The Man with the Golden Gun

Conclusion of the final novel

Synopsis: When James Bond arrived at the Thunderbird Hotel at Bloody Bay, Jamaica, he found there the smell of new paint and Jamaican cedar—and also the unpleasant aroma of death.

He had been assigned by M, his Chief on Her Majesty's Secret Service, to kill the notorious Scaramanga, "The Man with the Golden Gun," hired assassin for Fidel Castro and confidant of the hoodlum kings of the Western world. Bond had tracked his prey through numberless ports in the West Indies, and finally ran him down in a Jamaican brothel. There he learned that Scaramanga was planning an Apalachin Conference of "international businessmen" at Bloody Bay, and needed an assistant host in this enterprise. As "Mark Hazard," a slightly disreputable British insurance investigator, Bond got the job. Thus was set the stage for 007's final adventure.

More than ever before, the odds were high against Bond, but he did have allies. Based in Kingston was Mary Goodnight, Bond's former secretary, now assistant to Commander Ross, his predecessor as M's investigator in Jamaica who had mysteriously disappeared; and two CIA men—the ubiquitous Nick Nicholson and Bond's old friend, hookhanded Felix Leiter, both posing as employees of the Thunderbird.

At the hotel, an odor of high gangsterism arose from Scaramanga's guest list. There was Sam Binion, of varied and sordid background, who dealt in "real estate"; Leroy Gengerella, of Miami, a big operator in "the entertainment world"; Ruby Rotkopf from Vegas; Hal Garfinkel from Chicago; Louie Paradise, the Phoenix slot-machine king—and, finally, Mr. Hendriks, "the Dutchman," representing what their host blandly described as "European money."

Of them all, the mysterious Hendriks was by far the most sinister. It was Bond's guess that no other man in the Thunderbird could have challenged Scaramanga's dominance.

The conference itself was held in a locked room with Bond stationed on guard outside. At his post, 007 placed the bowl of an empty champagne glass against the door, put his ear to its base, and listened. He heard Scaramanga boast of the murder of Commander Ross. Then the killer described his plans to sabotage the sugar-cane market in the Caribbean and put the heat on his gathered guests for increased "dues." When one of them objected, Bond heard the golden gun roar and a scream of terror and pain—and there was no further sound from the dissenter.

Bond learned, too, that "the Dutchman" was, in fact, resident director of the Soviet K.G.B. for the Caribbean, and that Gengerella was a Mafia chief. Bond learned also that Scaramanga planned to kill him—at the proper time, of course.

At 3:30 the following morning, Bond was awakened by a noise outside his window. It was Mary Goodnight, golden hair aglow in the moonlight. She had come to warn him: The hounds were on the scent—they soon would learn his true identity—and their quarry would be "Mark Hazard."

To calm her, Bond took his secretary into the sanctuary of his unbugged bathroom, and to drown his voice, turned on the shower.

"Don't worry about me. I think I can handle the situation all right. Besides, I've got help. You just tell H. Q. you've delivered the message and that I'm here and about the two CIA men."

He got to his feet. She stood up beside him and looked at him.

"But you will take care?"

"Sure, sure." He patted her shoulder. He turned off the shower and opened the bathroom door.

A silken voice from the darkness at the end of the bed said, "Step forward, both of you. Hands clasped behind the neck."

Scaramanga turned the lights on. He was naked save for his shorts and the empty holster below his left arm. The golden gun was trained on Bond.

Bond looked at him incredulously, then to the carpet inside the door. The wedges were still there, undisturbed. He could not possibly have got through the window unaided. Then he saw that his clothes cupboard stood open and that light showed through into the next-door room. It was the simplest of secret doors—just the whole of the back of the cupboard, impossible to detect from Bond's side of the wall and, on the other, probably, in appearance, a locked communicating door.

Scaramanga came back into the center of the room and stood looking at them both. His mouth and eyes sneered. He said, "I didn't see this piece of tail in the line-up. Where you been keeping it, buster? And why d'you have to hide it away in the bathroom? Like doing it under the shower?"

Bond said, "We're engaged to be married. She works in the British High Commissioner's Office in Kingston. Cipher clerk. She found out where I was staying from that place you and I met. She came out to tell me that my mother's in hospital in London. Had a bad fall. Her name's Mary Goodnight. What's wrong with that and what do you mean coming busting into my room in the middle of the night waving a gun about? And kindly keep your foul tongue to yourself." Bond was pleased with his bluster and decided to take the next step toward Mary Goodnight's freedom. He dropped his hands to his sides and turned to the girl. "Put your hands down, Mary. Mr. Scaramanga must have thought there were burglars about when he heard that window bang. Now, I'll get some clothes on and take you out to your car. You've got a long drive back to Kingston. Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay here for the rest of the night? I'm sure Mr. Scaramanga could find us a spare room." He turned back to Scaramanga. "It's all right, Mr. Scaramanga, I'll pay for it."

Mary Goodnight chipped in. She had dropped her hands. She picked up her small bag from the bed where she had thrown it, opened it and began busying herself with her hair in a fussy, feminine way. She chattered, falling in well with Bond's bland piece of very British "Now-look-here-my-manmanship." "No, honestly, darling, I really think I'd better go. I'd be in terrible trouble if I was late at the office and the Prime Minister, Sir Alexander Bustamente, you know he's just had his eightieth birthday, well, he's coming to lunch and you know His Excellency always likes me to do the flowers and arrange the place cards and, as a matter of fact," she turned charmingly toward Scaramanga, "it's quite a day for me. The party was going to make up thirteen, so His Excellency has asked me to be the fourteenth. Isn't that marvelous? But heaven knows what I'm going to look like after tonight. The roads really are terrible in parts, aren't they, Mr.—er—Scramble. But there it is. And I do apologize for causing all this disturbance and keeping you from your beauty sleep." She went toward him like the Queen Mother opening a bazaar, her hand outstretched. "Now you run along off back to bed again and my fiancé" (Thank God she hadn't said James! The girl was inspired!) " 'll see me safely off the premises. Goodbye, Mr., er ..."

James Bond was proud of her. It was almost pure Joyce Grenfell. But Scaramanga wasn't going to be taken by any double talk, limey or otherwise. She almost had Bond covered from Scaramanga. He moved swiftly aside. He said, "Hold it, lady. And you, mister, stand where you are." Mary Goodnight let her hand drop to her side. She looked inquiringly at Scaramanga as if he had just rejected the cucumber sandwiches. Really! These Americans! The golden gun didn't go for polite conversation. It held dead steady between the two of them. Scaramanga said to Bond, "OK, I'll buy it. Put her through the window again. Then I've got something to say to you." He waved his gun at the girl. "OK, bimbo. Get going. And don't come trespassing on other people's lands again. Right? And you can tell His friggin' Excellency where to shove his place cards. His writ don't run over the Thunderbird. Mine does. Got the photo? OK. Don't bust your stays getting through the window."

Mary Goodnight said icily, "Very good, Mr., er ... I will deliver your message. I'm sure the High Commissioner will take more careful note than he has done of your presence on the island. And the Jamaican government also."

Bond reached out and took her arm. She was on the edge of overplaying her role. He said, "Come on, Mary. And please tell Mother that I'll be through here in a day or two and I'll be telephoning her from Kingston." He led her to the window and helped, or rather bundled her out. She gave a brief wave and ran off across the lawn. Bond came away from the window with considerable relief. He hadn't expected the ghastly mess to sort itself out so painlessly.

He went and sat down on his bed. He sat on the pillow. He was reassured to feel the hard shape of his gun against his thighs. He looked across at Scaramanga. The man had put his gun back in the shoulder holster. He leaned up against the clothes cupboard and ran his finger reflectively along the black line of his mustache. He said, "High Commissioner's Office. That also houses the local representative of your famous Secret Service. I suppose, Mister Hazard, that your real name wouldn't be James Bond? You showed quite a turn of speed with the gun tonight. I seem to have read somewhere that this man Bond fancies himself with the hardware. I also have information to the effect that he's somewhere in the Caribbean and that he's looking for me. Funny-coincidence department, eh?"

Bond laughed easily. "I thought the Secret Service packed up at the end of the war. Anyway, 'fraid I can't change my identity to suit your book. All you've got to do in the morning is ring up Frome and ask for Mr. Tony Hugill, the boss up there, and check on my story. And can you explain how this Bond chap could possibly have tracked you down to a brothel in Sav' La Mar? And what does he want from you anyway?"

