THIRTEEN:
THE SUN CHASER
Bond waited a few minutes, discarding the insipid Kristal and lighting another cigarette. Beneath him, from the promenade deck that extended along the beach and into the sea, Bond saw Gabi and her minder, Kazacs. They settled into a motor launch. The bow beams switched on and the boat sped away into the deep blue night, a trailing fan of silver bubbles in its wake.
He shrugged and made his way back downstairs to find Mucho and Maritza. It was past midnight. The party seemed to be just starting; things were certainly lively in the lobby.
“There’s no need for us all to keep tabs on Sabatini,” instructed Bond, “He’s going back to his yacht soon. Apparently there’s a private party taking place tonight.”
“So the grand benefactor deserts his cause,” Mucho scoffed.
Maritza hooked herself onto Bond’s arm, “It makes you wonder if it’s all a front.”
“Yes, I wondered that too,” said Bond, feeling the brush of her hip against his, “Listen, Maritza and I’ll stay here for a while and then we’ll keep an eye on the yacht. Mucho, can you look into this Sea World Foundation?”
“Sure,” he sounded only too pleased, “There’s something spooky about this set up.”
“You mean the cobwebs?”
“And the crowds of goons prowling this place,” Mucho replied, lifting a sausage to his mouth, “There’s over a dozen strong arm guys here. Some are carrying, some are just watching. It’s like eagle eye. You can’t move without someone seeing you.”
“Do you think they’re watching us?”
“Can’t tell. There’s the bald headed guy who left with your precious cargo, he’s the ringmaster; and then there’s a tattooed fella who seems to be everywhere,” Mucho gave a jerk of the head and made as if he was laughing, “By the water feature. Eyes like stalks.”
Bond saw the man, a six foot sinewy piece of muscle, cross armed, a blue and red tattoo running down one side of his face. He looked distinctly threatening.
“We’d better give him something to look at,” Bond led Maritza towards the dance floor, calling “Don’t wait up, Mucho.”
They shared three dances, a samba, a merengue and a Cuban salsa. He wasn’t an expert and neither was she, but they spun well together, their hips swaying, their knees bending, shoulders gyrating, hands touching but never holding, eyes rarely apart. They exited with smiles and Bond seized another pair of champagne flutes.
“That was fun,” exclaimed Maritza, “I wish all assignments were like this.”
“Yes, it was,” agreed Bond, “Cheers.”
They drank. Bond saw movement at the entrance to the lobby. Sabatini was on his way, shaking hands, asking his guests to continue to abuse his hospitality. Once again his countenance was bright, effervescent, garrulous. The contrast with the sharp eyed bandito of the baccarat table was palpable. Others were easily taken in by the act, as rough as bad Shakespeare, but convincing because the words had deeper meaning. Bond knew better. Deliberately, he moved closer, until Sabatini couldn’t help but see him.
The big hand extended.
“Ah, Mister Bond, it was fun tonight, yes?”
Bond took the paw. It crushed his fingers. He didn’t flinch.
“Indeed. Thank you.”
“No, thank you, the Sea World Foundation would be empty without your donation,” Sabatini released the hand and clicked his fingers for attention, “Gabriella tells me you wish to visit my yacht. Are you hunting for clues, Mister Bond?”
“Clues?”
“For future designs.”
The tattooed man appeared with Sabatini’s cloak and placed it on his shoulders. A fresh cigar was already being lit.
“The Sun Chaser is world class, Mister Bond, unique, you could learn much. Come tomorrow lunch time. Kazacs will pick you up at the Plaza jetty. Shall we say twelve?”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
“So will I. It will be a pleasure.”
The last word was said with no warmth.
Bond watched the Sicilian make his way to the jetty. The band was playing another merengue, “Time for one more spin, Maritza.”
After the host departed in his motor launch, Bond ended the dance and made his way to the lobby entrance. Maritza followed. The valet brought their car and Bond slammed it into gear and drove as fast as he could through the tumbling traffic. It hadn’t eased even though midnight had long passed.
