the region lacked. It was grazing land to the east of the Mato Grosso and behind the Serra do Roncador. Indifferent grazing land where men who scratched a living had to be as tough as the horses they rode and the cattle they branded. Brasilia to the south-east had the modern architecture and the embassies. They had the saddle sores and the mosquitoes. One of the riders gestured down a shallow valley and the three horsemen rode towards a long, low building with a red tiled roof and tidy squares of grazing land marked out by picket fences. A flock of white doves took off as they galloped into the courtyard, and peeling shutters creaked in the hot sun. The red dust settled as the men slid from their horses and flicked the reins round the bar of the hitching rail. Two of the men walked along the veranda. The third, and tallest, pushed open the swing doors and went into the building. The room he entered had bare whitewashed walls and was cool thanks to a high ceiling and a slowly turning fan. On one wall was a heavy wooden cross. A staccato clatter ended as the man came in, and Miss Moneypenny looked up from her typewriter.
‘Why, if it isn’t the Magnificent 007.’
Bond swept off his hat and beat some dust from his chaparejos.
‘Mine not to reason why, Moneypenny. Is M expecting me?’
‘He’s champing at the bit.’ She looked up at him with an expression of amused affection and nodded towards a door behind her.
Bond squared his shoulders and moved forward. ‘One of these days, Moneypenny, I’m going to put you across my knee.’
‘And one of these days I’m going to love it.’ She blew him a kiss as he opened the door.
Bond found himself in a square courtyard. The first thing he smelt was cordite. Somebody had been firing weapons. Shattered fragments of human figures were strewn across the ground. Against a bullet-pocked wall a man sat with a poncho pulled around his shoulders and a sombrero tipped over his face so that it was invisible. He gave the impress sion that he was shutting out the sight of the firing squad that faced him with rifles raised. An order rang out and there was a burst of gunfire. But not from the firing squad. At the word of command, the sombrero tipped up and the poncho parted to reveal an automatically controlled machine gun which mowed down the clay figures of the firing squad and made a further contribution to the debris in the courtyard.
‘Ah, there you are, 007.’
Q hove into view wearing his tropical working uniform of bush jacket and baggy shorts. He was followed by a harassed assistant clutching a clipboard who looked as if he had difficulty in keeping up with his master. In this respect he was not alone.
‘Good day, Q.’
‘Be with you in just a minute.’ Q paused to watch a gaucho whirling a bolas above his head. The weapon was released to sail across the courtyard and wrap the balls around the neck of a much-decorated general with a smorgasbord of medal ribbons across his chest and one arm raised in a fascist salute. The balls exploded and the general’s head disappeared. In its place was a jagged hole which revealed the neck opening of the plaster bust. Q turned to his assistant. ‘Have that ready for Army Day.’
‘This is all very fascinating, Q. But I think M—’
Q held up a restraining hand. ‘Just a minute, 007. This really is interesting.’ He nodded to his assistant who broke off from making hectic notes on his clipboard and signalled to a man dressed like a security guard who was holding a slim cylindrical torch. The torch was levelled at a second man and a brilliant strobe light flashed intermittently from its head. As Bond watched, horrified, the target melted away like a candle placed on a hot griddle. Bond knew that he was looking at a wax dummy, but the fearful destructive potential of the strobe torch inspired awe and dread.
‘Right,’ said Q cheerfully. ‘Rather splendid, isn’t it?’
Bond said nothing but wondered if scientists were born with a scaled down range of human feelings in order to make room for extra quantities of grey matter. There was something unnerving about the whole of this backwoods camp for espionage, infiltration and sabotage. Q in his silly ass English way, could have taught the C.I.A. a few lessons.
Behind the courtyard was a stone building with shuttered windows, and an armed guard outside the door. Q opened the door and ushered Bond inside. The room was in near darkness and set up with a slide projector and a screen as if for an illustrated talk. On one wall was a large map of Brazil that stretched from floor to ceiling. M switched off a desk light and rose hurriedly to his feet as Bond came in. ‘Ah — morning, 007. I’m glad you could make it. We were beginning to get worried about you.’
Bond noted that all trace of this worry had disappeared from M’s voice. ‘Any news of Holly, sir?’
‘Dr Goodhead?’ The use of the official title was almost a reprimand for familiarity. ‘I’m afraid not. The C.I.A. haven’t picked up anything either. She must still be held somewhere.’
If she has not been murdered, thought Bond. ‘And Drax?’
‘He’s gone to earth. He left Venice for a destination unknown. We don’t even know how he went.’
‘Suspicious,’ said Bond.
‘To us, yes. But not to anyone else. He could have gone to the country for a few days. There’s still nothing official to connect him with the disappearance of the Moonraker. And why should he steal his own shuttle?’