Scaramanga contemplated him silently for a while. Then he said, "Guess he may be lookin' for a shootin' lesson. Be glad to oblige him. But you've got something about number three and a half Love Lane. That's what I figgered when I hired you. But coincidence doesn't come in that size. Mebbe I should have thought again. I said from the first I smelled cops. That girl may be your fiancée or she may not, but that ploy with the shower bath. That's an old hood's trick. It's probably a Secret Service one, too. (continued on page 138)The Golden Gun(continued from page 90) Unless, that is, you were screwin' her". He raised one eyebrow.

"I was. Anything wrong with that? What have you been doing with the Chinese girl? Playing mah-jongg?" Bond got to his feet. He stitched impatience and outrage on his face in equal quantities. "Now look here, Mr. Scaramanga. I've had just about encugh of this. Just stop leaning on me. You go around waving that damned gun of yours and acting like God Almighty and insinuating a lot of tommyrot about the Secret Service and you expect me to kneel down and lick your boots. Well, my friend, you've come to the wrong address. If you're dissatisfied with the job I'm doing, just hand over the thousand dollars and I'll be on my way. Who in hell d'you think you are, anyway?"

Scaramanga smiled his thin, cruel smile. "You may be getting wise to that sooner than you think, shamus." He shrugged. "OK, OK. But just you remember this, mister. If it turns out you're not who you say you are, I'll blow you to bits. Get me? And I'll start with the little bits and go on to the bigger ones. Just so it lasts a heck of a long time. Right? Now you'd better get some shut-eye. I've got a meeting with Mr. Hendriks at ten in the conference room. And I don't want to be disturbed. After that the whole party goes on an excursion on the railroad I was tellin' you about. It'll be your job to see that that gets properly organized. Talk to the manager first thing. Right? OK, then. Be seeing ya." Scaramanga walked into the clothes cupboard, brushed Bond's suit aside and disappeared. There came a decisive click from the next-door room. Bond got to his feet. He said "Phew!" at the top of his voice and walked off into the bathroom to wash the last two hours away in the shower.

He awoke at 6:30, by arrangement with that curious extrasensory alarm clock that some people keep in their heads and that always seems to know the exact time. He put on his bathing trunks and went out to the beach and did his long swim again. When, at 7:15, he saw Scaramanga come out of the east wing followed by a boy carrying his towel, he made for the shore. He listened for the twanging thump of the trampoline and then, keeping well out of sight of it, entered the hotel by the main entrance and moved quickly down the corridor to his room. He listened at his window to make sure the man was still exercising, then he took the master key Nick Nicholson had given him and slipped across the corridor to number 20 and was quickly inside. He left the door on the latch. Yes, there was his target, lying on the dressing table. He strode across the room, picked up the gun and slipped out the round in the cylinder that would next come up for firing. He put the gun down exactly as he had found it, got back to the door, listened, and then was out and across the corridor and into his own room. He went back to the window and listened. Yes. Scaramanga was still at it. It was an amateurish ploy that Bond had executed, but it might gain him just that fraction of a second that, he felt it in his bones, was going to be life or death for him in the next 24 hours. In his mind, he smelled that slight whiff of smoke that indicated that his cover was smoldering at the edges. At any moment "Mark Hazard of World Consortium" might go up in flames like some clumsy effigy on Guy Fawkes Night and James Bond would stand there, revealed, with nothing between him and a possible force of six other gunmen but his own quick hand and the Walther PPK. So every shade of odds that he could shift to his side of the board would be worth while. Undismayed by the prospect, in fact rather excited by it, he ordered a large breakfast, consumed it with relish and, after pulling the connecting pin out of the ball cock in his lavatory, went along to the manager's office.

Felix Leiter was on duty. He gave a thin managerial smile and said, "Good morning, Mr. Hazard. Can I help you?" Leiter's eyes were looking beyond Bond, over his right shoulder. Mr. Hendriks materialized at the desk before Bond could answer.

Leiter said, "Good morning."

Mr. Hendriks replied with his little Germanic bow. He said, "The telephone operator is saying that there is a long-distance call from my office in Havana. Where is the most private place to take it, pliss?"

"Not in your bedroom, sir?"

"Is not sufficiently private."

Bond guessed that he, too, had bowled out the microphone.

Leiter looked helpful. He came out from behind his desk. "Just over here, sir. The lobby telephone. The box is soundproof."

Mr. Hendriks looked stonily at him. "And the machine. That also is soundproof?"

Leiter looked politely puzzled. "I'm afraid I don't understand, sir. It is connected directly with the operator."

"Is no matter. Show me, pliss." Mr. Hendriks followed Leiter to the far corner of the lobby and was shown into the booth. He carefully closed the leather-padded door and picked up the receiver and talked into it. Then he stood waiting, watching Leiter come back across the marble floor and speak deferentially to Bond. "You were saying, sir?"

"It's my lavatory. Something wrong with the ball cock. Is there anywhere else?"

"I'm so sorry, sir. I'll have the house engineer look at it at once. Yes, certainly. There's the lobby toilet. The decoration isn't completed and it's not officially in use, but it's in perfectly good working order." He lowered his voice. "And there's a connecting door with my office. Leave it for ten minutes while I run back the tape of what this bastard's saying. I heard the call was coming through. Don't like the sound of it. May be your worry." He gave a little bow and waved Bond toward the central table with magazines on it. "If you'll just take a seat for a few moments, sir, and then I'll take care of you."

Bond nodded his thanks and turned away. In the booth, Hendriks was talking. His eyes were fixed on Bond with a terrible intensity. Bond felt the skin crawl at the base of his stomach. This was it, all right! He sat down and picked up an old Wall Street Journal. Surreptitiously he tore a small piece out of the center of page one. It could have been a tear at the cross-fold. He held the paper up at page two and watched Hendriks through the little hole.

Hendriks watched the back of the paper and talked and listened. He suddenly put down the receiver and came out of the booth. His face gleamed with sweat. He took out a clean white handkerchief and ran it over his face and neck and walked rapidly off down the corridor.

Nick Nicholson, as neat as a pin, came across the lobby and, with a courtly smile and a bow for Bond, took up his place behind the desk. It was 8:30. Five minutes later, Felix Leiter came out from the inner office. He said something to Nicholson and came over to Bond. There was a pale, pinched look round his mouth. He said, "And now, if you'll follow me, sir." He led the way across the lobby, unlocked the men's-room door, followed Bond in and locked the door behind him. They stood among the carpentrywork by the washbasins. Leiter said tensely, "I guess you've had it, James. They were talking Russian, but your name and number kept on cropping up. Guess you'd better get out of here just as quickly as that old jalopy of yours'll carry you."

Bond smiled thinly. "Forewarned is forearmed, Felix. I knew it already. Hendriks has been told to rub me. Our old friend at K.G.B. headquarters, Semichastny, has got it in for me. I'll tell you why one of these days." He told Leiter of the Mary Goodnight episode of the early hours. Leiter listened gloomily. Bond concluded, "So there's no object in getting out now. We shall hear all the dope and probably their plans for me at this meeting at ten. Then they've got this excursion business afterward. Personally, I guess the shooting match'll take place somewhere out in the country where there are no witnesses. Now, if you and Nick could work out something that'd upset the Away Engagement, I'd make myself responsible for the home pitch."

Leiter looked thoughtful. Some of the cloud lifted from his face. He said, "I know the plans for this afternoon. Off on this miniature train through the cane fields, picnic, then the boat out of Green Island Harbor, deep-sea fishing and all that. I've reconnoitered the route for it all." He raised the thumb of his left hand and pinged the end of his steel hook thoughtfully. "Ye-e-e-s. It's going to mean some quick action and a heap of luck and I'll have to get the hell up to Frome for some supplies from your friend Hugill. Will he hand over some gear on your say-so? OK, then. Come into my office and write him a note. It's only a half hour's drive and Nick can hold the front desk for that time. Come on." He opened a side door and went through into his office. He beckoned Bond to follow and shut the door behind him. At Leiter's dictation, Bond took down the note to the manager of the West Indian Sugar Company sugar estates and then went out through the washroom and along to his room. He took a strong nip of straight bourbon and sat on the edge of his bed and looked unseeingly out of the window and across the lawn to the sea's horizon. Like a dozing hound chasing a rabbit in its dreams, or like the audience at an athletics meeting that lifts a leg to help the high jumper over the bar, every now and then his right hand twitched involuntarily. In his mind's eye, in a variety of imagined circumstances, it was leaping for his gun.

James Bond gave a deep, relaxed sigh. His eyes came back into focus. He looked at his watch. It said 9:50. He got up, ran both hands down his lean face with a scrubbing motion, and went out and along the corridor to the conference room.