Back at the Marriott, Bond strode straight across the lounge of his suite, pausing only to throw off his dinner jacket. Maritza closed the door after him. He was already out on the balcony, the binoculars pressed to his eyes, focused on the big white yacht which lay in the harbour.
“What’s happening?” she asked.
“There’s some sort of gathering going on,” Bond said, “But it’s hardly a rip-roaring party.”
He handed her the glasses. She could see the illuminated deck, but only a few people were outside drinking. As she watched another motor launch returned. Sabatini appeared, the cigar still stuck between his teeth, and exchanged greeting kisses with a red haired woman in a slinky red evening gown.
“Who’s the woman?”
“The woman in red?” asked Bond, “Someone called Angel. I’ve no idea about her. Can you run an identity check in the morning?”
“Of course.”
“Can you see the girl?”
“No. Perhaps she’s below. No, wait, there she is, mixing cocktails. Sabatini’s talking to her. Doesn’t look like she’s enjoying it. You must have had quite an effect.”
Bond shrugged and took up the camera with the long zoom lens. They watched and took photographs for almost an hour and two double bourbons. Two more boats arrived full with fresh guests and departed half empty with tired ones. The party wasn’t the most exciting of gatherings. After another hour, the boat departed for the final time and the staterooms, lights still on, became conspicuously empty. Except for the occasional crewman patrolling the deck, the boat was as good as dead.
“There’s nothing happening,” announced Maritza after her third stint with the glasses.
“Or it is happening but we can’t see it,” replied Bond, “I could be wrong, Maritza, but something’s not right about Sabatini. What did you make of him?”
“Something of a rogue. No surprises there.”
“I’ll be interested in visiting The Sun Chaser tomorrow. Do you fancy coming?”
“I suppose I should. You did introduce me as your private secretary.”
Maritza laboured the word ‘private.’ Cheeky girl, Bond thought. He glanced across at her over the rim of his glass. Maritza was an attractive woman, with her fine ash blonde hair cut short and her womanly figure contained in the tight pencil slim skirt, which if anything put too much emphasis on her bust and her backside. He liked that. Bond downed his Jack Daniels.
“Another?”
Maritza shook the ice around the glass and then took a long pull. She looked him in the eye, straight and confident, and handed over the glass.
“Hmm, please.”
Bond made them fresh drinks. In the mirror he could see Maritza smoothing her dress, adjusting her posture. Her breasts were high, upright and firm. There wasn’t a bra to support them. The straps on her dress indiscreetly slipped off her shoulders. He smiled. It was almost two in the morning. Out loud, he wondered if they ought to report back to Mucho.
“I shouldn’t worry, James, he’ll be asleep.”
“Tell me, Maritza, it’s rather quiet in San Juan, what exactly does he keep you on the payroll for?”
“That’s a little indelicate, James, but not entirely untrue. We had a relationship once.”
Bond handed over the drink.
“And now?”
“And now, James, let’s just say Mucho isn’t a jealous man.”
“Good.”
She smiled and Bond’s mouth came quickly down onto hers.
Early in the morning, Maritza prised herself out of Bond’s sleepy embrace and spent a moment inspecting his hard, muscular torso. Now he gently slumbered, but just minutes before that firm body had woken her and they had again made wild animal love and she had given herself fully to Bond’s possession. Maritza’s body still tingled from the multiple sensations that had rippled through her. She slipped out of bed and took a shower.
When she returned, Bond’s naked silhouette stood outside on the balcony. He was watching the boat again, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. Still naked herself, Maritza joined him and draped an arm over his shoulder. Bond put down the glasses, offered her one of his Morlands and lit it. They stood smoking in silence watching the first streaks of gorgeous golden sun peek over the outline of The Sun Chaser.
“That was beautiful,” she murmured.
“So are you. Mucho has impeccable taste.”
Bond kissed her forehead and she curled herself around him. Bond took their half smoked cigarettes and tossed them over the balcony. He stroked her plump buttocks, squeezing the flesh. She wriggled, trying to escape his clasp. She reached down and knew he was ready to love her again. The idea thrilled her.
“Don’t we have work to do today?” she whispered.
