He handed them the tickets for the final flight.
‘Key West?’ queried Nannie.
‘The Last Resort, they call it,’ said Sukie, laughing. ‘Great. I’ve been there.’
‘Well, I want to arrive . . .’
The ping-pong of an announcement signal interrupted him. He opened his mouth to continue, expecting it to be a routine call for some departure, but the voice mentioned the name Boldman.
‘Would Mr James Boldman, passenger recently arrived from Zurich, report to the information desk opposite the British Airways counter. Mr Boldman, please.’
Bond shrugged. ‘I was going to say that I wanted to arrive incognito. Well, that’s my incognito. There must be some development from my people. Wait for me.’
He pressed his way through queues of people and baggage waiting to be checked in. At the information desk a blonde with teeth in gloss white and lips in blood red batted her eyelids at him.
‘Can I help y’awl?’
‘Message for James Boldman,’ he said, and saw her glance behind his left shoulder and nod.
The voice was soft in his ear, and unmistakable.
‘Good evening, Mr Boldman. Nice to see you.’
Steve Quinn pressed close as Bond turned. He could feel the pistol muzzle hard against his ribs, and knew his face to be etched with surprise.
‘How nice for us to be meeting again, Mr – what do you call yourself now – Boldman?’ Doktor Kirchtum stood on his right, his big face moulded into what appeared to be a big smile of welcome.
‘What . . .’ Bond began.
‘Just start walking quietly out of the exit doors over there.’ Quinn’s smile didn’t change. ‘Forget your travelling companions and the PBA flight. We’re going to Key West by a different route.’
14
FROST-FREE CITY
The aircraft was very quiet in flight. Only a low rumbling whine from the jets was audible. Bond, who had managed no more than a quick look before boarding, thought it was probably an Aerospatiale Corvette, with its distinctive long nose. The interior was decorated in blue and gold, with six swivel armchairs and a long central table.
Outside there was darkness, with only the occasional pin of light flashing in the distance. Bond guessed they were now high over the Everglades, or turning to make the run in to Key West across the sea.
The initial shock of finding himself flanked by Quinn and Kirchtum had passed very quickly. One learned to react instantly in his job. In this situation he had no option but to go along with Quinn’s instructions: it was his only chance of survival.
There had been a moment’s hesitation when he first felt the gun pressing into his ribs. Then he obeyed, walking calmly between the two big men who kept close beside him, as though making a discreet arrest. Now he was really on his own. The other two had their tickets to Key West, but he had told them to wait for him. They also had all the luggage, and his case contained the weapons – Nannie’s two little automatics, the ASP, and the baton.
A long black limousine with tinted windows stood parked directly outside the exit. Kirchtum moved forward a pace to open the rear door, bent his heavy body and entered first.
‘In!’ Quinn prodded Bond with the gun, almost pushing him into the leather-scented interior and quickly following him so that he was sandwiched between the two men.
The motor was started before the door slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled smoothly away from the kerb. Quinn had the gun out now – a small Makarov, Russian made and based on the German Walther PP series design. Bond recognised it immediately, even in the dim glow thrown into the car from the airport lights. By the same light he could see the driver’s head, like a large, elongated coconut, topped with a peaked cap. Nobody spoke, and no orders were given. The limousine purred on to a slip-road which, Bond guessed, led to the airport perimeter tracks.
‘Not a word, James,’ Quinn whispered, ‘on your life, and on May’s and Moneypenny’s as well.’
They were approaching large gates set into a high chain-link fence.
The car stopped at a security shed and Bond heard the electronic whine as the driver’s window was lowered. A guard approached. The driver offered him a clutch of identity cards and the guard muttered something. The nearside rear window slid down and the guard peered in, looking at the cards in his hand and then glancing in at Quinn, Bond and Kirchtum.
‘Okay,’ he said at last in a gravel drawl. ‘Through the gate and wait for the guide truck.’
They moved forward and stopped, lights dipped. Somewhere ahead of them there was a mighty roar as an aircraft landed, its reverse thrust blanketing all other sounds. Dimmed lights appeared as a small truck performed a neat turn in front of them. It was painted with yellow stripes and a red light revolved on the canopy. The rear carried a large ‘Follow me’ sign.
Keeping behind the truck, the car moved slowly past aircraft of all types – commercial jets being loaded and unloaded, large piston-engined aeroplanes, freighters, small private craft, the insignias ranging from Pan Am, British Airways, and Delta to Datsun and Island City Flying Service. They made for an aircraft that stood apart from the rest near a cluster of buildings on the far side of the field, pulling up so close that Bond thought for a moment they might touch the wing.
For large men, Quinn and Kirchtum moved fast. Like a well-drilled team, Kirchtum left the car almost before it had come to a standstill, while Quinn edged Bond towards the door, so that he was constantly covered from both sides. Once in the open, Kirchtum kept a steel grip on his arm until Quinn was out. Using an arm-lock, they forced him up the steps and into the aeroplane. Quinn’s pistol was now in full view as Kirchtum hauled in the steps and closed the door with a solid thud.
‘That seat.’ Quinn indicated with the pistol. Kirchtum placed handcuffs on each of Bond’s wrists, which he then attached to small steel D-rings in the padded arms of the seat.
‘You’ve done this before,’ Bond said, smiling. There was no edge in showing fear to people like this.
‘Just a precaution. It would be foolish to be forced to use this once we’re airborne.’
Quinn stood clear, the pistol levelled, as Kirchtum looped shackles around Bond’s ankles, and secured them to similar steel D-rings on the lower part of the seat. The engines rumbled into life and seconds later they were moving. There was a short wait as they taxied in line, then the little jet swung on to the runway, burst into full life and roared away, climbing fast.
‘I apologise for the deception, James.’ Quinn was now relaxed and leaning back in his seat with a drink. ‘You see, we thought you might just visit the Mozart, so we stayed prepared – even with the torture paraphernalia on show, and the Herr Doktor looking like an unwilling victim. I admit to one serious error: I should have ordered my outside team to move in after you entered. However, these things happen. The Doktor was excellent in his role of frightened captive, I thought.’
‘Oscar nominee.’ Bond’s expression did not alter. ‘I hope nothing nasty is going to happen to my two lady friends.’
‘I don’t think you need bother yourself about them,’ said Quinn, smiling happily. ‘We sent them a message that you would not be leaving tonight. They think you’re joining them at the Airport Hilton. I expect they’re waiting there for you now. If they do get suspicious, I’m afraid they won’t be able to do much about it. You have a date around lunchtime tomorrow with what the good old French revolutionaries called Madame La Guillotine. I shall not be there to witness it. As I told you, we have orders only to hand you over to SPECTRE. We take the money and see to the release of May and Moneypenny – you can trust me over that. They will be returned unopened. Even though it would have been useful to interrogate Moneypenny.’
‘And where is all this going to take place?’ Bond asked, his voice betraying no concern about his appointment with the guillotine.
‘Oh, quite near Key West. A few miles offshore. Outside the reef. Unfortunately our timing isn’t brilliant – we’ll have to hole up with you until dawn. The channel through the reef is not the easiest to navigate, and we don’t