• • •

The setup was the same. Bond's travel literature was on the buffet table where he had left it. He went through into the conference room. It had only been cursorily tidied. Scaramanga had probably said it was not to be entered by the staff. The chairs were roughly in position, but the ashtrays had not been emptied. There were no stains on the carpet and no signs of the carpet having been washed. It had probably been a single shot through the heart. With Scaramanga's soft-nosed bullets, the internal damage would be devastating, but the fragments of the bullet would stay in the body and there would be no bleeding. Bond went round the table, ostentatiously positioning the chairs more accurately. He identified the one where Ruby Rotkopf must have sat, across the table from Scaramanga, because it had a cracked leg. He dutifully examined the windows and looked behind the curtains, doing his job. Scaramanga came into the room followed by Mr. Hendriks. He said roughly, "OK, Mr. Hazard. Lock both doors like yesterday. No one to come in. Right?"

"Yes." As Bond passed Mr. Hendriks, he said cheerfully, "Good morning, Mr. Hendriks. Enjoy the party last night?"

Mr. Hendriks gave his usual curt bow. He said nothing. His eyes were granite marbles.

Bond went out and locked the doors and took up his position with the brochures and the champagne glass. Immediately, Hendriks began talking, quickly and urgently, fumbling for the English words. "Mr. S., I have bad troubles to report. My Zentrale in Havana spoke with me this morning. They have heard direct from Moscow. This man"—he must have made a gesture toward the door—"this man is the British secret agent, the man Bond. There is no doubt. I am given the exact descriptions. When he goes swimming this morning, I am examining his body through glasses. The wounds on his body are clearly to be seen. The scar down the right side of the face leaves no doubt. And his shooting last night! The ploddy fool is proud of his shooting. I would like to see a member of my organization behave in zees stupid fashions! I would have him shot immediately." There was a pause. The man's tone altered, became slightly menacing. His target was now Scaramanga. "But, Mr. S., how can this have come about? How can you possibly have let it arrive? My Zentrale is dumfounded at the mistake. The man might have done much damage but for the watchfulness of my superiors. Pliss explain, Mr. S. I must be making the very full report. How is it that you are meeting this man? How is it that you are then carrying him efen into the center of The Group? The details, pliss, mister. The full accounting. My superiors will be expressing sharp criticism of the lack of vigilance against the enemy."

Bond heard the rasp of a match against a box. He could imagine Scaramanga sitting back and going through the smoking routine. The voice, when it came, was decisive, uncowed. "Mr. Hendriks, I appreciate your outfit's concern about this and I congratulate them on their sources of information. But you tell your Central this: I met this man completely by accident, at least I thought so at the time, and there's no use worrying about how it happened. It hasn't been easy to set up this conference and I needed help. I had to get two managers in a hurry from New York to handle the hotel people. They're doing a good job, right? The floor staff and all the rest I had to get from Kingston. But what I really needed was a kind of personal assistant who could be around to make sure that everything went smoothly. Personally, I just couldn't be bothered with all the details. When this guy dropped out of the blue, he looked all right to me. So I picked him up. But I'm not stupid. I knew that when this show was over I'd have to get rid of him, just in case he'd learned anything he shouldn't have. Now you say he's a member of the Secret Service. I told you at the beginning of this conference that I eat these people for breakfast when I have a mind to. What you've told me changes just one thing: He'll die today instead of tomorrow. And here's how it's going to happen." Scaramanga lowered his voice. Now Bond could hear only disjointed words. The sweat ran down from his ear as he pressed it to the base of the champagne glass. "Our excursion ... rats in the cane ... unfortunate accident ... before I do it ... nasty surprise ... details to myself ... you will find it very funny." Scaramanga must have sat back again. Now his voice was normal. "So I think you have nothing to worry about. The man will be gone by this evening. Are you satisfied? I would do it now just by opening the door, but two blown fuses in two days might cause gossip around here. And this way there will be fun for everybody on the picnic."

Mr. Hendriks' voice was flat and uninterested. He had carried out his orders and action was about to follow, definitive action. There could be no complaint of delay in carrying out orders. He said, "Yes. What you are proposing will be satisfactory. I shall observe the proceedings with much amusement. And now to other business. Plan Orange. My superiors are wishing to know that everything is in order."

"Yes. Everything's in order at Reynolds Metal, Kaiser Bauxite and Alumina of Jamaica. But the material you supplied is highly volatile. It will have to be replaced in the demolition chambers every five years. By the way," there was a dry chuckle, "I was amused to see that instructions on the drums were in several African languages as well as English. All ready for the great black uprising, I suppose? You might give me warning of The Day. I hold some pretty vulnerable stocks on Wall Street."

"Then you will lose a lot of money," said Mr. Hendriks flatly. "I shall not be told the date. I do not mind. I hold no stocks. You would be wise to keep your money in gold or diamonds or rare postage stamps. And now the next matter. It is of interest to my superiors to be able to place their hands on a very great quantity of narcotics. You have a source for the supply of ganja, or marijuana as we call it. You are now receiving your supplies in pound weight. I am asking whether you can stimulate your sources of supply to providing the weed by the hundredweight. It is suggested that you then run shipments to the Pedro Cays. My friends can arrange for collection from there."

There was a brief silence. Scaramanga would be smoking his thin cheroot. He said, "I think that could be arranged. But the ganja laws have just been considerably stiffened. There are big prison sentences. Consequently, the price has gone through the roof. The going price today is £16 an ounce. A hundredweight of the stuff could cost thousands of pounds. And it's darned bulky in those quantities. My fishing boat could probably only ship one hundredweight at a time. Anyway, where's it for? You'll be lucky to get those quantities ashore. A pound or two is difficult enough."

"I am not being told the destinations. I assume it is for America. They are the largest consumers. Arrangements have been made to receive this and other consignments initially off the coast of Georgia. I am being told that this area is full of small islands and swamps and is already much favored by smugglers. The money is of no importance. I have instructions to make an initial outlay of a million dollars, but at keen market prices. You will be receiving your usual ten percent commission. Is it that you are interested?"

"I'm always interested in a hundred thousand dollars. I'll have to get in touch with my growers. They have their plantations in the Maroon country. That's in the center of the island. This is going to take time. I can give you a quotation in about two weeks—a hundredweight of the stuff F.O.B. the Pedro Cays. OK?"

"And a date? The Cays are very flat. This is not stuff to be left lying about, isn't it?"

"Sure. Sure. Now, then. Any other business? OK. Well, I've got something I'd like to bring up. This casino lark. Now, this is the picture. The government is tempted. They think it'll stimulate the tourist industry. But the heavies—the boys who were kicked out of Havana, the Vegas machine, the Miami jokers, Chicago—the whole works, didn't take the measure of these people before they put the heat on. And they overplayed the slush-fund approach—put too much money in the wrong pockets. Guess they should have employed a public-relations outfit. Jamaica looks small on the map, and I guess the Syndicates thought they could hurry through a neat little operation like the Nassau job. But the Opposition party got wise, and the Church, and the old women, and there was talk of the Mafia taking over in Jamaica, the old 'Cosa Nostra' and all that crap, and the spiel flopped. Remember we were offered an 'in' coupla years back? That was when they saw it was a bust and wanted to unload their promotion expenses, coupla million bucks or so, onto The Group. You recall I advised against and gave my reasons. OK. So we said no. But things have changed. Different party in power, bit of a tourist slump last year, and a certain minister has been in touch with me. Says the climate's changed. Independence has come along and they've got out from behind the skirts of Aunty England. Want to show that Jamaica's with it. Got oomph and all that. So this friend of mine says he can get gambling off the pad here. He told me how and it makes sense. Before, I said stay out. Now I say come in. But it's going to cost money. Each of us'll have to chip in with a hundred thousand bucks to give local encouragement. Miami'll be the operators and get the franchise. The deal is that they'll put us in for five percent—but off the top. Get me? On these figures, and they're not loaded, our juice should have been earned in eighteen months. After that it's gravy. Get the photo? But your, er, friends don't seem too keen on these, er, capitalist enterprises. How do you figure it? Will they ante up? I don't want for us to go outside for the green. And, as from yesterday, we're missing a shareholder. Come to think of it, we've got to think of that, too. Who we goin' to rope in as number seven? We're short of a game for now."

James Bond wiped his ear and the bottom of the glass with his handkerchief. It was almost unbearable. He had heard his own death sentence pronounced, the involvement of the K.G.B. with Scaramanga and the Caribbean spelled out, and such minor dividends as sabotage of the bauxite industry, massive drug smuggling into the States and gambling politics thrown in. It was a majestic haul in area Intelligence. He had the ball! Could he live to touch down with it?

James Bond moved away from the door as he heard Scaramanga's passkey in the lock. He looked up and yawned.

Scaramanga and Mr. Hendriks looked down at him. Their expressions were vaguely interested and reflective. It was as if he were a bit of steak and they were wondering whether to have it done rare or medium rare.