“Sabatini said lunch time,” Bond breathed in the tropical air, the hot Caribbean breeze, the indigo sky above and the wonderful scent of this fragrant sensual creature. Casually he turned Maritza around and told her to bend over. Obediently she rested her arms on the balcony rail, her posterior raised temptingly towards him.
“I want to have breakfast first,” said Bond and ruthlessly thrust forward.
***** ***** *****
Bond drove them to Mucho’s Station HQ, which was the basement of his beach side apartment in Santurce. It was a dusty place surrounded by similar wood and stone condos but it faced the San Jose Lagoon and despite being big was inconspicuous beside its even larger neighbours.
Mucho was eating a pastry and tapping out messages on his laptop. He made no comment at their slightly ragged appearance. Maritza was wearing a pair of Bond’s shorts, pulled tight with a belt, and one of his sports singlet’s, which barely concealed her breasts.
“I need to get changed,” she said, “Where do we meet?”
“The jetty. Twelve o’clock.”
Maritza took the keys from Bond and abducted the Chrysler.
Mucho made him a coffee, “You look like you need it. She’s good isn’t she?”
“Very efficient.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I can safely say she’s the best Puerto Rican girl I’ve ever slept with.”
“How many have you slept with?”
“One.”
Mucho grinned and sipped his coffee, “We had a communication from London this morning. They want an update on progress.”
“Tell them I’ve made contact with the girl.”
“Is that all?”
“It’s the truth, Mucho. What do we know about Marcelo Sabatini?”
“Glad you asked,” Mucho had been busy. Turning his lap top to Bond he opened a zip folder which contained over a dozen press articles and biographies. Bond started to flick through them, skimming the details.
“Unusual career” muttered Bond, “Built up Explorazione Professionale into a world wide business during the eighties, was instrumental in sealing the oil fields after the Kuwait crisis which made his name and fortune. Deep sea exploratory drilling, especially in the Artic and the Gulf of Mexico , playboy, man about the city, several mistresses, contacts with the Rome government, houses in Sicily and Piedmont, has a passion for power yachts.”
“But where did his money come from?”
“I wondered about that. Perhaps he had a benefactor. It’s happened before.”
“You’re thinking the Mafia?”
“The girl says not, but I wouldn’t be so sure. Someone funded him, at least at the start,” Bond ran his finger over the touch pad, opening another document, “See here: raised in La Kalsa, Palermo, that’s one of the poorest districts. It’s pretty notorious. He was working on the dockyards from the age of fourteen. The man’s completely self-taught. He’s either a genius or a front.”
“And where has this sudden interest in green fuels come from?”
“Indeed. That’s a question I’d like to ask him.”
Mucho walked over to a locked metal cabinet. He opened it to reveal a host of mechanical equipment, “I’d better get you kitted out before you start asking too many questions.”
Bond nodded. Mucho off loaded a barrage of equipment, only some of which Bond considered useful. From the standard kit he gratefully accepted a fresh Walther P99 and a set of camera-binoculars fitted with night and underwater vision. He declined the two Sykes Fairburn daggers for being difficult to conceal. The non-standard appliances were a mixed bag, for he already carried the excellent Seimens, which in addition to the camera also came with a touchscreen document reader, and the gadget enhanced Ronson. Bond took the Omega Sea Master which normally only contained an explosive charge, but this one was also kitted with a Geiger counter in the sweep, the ultra-bright pen torch and the leather belt, its buckle fitted with a GPS receiver.
“All flown out by UPS from London, James,” said Mucho, “Amazing what brown can do.”
Lastly he handed Bond a slim pouch, no bigger than a spectacles case.
“Sunglasses?”
“Oxygen re-breather. Keep it with you in case you’re going to drown.”
“I thought this sort of thing went out with the sixties,” chuckled Bond.
Mucho closed the cabinet with a shake of the head. “It’s nearly twelve. I’ll drive you.”
Maritza was waiting. She’d dressed in a cream pant suit. A scarf covered her throat and she wore shades. They walked along the quay, trying to show an interest in the power boats which lined the bulwark. Bond could already make out the small white motor craft that had departed The Sun Chaser’s stern and was skiffing rapidly toward the shore.
