[FOR SALE BY AUCTION]

[AT 77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON]

[At 10.30 a.m. on WEDNESDAY,]

[28th MAY]

[under Powers of Sale contained in a mortgage]

[from Cornelius Brown

et ux]

[No. 3½ LOVE LANE, SAVANNAH LA MAR.]

Containing the substantial residence and all that parcel of land by measurement on the Northern Boundary three chains and five perches, on the Southern Boundary five chains and one perch, on the Eastern Boundary two chains exactly and on the Western Boundary four chains and two perches be the same in each case and more or less and butting Northerly on No. 4 Love Lane.

[THE C. D. ALEXANDER CO. LTD.]

[77 HARBOUR STREET, KINGSTON]

[PHONE 4897.]

James Bond was delighted. He had had many assignments in Jamaica and many adventures on the island. The splendid address and all the stuff about chains and perches and the old-fashioned abracadabra at the end of the advertisement brought back all the authentic smell of one of the oldest and most romantic of former British possessions. For all her newfound ‘Independence’ he would bet his bottom dollar that the statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston had not been destroyed or removed to a museum as similar relics of an historic infancy had been in the resurgent African states. He looked at his watch. The Gleaner had consumed a whole hour for him. He picked up his coat and briefcase. Not much longer to go! In the last analysis, life wasn’t all that dismal. One must forget the bad and remember the good. What were a couple of hours of heat and boredom in this island compared with memories of Beau Desert and Honeychile Rider and his survival against the mad Dr No? James Bond smiled to himself as the dusty pictures clicked across his brain. How long ago it all was! What had happened to her? She never wrote. The last he had heard, she had had two children by the Philadelphia doctor she had married. He wandered off into the grandly named ‘Concourse’ where the booths of many airlines stood empty, and promotion folders and little company flags on their counters gathered the dust blown in with the mangrove breeze.

There was the customary central display-stand holding messages for incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there would be something for him. In all his life there never had been. Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under tape, beneath each parent letter. Nothing under ‘B’ and nothing under his alias ‘H’ for ‘Hazard, Mark’ of the ‘Transworld Consortium’, successor to the old ‘Universal Export’, that had recently been discarded as cover for the Secret Service. Nothing. He ran a bored eye over the other envelopes. He suddenly froze. He looked around him, languidly, casually. The Cuban couple were out of sight. Nobody else was looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and pocketed the buff envelope that said, ‘Scaramanga. B.O.A.C. passenger from Lima’.He stayed where he was for a few minutes and then wandered slowly off to the door marked ‘Men’.

He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It contained a B.W.I.A. message form. The neat B.W.I.A. writing said: ‘Message received from Kingston at 12.15: the samples will be available at No. 3½ S.L.M. as from midday tomorrow.’ There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. S.L.M. – Savannah La Mar. Could it be? It must be! At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line. What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from outer space – seize it with both hands as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under ‘S’ and walked over to the Cuban Airlines booth and cancelled his reservation. He then went to the B.O.A.C. counter and looked through the timetable. Yes, the Lima flight for Kingston, New York and London was due in at 13.15 the next day. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner’s Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl’s voice came on the line. ‘Commander Ross’s assistant. Can I help you?’

There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond said, ‘Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London.’

The girl’s voice became suddenly alert. ‘I’m afraid Commander Ross is away from Jamaica. Is there anything I can do?’ There was a pause. ‘What name did you say?’

‘I didn’t say any name. But in fact it’s …’

The voice broke in excitedly, ‘Don’t tell me. It’s James!’

Bond laughed. ‘Well I’m damned! It’s Goodnight! What the hell are you doing here?’

‘More or less what I used to do for you. I heard you were back, but I thought you were ill or something. How absolutely marvellous! But where are you talking from?’

‘Kingston Airport. Now listen, darling. I need help. We can talk later. Can you get cracking?’

‘Of course. Wait till I get a pencil. Right.’

‘First I need a car. Anything that’ll go. Then I want the name of the top man at Frome, you know, the WISCO estate beyond Savannah La Mar. Large-scale survey map of that area, a hundred pounds in Jamaican money. Then be an angel and ring up Alexander’s the auctioneers and find out anything you can about a property that’s advertised in today’s Gleaner. Say you’re a prospective buyer. Three and a half Love Lane. You’ll see the details. Then I want you to come out to Morgan’s Harbour where I’m going in a minute, be staying the night there, and we’ll have dinner and swop secrets until the dawn steals over the Blue Mountains. Can do?’

‘Of course. But that’s the hell of a lot of secrets. What shall I wear?’

‘Something that’s tight in the right places. Not too many buttons.’

She laughed. ‘You’ve established your identity. Now I’ll get on with all this. See you about seven.’ Bye.’

Gasping for air, James Bond pushed his way out of the little sweat box. He ran his handkerchief over his face and neck. He’d be damned! Mary Goodnight, his darling secretary from the old days in the OO Section! At Headquarters they had said she was abroad. He hadn’t asked any questions. Perhaps she had opted for a change when he had gone missing. Anyway, what a break! Now he’d got an ally, someone he knew. Good old Gleaner! He got his bag from the Cuban Airlines booth and went out and hailed a taxi and said ‘Morgan’s Harbour’ and sat back and let the air from the open windows begin to dry him.

The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond’s job was, was glad to see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston harbour. He said, ‘What is it this time? Cubans or smuggling? They’re the popular targets these days.’

‘Just on my way through. Got any lobsters?’

‘Of course.’

‘Be a good chap and save two for dinner. Broiled with melted butter. And a pot of that ridiculously expensive foie gras of yours. All right?’

‘Wilco. Celebration? Champagne on the ice?’

‘Good idea. Now I must get a shower and some sleep. That Kingston Airport’s murder.’

James Bond awoke at six. At first he didn’t know where he was. He lay and remembered. Sir James Molony had said that his memory would be sluggish for a while. The E.C.T. treatment at The Park, a discreet so-called ‘convalescent home’ in a vast mansion in Kent, had been fierce. Twenty-four bashes at his brain from the black box in thirty days. After it was over, Sir James had confessed that, if he had been practising in America, he wouldn’t have been allowed to administer more than eighteen. At first, Bond had been terrified at the sight of the box and of the two cathodes that would be cupped to each temple. He had heard that people undergoing shock treatment had to be strapped down, that their jerking, twitching bodies, impelled by the volts, often hurtled off the operating-table. But that, it seemed, was old hat. Now there was the longed-for needle with the pentathol, and Sir James said there was no movement of the body when the current flashed through except a slight twitching of the eyelids. And the results had been miraculous. After the pleasant, quiet-spoken analyst had explained to him what had been done to him in Russia, and after he had passed through the mental agony of knowing what he had nearly done to M., the old fierce hatred of the K.G.B. and all its works had been reborn in him and, six weeks after he had entered The Park, all he wanted was to get back at the people who had invaded his brain for their own murderous purposes. And then had come his physical rehabilitation and the inexplicable amount of gun practice he had had to do at the Maidstone police range. And then the day arrived when the Chief of Staff had come down and explained about the gun practice and had spent the day with him and given him his orders, the scribble of green ink, signed ‘M.’ , that wished him luck, and then the excitement of the ride to London Airport on his way across the world.