• • •

At 12 o'clock they all assembled in the lobby. Scaramanga had added a broad-brimmed white Stetson to his immaculate tropical attire. He looked like the smartest plantation owner in the South. Mr. Hendriks wore his usual stuffy suit, now topped with a gray Homburg. Bond thought that he should have gray suede gloves and an umbrella. The four hoods were wearing calypso shirts outside their slacks. Bond was pleased. If they were carrying guns in their waistbands, the shirts would hinder the draw. Cars were drawn up outside with Scaramanga's Thunderbird in the lead. Scaramanga walked up to the desk. Nick Nicholson was standing washing his hands in invisible soap and looking helpful. "All set? Everything loaded on the train? Green Harbor been told? OK, then. Where's that sidekick of yours, that man Travis? Haven't seen him around today."

Nick Nicholson looked serious. "He got an abscess in his tooth, sir. Real bad. Had to send him in to Sav' La Mar to have it out. He'll be OK by this afternoon."

"Too bad. Dock him half a day's pay. No room for sleepers on this outfit. We're shorthanded as it is. Should have had his snappers attended to before he took the job on. 'K?"

"Very good, Mr. Scaramanga. I'll tell him."

Scaramanga turned to the waiting group. "OK, fellers. Now this is the spiel. We drive a mile down the road to the station. We get aboard this little train. Quite an outfit that. Feller by the name of Lucius Beebe had it copied for the Thunderbird company from the engine and rolling stock on the little old Denver, South Park and Pacific line. OK. So we steam along this old canefield line about twenty miles to Green Island Harbor. Plenty birds, bush rats, crocs in the rivers. Mebbe we get a little hunting. Have some fun with the hardware. All you guys got your guns with you? Fine, fine. Champagne lunch at Green Island and the girls and the music'll be there to keep us happy. After lunch we get aboard the Thunder Girl, by Chris-Craft, and take a cruise along to Lucea, that's a little township down the coast, and see if we can catch our dinner. Those that don't want to fish can play stud. Right? Then back here for drinks. OK? Everyone satisfied? Any suggestions? Then let's go."

Bond was told to get in the back of the car. They set off. Once again that offered neck! Crazy not to take him now! But it was open country with no cover and there were four guns riding behind. The odds simply weren't good enough. What was the plan for his removal? During the "hunting" presumably. James Bond smiled grimly to himself. He was feeling happy. He wouldn't have been able to explain the emotion. It was a feeling of being keyed up, wound taut. It was the moment, after 20 passes, when you got a hand you could bet on—not necessarily win, but bet on. He had been after this man for over six weeks. Today, this afternoon perhaps, was to come the pay-off he had been ordered to bring about. It was win or lose. The odds? Foreknowledge was playing for him. He was more heavily forearmed than the enemy knew. But the enemy had the big battalions on their side. There were more of them. And, taking only Scaramanga, perhaps more talent. Weapons? Again leaving out the others, Scaramanga had the advantage. The long-barreled Colt .45 would be a fraction slower on the draw, but its length of barrel would give it more accuracy than the Walther automatic. Rate of fire? The Walther should have the edge—and the first empty chamber of Scaramanga's gun, if it hadn't been discovered, would be an additional bonus. The steady hand? The cool brain? The sharpness of the lust to kill? How did they weigh up? Probably nothing to choose on the first two. Bond might be a shade trigger-happy—of necessity. That he must watch. He must damp down the fire in his belly. Get ice cold. In the lust to kill, perhaps he was the stronger. Of course. He was fighting for his life. The other man was just amusing himself—providing sport for his friends, displaying his potency, showing off. That was good! That might be decisive! Bond said to himself that he must increase the other man's unawareness, his casual certitude, his lack of caution. He must be the P. G. Wodehouse Englishman, the limey of the cartoons. He must play easy to take. The adrenalin coursed into James Bond's blood stream. His pulse rate began to run a fraction high. He felt it on his wrist. He breathed deeply and slowly to bring it down. He found that he was sitting forward, tensed. He sat back and tried to relax. All of his body relaxed except his right hand. This was in the control of someone else. Resting on his right thigh, it still twitched slightly from time to time like the paw of a sleeping dog chasing rabbits. He put it into his coat pocket and watched a turkey buzzard a thousand feet up, circling. He put himself into the mind of the John Crow, watching out for a squashed toad or a dead bush rat. The circling buzzard had found its offal. It came lower and lower. Bond wished it bon appétit. The predator in him wished the scavenger a good meal. He smiled at the comparison between them. They were both following a scent. The main difference was that the John Crow was a protected bird. No one would shoot back at it when it made its final dive. Amused by his thoughts, Bond's right hand came out of his pocket and lit a cigarette for him, quietly and obediently. It had stopped going off chasing rabbits on its own.

The station was a brilliant mock-up from the Colorado narrow-gauge era—a low building in faded clapboard ornamented with gingerbread along its eaves. Its name "Thunderbird Halt" was in old-style ornamental type, heavily serifed. Advertisements proclaimed "Chew Roseleaf Fine Cut Warranted Finest Virginia Leaf," "Trains Stop for all Meals," "No Checks Accepted." The engine, gleaming in black and yellow varnish and polished brass, was a gem. It stood, panting quietly in the sunshine, a wisp of black smoke curling up from the tall stack behind the big brass headlight. The engine's name, "The Belle," was on a proud brass plate on the gleaming black barrel and its number, "No. 1," on a similar plate below the headlight. There was one carriage, an open affair with padded foam-rubber seats and a daffodil surrey roof of fringed canvas to keep off the sun, and then the brake van, also in black and yellow, with a resplendent gilt-armed chair behind the conventional wheel of the brake. It was a wonderful toy even down to the old-fashioned whistle, which now gave a sharp admonitory blast.

Scaramanga was in ebullient form. "Hear the train blow, folks! All aboard!" There was an anticlimax. To Bond's dismay, he took out his golden pistol, pointed it at the sky and pressed the trigger. He hesitated only momentarily and fired again. The deep boom echoed back from the wall of the station and the stationmaster, resplendent in old-fashioned uniform, looked nervous. He pocketed the big silver turnip watch he had been holding and stood back obsequiously, the green flag now drooping at his side. Scaramanga checked his gun. He looked thoughtfully at Bond and said, "All right, my friend. Now then, you get up front with the driver."

Bond smiled happily. "Thanks. I've always wanted to do that since I was a child. What fun!"

"You've said it," said Scaramanga. He turned to the others. "And you, Mr. Hendriks. In the first seat behind the coal tender, please. Then Sam and Leroy. Then Hal and Louie. I'll be up back in the brake van. Good place to watch out for game. 'K?"

Everybody took his seat. The stationmaster had recovered his nerve and went through his ploy with the watch and the flag. The engine gave a triumphant hoot and, with a series of diminishing puffs, got under way, and they bowled off along the three-foot-gauge line that disappeared, as straight as an arrow, into a dancing shimmer of silver.

Bond read the speed gauge. It said 20. For the first time he paid attention to the driver. He was a villainous-looking Rastafari in dirty khaki overalls, with a sweat rag round his forehead. A cigarette drooped from between the thin mustache and the straggling beard. He smelled quite horrible. Bond said, "My name's Mark Hazard. What's yours?"

"Rass, man! Ah doan talk wid buckra."

The expression "rass" is Jamaican for "shove it." "Buckra" is a tough colloquialism for "white man."

Bond said equably, "I thought part of your religion was to love thy neighbor."

The Rasta gave the whistle lanyard a long pull. When the shriek had died away, he simply said "Sheeit," kicked the furnace door open and began shoveling coal.

Bond looked surreptitiously round the cabin. Yes. There it was! The long Jamaican cutlass, this one filed to an inch blade with a deadly point. It was on a rack by the man's hand. Was this the way he was supposed to go? Bond doubted it. Scaramanga would do the deed in a suitably dramatic fashion and one that would give him an alibi. Second executioner would be Hendriks. Bond looked back over the low coal tender. Hendriks' eyes, bland and indifferent, met his. Bond shouted above the iron clang of the engine, "Great fun, what?" Hendriks' eyes looked away and back again. Bond stooped so that he could see under the top of the surrey. All the other four men were sitting motionless, their eyes also fixed on Bond. Bond waved a cheerful hand. There was no response. So they had been told! Bond was a spy in their midst and this was his last ride. In mob-ese, he was "going to be hit." It was an uncomfortable feeling having those ten enemy eyes watching him like ten gun barrels. Bond straightened himself. Now the top half of his body, like the iron "man" in a pistol range, was above the roof of the surrey and he was looking straight down the flat yellow surface to where Scaramanga sat on his solitary throne, with all his body in full view. He also was looking down the little train at Bond—the last mourner in the funeral cortege behind the cadaver that was James Bond. Bond waved a cheery hand and turned back. He opened his coat and got a moment's reassurance from the cool butt of his gun. He felt in his trouser pocket. Three spare magazines. Ah well! He'd take as many of them as he could with him. He flipped down the codriver's seat and sat on it. No point in offering a target until he had to. The Rasta flicked his cigarette over the side and lit another. The engine was driving herself. He leaned against the cabin wall and looked at nothing.