The boat came to a slow stop at the quay’s end. Kazacs, dressed in black trousers and shirt, his bald head glistening, was securing the line. Bond tried to sound cheerful, but his greeting was met with barely a nod. Maritza climbed in first, followed by Bond and lastly the coxswain.
The journey was silent and swift. The white edifice of the cabin cruiser, almost fifty metres of her, looked even more impressive close up. She was a sleek powerful yacht. Bond estimated she’d carry about 300 tons fully laden and probably ran close on twenty five knots. Bond liked that she sat low in the water on a broad her monohull. She wasn’t built up, featuring only two staggered decks and a bridge. The cabins were all below decks, two rows of oval portholes, the differing sizes suggesting the various importance of each room. Once again he was struck by the cut-off nature of the ship’s bow. For a power cruiser, the bow and possibly the flat keel, would create a lot of drag. He’d have expected to see a slimmer, knife-edge design.
The boat sidled to the rear pontoon deck and slotted neatly into the free berth. The bald man secured the launch before leading the visitors up the chrome steps and onto the rear outer deck. White PVC arm chairs surrounded fixed low chunky tables. Bond ran his hand over one. It was cool, like marble; porphyry, the imperial purple stone, the rarest of minerals found in only a tiny corner of eastern Egypt. The mega-rich Signore Sabatini had Roman delusions, like Napoleon, himself entombed forever in a sarcophagus of imperial stone. The glass concertina doors had been folded back and the deck led straight into the plush lounge. Bond’s feet got sucked into the deep pile carpet. The décor was the same off-white as the chairs, with chrome finishing and porphyry table tops, but everything shared the sleek, minimalist finish. Every joint, every screw head was hidden, cupboards lacked handles, doors were pitted glass, corners and edges were flat, sharp, common. It lacked glamour. The Sun Chaser was beautiful, but in a functional, brutal way.
At the far end of the lounge, tucked in one corner, was a cocktail bar and Gabi was already dropping ice cubes into a shaker. She wore a bikini underneath a long shirt, a man’s, which was clearly too big and she’d knotted it around her waist. It had to be one of Sabatini’s. He was showing who possessed her. The girl’s mouth twitched at the edges as they entered.
“Mister Bond,” Sabatini’s big bellow echoed to them as he appeared from the next room. He was dressed in a loose fitting silk shirt, split to the belly, and sensible long shorts. Sandals seemed lost on his meat sized feet. “Welcome aboard.”
“Good afternoon. May I introduce my secretary, Miss Dominguez?”
“Of course, welcome, welcome,” Sabatini spread his arms in a gesture of hospitality, but the friendship act was draining from his face already, “A drink, Mister Bond? Gabriella mixes an excellent cocktail.”
“Does she?” Bond detected a smile beneath the girl’s eyes, “I’d better have a vodka martini, then; shaken, not stirred.”
“And for Miss Dominguez?” asked the girl.
“Just a Coca-Cola, please.”
“As you wish.”
“Good, good,” said Sabatini, “Come let us enjoy the sun. My caterers will provide lunch soon. I like to eat early. I am not a breakfast man, Mister Bond, lunch is when I feast. I hope you have a healthy appetite?”
“I’m sure we’ll manage.”
They sat on the comfy chairs and Sabatini lit one of his Havana’s. Bond offered Maritza a Morlands and took one himself. Gabi returned with the drinks, including a Campari for Sabatini. She sat a little away from them, legs crossed, and studied her finger nails while they talked. Once again Bond had the impression Sabatini and his surroundings bored her.
“How was the party?” enquired Bond. He tasted the martini. It was indeed excellent.
“Party,” repeated Sabatini puffing on the cigar.
“Last night,” continued Bond, “You said you were having a private party on board.”
“Oh, a small gathering,” he seemed to recover himself, “My associates mainly. I think it went well, wouldn’t you say, my dear?” This was said to the girl and she gave a disinterested shrug, “Gabriella does not always find business amusing. She is a creature of the night and day, but not alas of the mind.”
“That’s a trifle unfair -” started Bond.