Bond had done his homework on the 1:50,000 Overseas Survey map that Mary had provided, and he knew exactly the route the little cane line took. First there would be five miles of the cane fields, between whose high green walls they were now traveling. Then came Middle River, followed by the vast expanse of swamplands, now being slowly reclaimed, but still shown on the map as "The Great Morass." Then would come Orange River leading into Orange Bay, and then more sugar and mixed forest and agricultural small holdings until they came to the little hamlet of Green Island at the head of the excellent anchorage of Green Island Harbor.

A hundred yards ahead, a turkey buzzard rose from beside the line and, after a few heavy flaps, caught the inshore breeze and soared up and away. There came the boom of Scaramanga's gun. A feather drifted down from the great right-hand wing of the big bird. The turkey buzzard swerved and soared higher. A second shot rang out. The bird gave a jerk and began to tumble untidily down out of the sky. It jerked again as a third bullet hit it before it crashed into the cane. There was applause from under the yellow surrey. Bond leaned out and called to Scaramanga, "That'll cost you five pounds unless you've squared the Rasta. That's the fine for killing a John Crow."

A shot whistled past Bond's head. Scaramanga laughed. "Sorry. Thought I saw a rat." And then, "Come on, Mr. Hazard. Let's see some gunplay from you. There's some cattle grazing by the line up there. See if you can hit a cow at ten paces."

The hoods guffawed. Bond put his head out again. Scaramanga's gun was on his lap. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Mr. Hendriks, perhaps ten feet behind him, had his right hand in his coat pocket. Bond called, "I never shoot game that I don't eat. If you'll eat the whole cow, I'll shoot it for you."

The gun flashed and boomed as Bond jerked his head under cover of the coal tender. Scaramanga laughed harshly. "Watch your lip, limey, or you'll end up without it." The hoods haw-hawed.

Beside Bond, the Rasta gave a curse. He pulled hard on the whistle lanyard. Bond looked down the line. Far ahead, across the rails, something pink showed. Still whistling, the driver pulled on a lever. Steam belched from the train's exhaust and the engine began to slow. Two shots rang out and the bullets clanged against the iron roof over his head. Scaramanga shouted angrily, "Keep steam up, damn you to hell!"

The Rasta quickly pushed up the lever and the speed of the train gathered back to 20 mph. He shrugged. He glanced at Bond. He licked his lips wetly. "Dere's white trash across de line. Guess mebbe it's some frien' of de boss."

Bond strained his eyes. Yes! It was a naked pink body with golden blonde hair! A girl's body!

Scaramanga's voice boomed against the wind. "Folks. Jes' a little surprise for you all. Something from the good old Western movies. There's a girl on the line ahead. Tied across it. Take a look. And you know what? It's the girlfriend of a certain man we've been hearing of, called James Bond. Would you believe it? An' her name's Goodnight, Mary Goodnight. It sure is good night for her. If only that fellow Bond was aboard now, I guess we'd be hearing him holler for mercy."

James Bond leaped for the accelerator lever and tore it downward. The engine lost a head of steam, but there was only a hundred yards to go and now the only thing that could save the girl was the brakes under Scaramanga's control in the brake van. The Rasta already had his cutlass in his hand. The flames from the furnace glinted on the blade. He stood back like a cornered animal, his eyes red with ganja and fear of the gun in Bond's hand. Nothing could save the girl now! Bond, knowing that Scaramanga would expect him from the right side of the tender, leaped to the left. Hendriks had his gun out. Before it could swivel, Bond put a bullet between the man's cold eyes. The head jerked back. For an instant, steel-capped back teeth showed in the gaping mouth. Then the gray Homburg fell off and the dead head slumped. The golden gun boomed twice. A bullet whanged round the cabin. The Rasta screamed and fell to the ground, clutching at his throat. His hand was still clenched round the whistle lanyard and the little train kept up its mournful howl of warning. Fifty yards to go! The golden hair hung forlornly forward, obscuring the face. The ropes on the wrists and ankles showed clearly. The breasts offered themselves to the screaming engine. Bond ground his teeth, and shut his mind to the dreadful impact that would come any minute now. He leaped to the left again and got off three shots. He thought two of them had hit, but then something slammed a great blow into the muscle of his left shoulder and he spun across the cab and crashed to the iron floor, his face over the edge of the footplate. And it was from there, only inches away, that he saw the front wheels scrunch through the body on the line, saw the blonde head severed from the body, saw the china-blue eyes give him a last blank stare, saw the fragments of the showroom dummy disintegrate with a sharp crackling of plastic and the pink splinters shower down the embankment.

James Bond choked back the sickness that rose from his stomach into the back of his throat. He staggered to his feet, keeping low. He reached up for the accelerator lever and pushed it upward. A pitched battle with the train at a standstill would put the odds even more against him. He hardly felt the pain in his shoulder. He edged round the right-hand side of the tender. Four guns boomed. He flung his head back under cover. Now the hoods were shooting, but wildly, because of the interference of the surrey top. But Bond had had time to see one glorious sight. In the brake van, Scaramanga had slid from his throne and was down on his knees, his head moving to and fro like a wounded animal. Where in hell had Bond hit him? And now what? How was he going to deal with the four hoods, just as badly obscured from him as he was from them?

Then a voice from the back of the train, it could only be from the brake van, Felix Leiter's voice, called out above the shriek of the engine's whistle, "OK, you four guys. Toss your guns over the side. Now! Quick!" There came the crack of a shot. "I said quick. There's Mr. Gengerella gone to meet his maker OK, then. And now hands behind your heads. That's better. Right. OK, James. The battle's over. Are you OK? If so, show yourself. There's still the final curtain and we've got to move quick."

Bond rose carefully. He could hardly believe it! Leiter must have been riding on the buffer behind the brake van. He wouldn't have been able to show himself earlier for fear of Bond's gunfire. Yes! There he was! His fair hair tousled by the wind, a long-barreled pistol using his upraised steel hook as a rest, standing astride the now supine body of Scaramanga beside the brake wheel. Bond's shoulder had begun to hurt like hell. He shouted, with the anger of tremendous relief, "Goddamn you, Leiter. Why in hell didn't you show up before? I might have got hurt."

Leiter laughed. "That'll be the day! Now listen, shamus. Get ready to jump. The longer you wait, the farther you've got to walk home. I'm going to stay with these guys for a while and hand them over to the law in Green Harbor." He shook his head to show this was a lie. "Now get goin'. It's The Morass. The landing'll be soft. Stinks a bit, but we'll give you an eau-de-cologne spray when you get home. Right?"

The train ran over a small culvert and the song of the wheels changed to a deep boom. Bond looked ahead. In the distance was the spidery ironwork of the Orange River bridge. The still shrieking train was losing steam. The gauge said 19 mph. Bond looked down at the dead Rasta. In death, his face was as horrible as it had been in life. The bad teeth, sharpened from eating sugar cane from childhood, were bared in a frozen snarl. Bond took a quick glance under the surrey. Hendriks' slumped body lolled with the movement of the train. The sweat of the day still shone on the doughy cheeks. Even as a corpse he didn't ask for sympathy. In the seat behind him, Leiter's bullet had torn through the back of Gengerella's head and removed most of his face. Next to him, and behind him, the three gangsters gazed up at James Bond with whipped eyes. They hadn't expected all this. This was to have been a holiday. The calypso shirts said so. Mr. Scaramanga, the undefeated, the undefeatable, had said so. Until minutes before, his golden gun had backed up his word. Now, suddenly, everything was different. As the Arabs say when a great sheik has gone, has removed his protection, "Now there is no more shade!" They were covered with guns from the front and the rear. The train stretched out its iron stride toward nowhere they had ever heard of before. The whistle moaned. The sun beat down. The dreadful stink of The Great Morass assailed their nostrils. This was abroad. This was bad news, really bad. The tour director had left them to fend for themselves. Two of them had been killed. Even their guns were gone. The tough faces, as white moons, gazed in supplication up at Bond. Louie Paradise's voice was cracked and dry with terror. "A million bucks, mister, if you get us out of this. Swear on my mother. A million."

The faces of Sam Binion and Hal Garfinkel lit up. Here was hope! "And a million."

"And another! On my baby son's head!"

The voice of Felix Leiter bellowed angrily. There was a note of panic in it. "Jump, damn you, James! Jump!"