“It’s all right, James,” she said, “Marcelo teases me. He can be the most arrogant bore.”
“She has much spirit,” Sabatini laughed in short wicked snorts, “From her mother, I expect; Rosa was a Sicilian like me, wasn’t she?”
“I am Sicilian also.”
“Half Sicilian.”
Bond detected the undercurrent of an argument, a long standing one. They were bickering like lovers, only the affection was missing. He thought it prudent to change the subject.
“Thank you for inviting me to The Sun Chaser. I saw her from my hotel. She’s a beautiful yacht. Who designed her?”
“I thought a man in your profession would already know,” Sabatini said blandly, “She’s a one-off design, the 147 from Luca Brenta.”
“I should have recognised from the low draft.”
“Yes. They make slim, sexy boats, boats like women. She runs off two Caterpillar C18 engines and gives me 27 knots on an open throttle and an empty hold. She needs two engines because the beam is a little wide for her length.”
“I noticed that. I’m surprised you have a hold. What do you keep there?”
“Specialist diving equipment, Mister Bond, I am as you know an authority on off-shore drilling. You never know when an opportunity for exploration arises. The Sun Chaser allows me to roam freely and, how would you put it, catch the opposition cold.”
Bond nodded, “I’d like to see more of her, if I could.”
“We’ll see,” Sabatini’s head lolled forward once and the cigar went to his mouth. Two check-coated waiters emerged from the port deck each carrying a tray brimming with fruits de la mer. “Ah, food, now we’ll eat.”
Bond could see octopus and baby squid fried en ascabeche, chilled with wine vinegar, oil and spices, sea bass fillets were laced with capers, baked land crabs shelled and ladled with herb butter, huge lobster tails, swordfish topped with the piquant mojo isleño and a scattering of tiny shellfish, mussels and oysters. The waiters returned with an enormous bowl of salted potato chips and a magnum of Moet, the rosé. The feast was over-the-top extravagant. Bond was suddenly glad he’d not eaten breakfast either. At least not exactly.
Sabatini said little as they ate, which gave Bond and Maritza time to gently interrogate the girl. Bond asked questions about life on board and Maritza asked about the Sea World Foundation. The girl appeared quite knowledgeable of its aims, without showing any particular interest, as if she’d learnt it parrot fashion.
Occasionally the hungry churlish Sicilian would make a remark, or a gesture, to show his disdain for something she said. Gabi remained aloof to it all, which was, Bond considered, probably a defence mechanism. She ate little, just a few chips and one of the sea bass fillets.
After he’d finished his second plate, Sabatini sat back and wiped his mouth with a napkin. He took a mouthful of rosé and relit the cigar.
“So, Mister Bond, what else can I interest you in?”
“I’m rather intrigued by your geothermal scheme,” stated Bond mildly, “It’s not my line of work of course, but what with the environment as it is and fuel prices being what they are.”
He tailed off as Sabatini nodded enthusiastically, “Yes, yes, I understand entirely, Mister Bond, a worthy interest for any man. I myself am concerned by what terror man has brought to the world. Genuses, species and sub-species are all dying; they have been for centuries. The ice caps are melting, the deserts are expanding, the trade winds are shifting. Man has become the prey, Mister Bond, nature, as she has always been, is once more the true hunter. Politicians and even scientists refuse to believe it. But look at the evidence: tropical storms are more virulent, drought lasts longer than plenty, rivers flood, seas rise, crops fail to pollenate because the bees and insects are being wiped out. This isn’t always a direct result of pollution and mismanagement. Man himself is to blame for many of the worst offenses. The human population has increased in age and in number. Soon we will be swamping the earth, living in places not fit for habitation.
“Nature’s resources are dying, Mister Bond, as man becomes ever more material. His greed is destroying his environment. Look at the devastation caused by earthquakes. Even this can be attributed to man’s greed, as he continues to build where he should desist. Of course there are agencies interested in what the journalists call ‘Global Warming’, but it is no longer enough to be concerned about one aspect of man’s potential destruction: we need to appreciate what the future must hold and how we can alter it. Geothermal power is one way. My history in oil exploration is well suited to the study of geothermal pressures. New Zealand and Iceland are the world leaders in these techniques and I have poached some of their greatest living technicians to ensure my experiments are successful.”
Bond lit a cigarette.
“You make a tough case, Sabatini,” he said, “I’m not entirely in agreement, but I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
“It isn’t only enthusiasm, Mister Bond. It’s as good as a religion.”
“Is that why you wear the ring?”
Sabatini twirled his hand to look at the amber signet with the upside down triangle.
“You noticed that?” he growled, “It is a trifle. I recognise the symbol of course, but I am not a pagan. Like all good Sicilians I am a Catholic. Although, also like many Sicilians, I have ceased to practice.”
He inclined his head towards the girl as he said this. The red eye was goading her again, but the reaction never came.
“I’m sure it’s a fascinating project,” Bond soothed, “Perhaps I could visit that too.”
“I doubt that, Mister Bond. The facility is closed to non-technical personnel.”
“But, Marcelo,” interrupted the girl, a spark of mischief crossing her expression, “The observatory isn’t out of bounds.”
Sabatini missed her reaction. He puffed on the cigar. “I’d be too busy. So would Professor Méndez.”
“Then let me show Mister Bond the observatory. We’ll stay out of the Professor’s way, I promise. I have nothing to do these days, Marcelo, it’s so boring here.”
Sabatini rolled the smouldering cigar and stroked his chin. The weathered face considered the proposition and the glaring eye turned to Bond.
“I expect it wouldn’t hurt,” he said gradually, “But I must ensure Mister Bond doesn’t try to steal you from me. You shouldn’t take up all of his time. I’m sure he is a busy man too.”
“My secretary is quite capable of taking care of my business,” said Bond. He felt Maritza’s stare bore into him and ignored it, “In fact, she can take care of it now while you show me your wonderful ship.”
“All right,” Sabatini grunted and stood up, “This way, Mister Bond.”
They started in the lounge and passed through the back into the state dining room, awash with chandeliers and a marble fireplace. There was a forward swim deck, which featured the ten metre plunge pool and a Jacuzzi. Bond walked to the very tip of the deck. He was right about the prow. It was too flat, providing only the thinnest of bow lines. It reminded him of a transport ferry.
Reached by a set of polished steps, the top flight was an isolated sun deck, the only shadow cast by the satellite dishes and radar columns. Just below was a smaller lounge that led directly on to the bridge. Bond was introduced to the captain, Nordraak, a Norwegian who looked to be one of those efficient sailor types, the kind who was married to the water before he could walk and talk. Bond found his manner chilly. When he asked questions about the boat’s performance, its speed and power, Nordraak became increasingly defensive until he eventually made an excuse to leave.
“Forgive him,” apologised Sabatini as he ran his unkind fingers across the control desk, “He isn’t used to people asking questions about his baby.”
Below decks Bond found gorgeous suite after gorgeous suite. After the guest bedrooms, of which there were eight, four each side, the passage turned into a lobby stretching from port to starboard. In its centre was a spiral staircase descending to the lower deck, the crew quarters and the engine room. The screw controlling the rudder post probably ran through its centre.
Bond made a move aft, intending to visit the engine rooms, but Sabatini blocked him with an exaggerated motion of the arm. Instead Bond was faced with the only remaining door. It was marked with a name rather than a number.
“Unione Suite,” read Bond.
“My private quarters,” declared Sabatini.
“Of course,” Bond’s fingers swept across the plaque, “A memorial to your past.”
Sabatini ignored the comment, but Bond thought for a second the eye blinked. It happened fast, like an eagle’s, and then was steady. He led Bond into the suite, which unlike the others was untidy. The door to the dressing room was open and the girl’s clothes were scattered on the floor. The bed was unmade. Bond wrinkled his nose. There was the unmistakable whiff of sweat in the air. Sabatini was laying his spoor. He wanted Bond to know whose property he was visiting. The unspoken warning did not relate to The Sun Chaser.
“It’s splendid,” Bond said cautiously, “Do you sleep on board?”
“Most nights. If I should ever need to leave urgently I can aweigh anchor with ease.”