James Bond stood up in the cabin, not listening to the voices supplicating from under the yellow surrey. These men had wanted to watch him being murdered. They had been prepared to murder him themselves. How many dead men had each one of them got on his tally sheet? Bond got down on the step of the cabin, chose his moment and threw himself clear of the clinker track and into the soft embraces of a stinking mangrove pool.

His explosion into the mud released the stench of hell. Great bubbles of marsh gas wobbled up to the surface and burst glutinously. A bird screeched and clattered off through the foliage. James Bond waded out onto the edge of the embankment. Now his shoulder was really hurting. He knelt down and was as sick as a cat.

When he raised his head, it was to see Leiter hurl himself off the brake van, now a good 200 yards away. He seemed to land clumsily. He didn't get up. And now, within yards of the long iron bridge over the sluggish river, another figure leaped from the train into a clump of mangrove. It was a tall, chocolate-clad figure. There was no doubt about it! It was Scaramanga! Bond cursed feebly. Why in hell hadn't Leiter put a finishing bullet through the man's head? Now there was unfinished business. The cards had only been reshuffled. The end game had still to be played!

The screaming progress of the driverless train changed to a roar as the track took to the trestles of the long bridge. Bond watched it vaguely, wondering when it would run out of steam. What would the three gangsters do now? Take to the hills? Get the train under control and go on to Green Harbor and try to take the Thunder Girl across to Cuba? Immediately the answer came! Halfway across the bridge, the engine suddenly reared up like a bucking stallion. At the same time there came a crash of thunder and a vast sheet of flame and the bridge buckled downward in the center like a bent leg. Chunks of torn iron sprayed upward and sideways and there was a splintering crash as the main stanchions gave and slowly bowed down toward the water. Through the jagged gap, the beautiful Belle, a smashed toy, folded upon itself and, with a giant splintering of iron and woodwork and a volcano of spray and steam, thundered into the river.

A deafening silence fell. Somewhere behind Bond, a wakened tree frog tinkled uncertainly. Four white egrets flew down and over the wreck, their necks outstretched inquisitively. In the distance, black dots materialized high up in the sky and circled lazily closer. The sixth sense of the turkey buzzards had told them that the distant explosion was disaster—something that might yield a meal. The sun hammered down on the silver rails and, a few yards away from where Bond lay, a group of yellow butterflies danced in the shimmer. Bond got slowly to his feet and, parting the butterflies, began walking slowly but purposefully up the line toward the bridge. First Felix Leiter, and then after the big one that had got away.

Leiter lay in the stinking mud. His left leg was at a hideous angle. Bond went to him, his finger to his lips. He knelt beside him and said softly, "Nothing much I can do for now, pal. I'll give you a bullet to bite on and get you into some shade. There'll be people coming before long. Got to get on after that bastard. He's somewhere up there by the bridge. What made you think he was dead?"

Leiter groaned, more in anger with himself than from the pain. "There was blood all over the place." The voice was a halting whisper between clenched teeth. "His shirt was soaked in it. Eyes closed. Thought if he wasn't cold he'd go with the others on the bridge." He smiled faintly. "How did you dig the River Kwai stunt? Go off all right?"

Bond raised a thumb. "Fourth of July. The crocs'll be sitting down to table right now. But that damned dummy! Gave me a nasty turn. Did you put her there?"

"Sure. Sorry, boy. Mr. S. told me to. Made an excuse to spike the bridge this morning. No idea your girlfriend was a blonde or that you'd fall for the spiel."

"Bloody silly of me, I suppose. Thought he'd got hold of her last night. Anyway, come on. Here's your bullet. Bite the lead. The storybooks say it helps. This is going to hurt, but I must haul you under cover and out of the sun." Bond got his hands under Leiter's armpits and, as gently as he could, dragged him to a dry patch under a big mangrove bush above swamp level. The sweat of pain poured down Leiter's face. Bond propped him up against the roots. Leiter gave a groan and his head fell back. Bond looked thoughtfully down at him. A faint was probably the best thing that could have happened. He took Leiter's gun out of his waistband and put it beside his left, and only, hand. Bond still might get into much trouble. If he did, Scaramanga would come after Felix.

Bond crept off along the line of mangroves toward the bridge. For the time being he would have to keep more or less in the open. He prayed that, nearer the river, the swamp would yield to drier land so that he could work down toward the sea and then cut back toward the river and hope to pick up the man's tracks.

It was 1:30 and the sun was high. James Bond was hungry and very thirsty and his shoulder wound throbbed with his pulse. There were perhaps a hundred yards to go to the bridge. On Bond's left, the mangroves were sparser and the black mud was dry and cracked. But there were still soft patches. Bond put up the collar of his coat to hide the white shirt. He covered another 20 yards beside the rail and then struck off left into the mangroves. He found that if he kept close to the roots of the mangroves the going wasn't too bad. At least there were no dry twigs or leaves to crack and rustle. He tried to keep as nearly as possible parallel with the river, but thick patches of bushes made him make small detours and he had to estimate his direction by the dryness of the mud and the slight rise of the land toward the riverbank. His ears were pricked like an animal's for the smallest sound. His eyes strained into the greenery ahead. Now the mud was pitted with the burrows of land crabs and there were occasional remnants of their shells, victims of big birds or mongooses. For the first time, mosquitoes and sand flies began to attack him. He could not slap them off but only dab at them softly with his handkerchief that was soon soaked with the blood they had sucked from him and wringing with the white man's sweat that attracted them.

Bond estimated that he had penetrated 200 yards into the swamp when he heard the single, controlled cough.

• • •

The cough sounded about 20 yards away, toward the river. Bond dropped to one knee, his senses questing like the antennae of an insect. He waited five minutes. When the cough was not repeated, he crept forward on hands and knees, his gun gripped between his teeth.

In a small clearing of dried black mud, he saw the man. He stopped in his tracks, trying to calm his breathing.

Scaramanga was lying stretched out, his back supported by a clump of sprawling mangrove roots. His hat and his high stock had gone and the whole of the right-hand side of his suit was black with blood upon which insects crawled and feasted. But the eyes in the controlled face were still very much alive. They swept the clearing at regular intervals, questing. Scaramanga's hands rested on the roots beside him. There was no sign of a gun.

Scaramanga's face suddenly pointed, like a retriever's, and the roving scrutiny held steady. Bond could not see what had caught his attention, but then a patch of the dappled shadow at the edge of the clearing moved and a large snake, beautifully diamonded in dark and pale brown, zigzagged purposefully across the black mud toward the man.

Bond watched, fascinated. He guessed it was a boa of the Epicrates family, attracted by the smell of blood. It was perhaps five feet long and quite harmless to man. Bond wondered if Scaramanga would know this. He was immediately put out of his doubt. Scaramanga's expression had not changed, but his right hand crept softly down his trouser leg, gently pulled up the cuff and removed a thin, stiletto-style knife from the side of his short Texan boot. Then he waited, the knife held ready across his stomach, not clenched in his fist, but pointed in the flick-knife fashion. The snake paused for a moment a few yards from the man and raised its head high to give him a final inspection. The forked tongue licked out inquisitively, again and again, then, still with its head held above the ground, it moved slowly forward.

Not a muscle moved in Scaramanga's face. The eyes were dead steady, watchful slits. The snake came into the shadow of his trouser leg and moved slowly up toward the glistening shirt. Suddenly the tongue of steel that lay across Scaramanga's stomach came to life and leaped. It transfixed the head of the snake exactly in the center of the brain and pierced through it, pinning it to the ground and holding it there while the powerful body thrashed wildly, seeking a grip on the mangrove roots, on Scaramanga's arm. But immediately, when it had a grip, its convulsions released its coils, which flailed off in another direction.

The death struggles diminished and finally ceased altogether. The snake lay motionless. Scaramanga was careful. He ran his hand down the full length of the snake. Only the tip of the tail lashed briefly. Scaramanga extracted the knife from the head of the snake, cut off its head with a single hard stroke and threw it, after reflection, accurately toward a crab hole. He waited, watching, to see if a crab would come out and take it. None did. The thud of the arrival of the snake's head would have kept any crab underground for many minutes, however enticing the scent of what had made the thud.

James Bond, kneeling in the bush, watched all this, every nuance of it, with the most careful attention. Each one of Scaramanga's actions, every fleeting expression on his face, had been an index of the man's awareness of his aliveness. The whole episode of the snake was as revealing as a temperature chart or a lie detector. In Bond's judgment, Mr. Scaramanga, for all his bloodletting and internal injuries, was still very much alive. He was still a most formidable and dangerous man.

Scaramanga, his task satisfactorily completed, minutely shifted his position and, once again, foot by foot, made his penetrating examination of the surrounding bush.