“Is that why you’re moored off shore rather than in the harbour?”
“Why do you ask?” Sabatini twitched, “We haven’t left San Juan.”
“Really?” mused Bond, the lie coming easily, “I understood The Sun Chaser vacated the shore a few nights ago. I’m sure Gabi mentioned it in the spa the other day.”
“She was confused,” said Sabatini roughly, the bite slipping through his bark, “We have been to many resorts this summer.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“Come,” he said, more conciliatory, “You have reminded me. It is time for Gabriella to visit the spa. She goes
every afternoon. She and Kazacs can take you back to shore.”
On deck, the girls were pointing out which hotels lined the beach and comparing opinions. Sabatini told Gabi to change and the girl obediently disappeared inside.
“I hope your visit has been illuminating,” said the Sicilian with a fixed smile, “It has certainly interested me.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I feel I have a competitor, Mister Bond,” Sabatini jabbed the cigar at Bond’s chest. The ash dropped off the tip and fell on Bond’s plimsolls. “Remember: I don’t like to lose.”
“I’ll remember.”
The bald headed man returned, flanked by the tall tattooed heavy from the casino. Sabatini’s eye swivelled to them and a smirk crossed the gash of a mouth.
“Let me introduce you to Mister Kazacs and Mister Priest,” he said, “They say nothing, but they have many talents. Kazacs is an expert with his hands, Mister Bond, nothing he touches ever stays alive. He is, if you like, the opposite of a faith healer. Priest was once a saint, a holy man who lived in a deconsecrated church in Armenia. God sometimes works wonderful miracles, doesn’t he, Priest?”
The tattooed man didn’t smile. Instead he turned his head. Now Bond could make out the tattoo clearly. It ran from his forehead, over his right cheek, down his neck and spread across his shoulder and chest. It was an elaborate cartoon. If it had been painted on a wall it would be an exquisite but frightening mural. Here, etched onto the man’s skin it was a living horror show. The tattoo told the story of Revelation, Chapter 12: ‘Michael and the angels fought the dragon and the dragon was thrown out of heaven and hurtled to earth, where, as that serpent called Satan, he and his angels led the world astray.’
Gabi returned to break the uneasy truce which held all four men in check. Maritza was particularly pleased to see her.
Bond bade his host farewell, took Maritza’s arm and followed Kazacs and Gabi down to the pontoon deck. The journey back to the jetty was fragmented with snippets of awkward conversation, as if both girls sensed the tension that existed between Bond and Sabatini and seemed to continue to rise through the silent presence of Kazacs.
Eventually Gabi said, “I’ll arrange for you to visit Sea World tomorrow. Come to the Villa Marina, Puerta de Fajardo. Ten o’clock. I’ll take you in my boat.”
“You have a boat?”
“Uh-huh, Marcelo bought it for me. You’ll like her. She’s very quaint, very English.”
At the jetty, Bond, relieved to be away from the brooding Kazacs, helped the girls out.
“Until tomorrow then,” he called as Gabi walked down the quay, waving as she went. Bond turned to watch the motor launch return to the mother ship. Squinting into the sharp Caribbean sun, Bond wished he’d brought those binoculars.
***** ***** *****
Standing inside the lounge, Number One lowered the miniscule eye-glass and forced a smile. He picked up the satellite phone and dialled.
Number Five was waiting for the call. She placed the high resolution binoculars on the table, exited the balcony and picked up the handset.
“You’ve lost her,” she said, “You know that don’t you?”
“I haven’t lost her yet.”
“You should never have brought her here,” Number Five scolded, “Your vices are irrelevant to the success of Golden Age.”
“Are you questioning my judgement, Number Five?”
“No,” she said after a pause. Carefully she stepped back onto the balcony. The three figures were still walking down the jetty, “I was mistaken. I should have recognised him before. It was dark when I saw him, but it is the man, the British spy. What do you want me to do?”
“I’ll have Kazacs watch them. When the time is right, you can kill him.”
“And the girl?” queried Number Five, licking her lips in hopeful anticipation.
“No. You’d enjoy it too much. I’ll deal with Gabriella.”