As Scaramanga's gaze swept by him without a flicker, Bond blessed the darkness of his suit—a black patch of shadow among so many others. In the sharp blacks and whites from the midday sun, Bond was well camouflaged.

Satisfied, Scaramanga picked up the limp body of the snake, laid it across his stomach and carefully slit it down its underside as far as the anal vent. Then he scoured it and carefully etched the skin away from the red-veined flesh with the precise flicks and cuts of a surgeon. Every scrap of unwanted reptile he threw toward crab holes and, with each throw, a flicker of annoyance crossed the granite face that no one would come and pick up the crumbs from the rich man's table. When the meal was ready, he once again scanned the bush and then, very carefully, coughed and spat into his hand. He examined the result and flung his hand sideways. On the black ground, the sputum made a bright pink scrawl. The cough didn't seem to hurt him or cause him much effort. Bond guessed that his bullet had hit Scaramanga in the right chest and had missed a lung by a fraction. There was hemorrhage and Scaramanga was a hospital case, but the blood-soaked shirt was not telling the whole truth.

Satisfied with his inspection of his surroundings, Scaramanga bit into the body of the snake and was at once, like a dog with its meal, absorbed by his hunger and thirst for the blood and juices of the snake.

Bond had the impression that, if he now came forward from his hiding place, Scaramanga, like a dog, would bare his teeth in a furious snarl. He got quietly up from his knees, took out his gun and, his eyes watching Scaramanga's hands, strolled out into the center of the little clearing.

Bond was mistaken. Scaramanga did not snarl. He barely looked up from the cut-off length of snake in his two hands and, his mouth full of meat, said, "You've been a long while coming. Care to share my meal?"

"No thanks. I prefer my snake grilled with hot butter sauce. Just keep on eating. I like to see both hands occupied."

Scaramanga sneered. He gestured at his bloodstained shirt. "Frightened of a dying man? You limeys come pretty soft."

"The dying man handled that snake quite efficiently. Got any more weapons on you?" As Scaramanga moved to undo his coat, "Steady! No quick movements. Just show your belt, armpits, pat the thighs inside and out. I'd do it myself, only I don't want what the snake got. And while you're about it, just toss the knife into the trees. Toss. No throwing, if you don't mind. My trigger finger's been getting a bit edgy today. Seems to want to go about its business on its own. Wouldn't like it to take over. Yet, that is."

Scaramanga, with a flick of his wrist, tossed the knife into the air. The sliver of steel spun like a wheel in the sunshine. Bond had to step aside. The knife pierced the mud where Bond had been standing and stood upright. Scaramanga gave a harsh laugh. The laugh turned into a cough. The gaunt face contorted painfully. Too painfully? Scaramanga spat red, but not all that red. There could be only slight hemorrhage. Perhaps a broken rib or two. Scaramanga could be out of hospital in a couple of weeks. Scaramanga put down his piece of snake and did exactly as Bond had told him, all the while watching Bond's face with his usual cold, arrogant stare. He finished and picked up the piece of snake and began gnawing it. He looked up. "Satisfied?"

"Sufficiently." Bond squatted down on his heels. He held his gun loosely, aiming somewhere halfway between the two of them. "Now then, let's talk. 'Fraid you haven't got too much time, Scaramanga. This is the end of the road. You've killed too many of my friends. I have the license to kill you and I am going to kill you. But I'll make it quick. Not like Margesson. Remember him? You put a shot through both of his knees and both of his elbows. Then you made him crawl and kiss your boots. You were foolish enough to boast about it to your friends in Cuba. It got back to us. As a matter of interest, how many men have you killed in your life?"

"With you, it'll make the round fifty." Scaramanga had gnawed the last segment of backbone clean. He tossed it toward Bond. "Eat that, scum, and get on with your business. You won't get any secrets out of me, if that's your spiel. An' don't forget. I've been shot at by experts an' I'm still alive. Mebbe not precisely kicking, but I've never heard of a limey who'd shoot a defenseless man who's badly wounded. They ain't got the guts. We'll just sit here, chewing the fat, until the rescue team comes. Then I'll be glad to go for trial. What'll they get me for, eh?"

"Well, just for a start, there's that nice Mr. Rotkopf with one of your famous silver bullets in his head in the river back of the hotel."

"That'll match with the nice Mr. Hendriks with one of your bullets somewhere behind his face. Mebbe we'll serve a bit of time together. That'd be nice, wouldn't it? They say the jail at Spanish Town has all the comforts. How about it, limey? That's where you'll be found with a shiv in your back in the sack-sewing department. An' by the same token, how d'you know about Rotkopf?"

"Your bug was bugged. Seems you're a bit accident-prone these days, Scaramanga. You hired the wrong security men. Both your managers were from the CIA. The tape'll be on the way to Washington by now. Thai's got the murder of Ross on it, too. See what I mean? You've got it coming from every which way."

"Tape isn't evidence in an American court. But I see what you mean, shamus. Mistakes seem to have got made. So OK," Scaramanga made an expansive gesture of the right hand. "Take a million bucks and call it quits?"

"I was offered three million on the train."

"I'll double that."

"No. Sorry." Bond got to his feet. The left hand behind his back was clenched with the horror of what he was about to do. He forced himself to think of what the broken body of Margesson must have looked like, of the others that this man had killed, of the ones he would kill afresh if Bond weakened. This man was probably the most efficient one-man death dealer in the world. James Bond had him. He had been instructed to take him. He must take him—lying down wounded, or in any other position. Bond assumed casualness, tried to make himself the enemy's cold equal. "Any messages for anyone, Scaramanga? Any instructions? Anyone you want looking after? I'll take care of it if it's personal. I'll keep it to myself."

Scaramanga laughed his harsh laugh, but carefully. This time the laugh didn't turn into the red cough. "Quite the little English gentleman! Just like I spelled it out. S'pose you wouldn't like to hand me your gun and leave me to myself for five minutes like in the books? Well, you're right, boyo! I'd crawl after you and blast the back of your head off." The eyes still bored into Bond's with the arrogant superiority, the cold superman quality that had made him the greatest pro gunman in the world—no drinks, no drugs—the impersonal triggerman who killed for money and, by the way he sometimes did it, for the kicks.

Bond examined him carefully. How could Scaramanga fail to break when he was going to die in minutes? Was there some last trick the man was going to spring? Some hidden weapon? But the man just lay there, apparently relaxed, propped up against the mangrove roots, his chest heaving rhythmically, the granite of his face not crumbling even minutely in defeat. On his forehead, there was not as much sweat as there was on Bond's. Scaramanga lay in dappled black shadow. For ten minutes, James Bond had stood in the middle of the clearing in blazing sunshine. Suddenly he felt the vitality oozing out through his feet into the black mud. And his resolve was going with it. He said, and he heard his voice ring out harshly, "All right, Scaramanga, this is it." He lifted his gun and held it in the two-handed grip of the target man. "I'm going to make it as quick as I can."

Scaramanga held up a hand. For the first time his face showed emotion. "OK, feller." The voice, amazingly, supplicated. "I'm a Catholic, see? Jes' let me say my last prayer. OK? Won't take long, then you can blaze away. Every man's got to die sometime. You're a fine guy as guys go. It's the luck of the game. If my bullet had been an inch, mebbe two inches, to the right, it'd be you that's dead in place of me. Right? Can I say my prayer, mister?"

James Bond lowered his gun. He would give the man a few minutes. He knew he couldn't give him more. Pain and heat and hunger and thirst. It wouldn't be long before he lay down himself, right there on the hard cracked mud, just to rest. If someone wanted to kill him, they could. He said, and the words came out slowly, tiredly, "Go ahead, Scaramanga. One minute only."

"Thanks, pal." Scaramanga's hands went up to his face and covered his eyes. There came a drone of Latin which went on and on. Bond stood there in the sunshine, his gun lowered, watching Scaramanga, but at the same time not watching him, the edge of his focus dulled by the pain and the heat and the hypnotic litany that came from behind the shuttered face and the horror of what Bond was going to have to do—in one minute, perhaps two.

The fingers of Scaramanga's right hand crawled imperceptibly sideways across his face, inch by inch, centimeter by centimeter. They got to his ear and stopped. The drone of the Latin prayer never altered its slow, lulling tempo.

And then the hand leaped behind the head and the tiny golden Derringer roared and James Bond spun round as if he had taken a right to the jaw and crashed to the ground.

At once Scaramanga was on his feet and moving forward like a swift cat. He snatched up the discarded knife and held it forward like a tongue of silver flame.

But James Bond twisted like a dying animal on the ground and the iron in his hand cracked viciously again and again—five times, and then fell out of his hand onto the black earth as his gun hand went to the right side of his belly and stayed there, clutching at the terrible pain.

The big man stood for a moment and looked up at the deep blue sky. His fingers opened in a spasm and let go the knife. His pierced heart stuttered and limped and stopped. He crashed flat back and lay, his arms flung wide, as if someone had thrown him away.

After a while, the land crabs came out of their holes and began nosing at the scraps of the snake. The bigger offal could wait until the night.

• • •

The extremely smart policeman from the wrecking squad on the railway came down the riverbank at the normal, dignified gait of a Jamaican constable on his beat. No Jamaican policeman ever breaks into a run. He has been taught that this lacks authority. Felix Leiter, now put under with morphine by the doctor, had said that a good man was after a bad man in the swamp and that there might be shooting. Felix Leiter wasn't more explicit than that, but when he said he was from the FBI—a legitimate euphemism—in Washington, the policeman tried to get some of the wrecking squad to come with him and, when he failed, sauntered cautiously off on his own, his baton swinging with assumed jauntiness.

The boom of the guns and the explosion of screeching marsh birds gave him an approximate fix. He had been born not far away, at Negril, and, as a boy, he had often used his gins and his slingshot in these marshes. They held no fears for him. When he came to the approximate point on the riverbank, he turned left into the mangrove and, conscious that his black-and-blue uniform was desperately conspicuous, stalked cautiously from clump to clump into The Morass. He was protected by nothing but his night stick and the knowledge that to kill a policeman was a capital offense without the option. He only hoped that the good man and the bad man knew this, too.

With all the birds gone, there was dead silence. The constable noticed that the tracks of bush rats and other small animals were running past him on a course that converged with his target area. Then he heard the rattling scuttle of the crabs and, in a moment, from behind a thick mangrove clump, he saw the glint of Scaramanga's shirt. He watched and listened. There was no movement and no sound. He strolled, with dignity, into the middle of the clearing, looked at the two bodies and the guns and took out his nickel police whistle and blew three long blasts. Then he sat down in the shade of a bush, took out his report pad, licked his pencil and began writing in a laborious hand.

• • •

A week later, James Bond regained consciousness. He was in a green-shaded room. He was under water. The slowly revolving fan on the ceiling was the screw of a ship that was about to run him down. He swam for his life. But it was no good. He was tied down, anchored to the bottom of the sea. He screamed at the top of his lungs. To the nurse at the end of the bed it was the whisper of a moan. At once she was beside him. She put a cool hand on his forehead. While she took his pulse, James Bond looked up at her with unfocused eyes. So this was what a mermaid looked like! He muttered "You're pretty," and gratefully swam back down into her arms.

• • •

Two weeks later, James Bond was sitting up in a chair, a towel round his waist, reading Allen Dulles on The Craft of Intelligence and cursing his fate. The hospital had worked miracles on him, the nurses were sweet, particularly the one he called "the mermaid," but he wanted to be off and away. He glanced at his watch. Four o'clock. Visiting time. Mary Goodnight would soon be there and he would be able to let off his pent-up steam on her. Unjust perhaps, but he had already tongue-lashed everyone in range in the hospital and, if she got into the field of fire, that was just too bad!

Mary Goodnight came through the door. Despite the Jamaican heat, she was looking fresh as a rose. She was carrying what looked like a typewriter. Bond recognized it as the Triple-X deciphering machine. Now what?

Bond grunted surly answers to her inquiries after his health. He said, "What in hell's that for?"

"It's an 'Eyes Only.' Personal from M," she said excitedly.

"Doesn't the old bastard know I've only got one arm that's working? Come on, Mary. You get cracking. If it sounds really hot, I'll take over."

Mary Goodnight looked shocked. "Eyes Only" was a top-sacred prefix. But Bond's jaw was jutting out dangerously. Today was not a day for argument. She sat on the edge of the bed, opened the machine and took a cable form out of her bag. She laid her shorthand book beside the machine, scratched the back of her head with her pencil to help work out the setting for the day—a complicated sum involving the date and the hour of dispatch of the cable—adjusted the setting on the central cylinder and began cranking the handle. After each completed word had appeared in the little oblong window at the base of the machine, she recorded it in her book.

James Bond watched her expression. She was pleased. After a few minutes she read out: "M Personal for 007 Eyes Only Stop Your Report and Ditto from Top Friends [a euphemism for the CIA] Received Stop You Have Done Well and Executed Aye Difficult and Hazardous Operation to My Entire Repeat Entire Satisfaction Stop Trust Your Health Unimpaired [Bond gave an angry snort] Stop When Will You Be Reporting for Further Duty Query. In View of the Outstanding Nature of the Services Referred to above and Their Assistance to the Allied Cause Comma Which is Perhaps More Significant than You Imagine Comma the Prime Minister Proposes to Recommend to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Immediate Grant of a Knighthood Stop This to Take the Form of the Addition of a Katie As Prefix to Your Charlie Michael George Stop [James Bond uttered a defensive, embarrassed laugh. "Good old cipherines. They wouldn't think of just putting K C M G—much too easy! Go ahead, Mary. This is good!"] it is Common Practice to inquire of proposed recipient whether he accepts this high honor before her majesty puts her seal upon it stop written letter should follow your cabled confirmation of acceptance paragraph this award naturally has my support and entire approval and eye send you my personal congratulations endit mailedfist."

James Bond again hid himself behind the throwaway line. "Why in hell does he always have to sign himself 'Mailedfist' for 'M'? There's a perfectly good English word 'Em.' It's a measure used by printers. But of course it's not dashing enough for the Chief. He's a romantic at heart like all us silly bastards who get mixed up with the Service."

He said to Mary Goodnight, avoiding her eyes, "Mary, this is an order. Take down what follows and send it tonight. Right? Begins, quote Mailedfist Eyes Only Stop Acknowledged and Greatly Appreciated Stop Am Informed by Hospital Authorities That Eye Shall Be Returned Londonward Dutiable in One Month Stop Referring Your Reference to Aye High Honor Eye Beg You Present My Humble Duty to Her Majesty and Request That Eye May Be Permitted Comma in All Humility Comma to Decline the Signal Favor Her Majesty Is Gracious Enough to Propose to Confer upon Her Humble and Obedient Servant Bracket to Mailedfist Please Put This in The Appropriate Words to the Prime Minister Bracket Eye Am Aye Scottish Peasant and Eye Will Always Feel at Home Being A Scottish Peasant and Eye Know Comma Sir Comma That You Will Understand My Preference and That Eye Can Count on Your Indulgence Bracket Letter Confirming Follows Immediately Bracket Endit Ohohseven."

Mary Goodnight closed her book with a snap. Bond smiled. "I'd like all those things. The romantic streak of the SIS— and of the Scot, for the matter of that. I just refuse to call myself Sir James Bond. I'd laugh at myself every time I looked in the mirror to shave. It's just not my line, Mary. The thought makes me positively shudder. I know M'll understand. He thinks much the same way about these things as I do. Trouble was, he had to more or less inherit his K with the job. Anyway, there it is and I shan't change my mind, so you can buzz that off and I'll write M a letter of confirmation this evening. Any other business?"

"Well, there is one thing, James." Mary Goodnight looked down her pretty nose. "Matron says you can leave at the end of the week, but that there's got to be another three weeks' convalescence. Had you got any plans where to go? You have to be in reach of the hospital."

"No ideas. What do you suggest?"

"Well, er, I've got this little villa up by Mona dam, James." Her voice hurried. "It's got quite a nice spare room looking out over Kingston harbor, and it's cool up there. And if you don't mind sharing a bathroom." She blushed. "I'm afraid there's no chaperone, but you know, in Jamaica, people don't mind that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?" said Bond, teasing her.

"Don't be silly, James. You know, unmarried couples sharing the same house and so on."

"Oh, that sort of thing! Sounds pretty dashing to me. By the way, is your bedroom decorated in pink, with white jalousies, and do you sleep under a mosquito net?"

She looked surprised. "Yes. How did you know?" When he didn't answer, she hurried on. "And James, it's not far from the Liguanea Club and you can go there and play bridge, and golf when you get better. There'll be plenty of people for you to talk to. And then of course I can cook and sew buttons on for you and so on."

Of all the doom-fraught graffiti a woman can write on the wall, those are the most insidious, the most deadly.

James Bond, in the full possession of his senses, with his eyes wide open, his feet flat on the linoleum floor, stuck his head blithely between the mink-lined jaws of the trap. He said, and meant it, "Goodnight. You're an angel."

At the same time, he knew, deep down, that love from Mary Goodnight, or from any other woman, was not enough for him. It would be like taking "a room with a view." For James Bond, the same view would always pall.

This concludes the four-part serialization of Ian Fleming's final James Bond novel, "The Man with the Golden Gun