Licence to Kill
John Gardner
LICENCE TO KILL
John Gardner
Based on the screenplay
by Michael G. Wilson
and Richard Maibaum
CONTENTS
1 Get Me to the Church on Time
2 Unwanted Guests
3 Lightning Sometimes Strikes Twice
4 What a Terrible Waste
5 For Whom the Bell Tolls
6 The Journey of the Manta
7 Final Contact
8 Dollars and Dealers
9 Face to Face
10 Dear Uncle
11 Crystal Night
12 Both Sides of the Street
13 The Blow-Out
14 The Temple of Meditation
15 Into the Jaws of Death
16 Goodbye James Bond
17 Man of Fire
18 Special Friends
By John Gardner
Author biography
Copyright
1
GET ME TO THE CHURCH ON TIME
To use Royal Navy slang, James Bond was adrift. His old friend Felix Leiter, one-time member of the CIA, and former Pinkerton agent, would have said he was playing hookey, while the big black man, known as Sharky, summed it up. ‘You just tell ’em you gone fishin’ James,’ he said. ‘Lord, I wish I was goin’ fishin’ ’stead of bein’ dressed up like a monkey.’ He ran his fingers under the stiff white collar, then turned up the air-conditioning of the Bentley.
All three men were dressed in morning suits: pinstripe pants, stiff collars with dove-grey cravats, grey waistcoats and black swallowtail coats. Top hats rested on their laps, and three buttonholes – white roses, wrapped in silver foil speared by pins – sat in a container balanced on the ledge above the polished burr walnut fascia of the dashboard.
‘When they teach you to drive these things,’ Bond had told the agent now at the wheel, ‘they say you should always think of a glass of champagne standing above the dash. The trick is never to spill a drop . . . Whoops, there goes half a glass!’
‘James, you have got . . . ?’ Felix began, not even smiling.
‘The ring?’ Bond smiled, producing the little box and flicking it open to reveal the solid gold band. ‘That’s the fourth time you’ve asked me, Felix. You’re as nervous as a Victorian virgin and you’ve been through all this before.’
Leiter grunted. ‘They say it’s worse the second time.’ His face creased into a smile. ‘Anyway, I’ve got other things on my mind.’
‘Other things?’ Bond raised his eyebrows. ‘You’re marrying an old friend of mine, Felix. Della Churchill and I go back a long way, so beware.’
‘We go back a long way as well, James, so you should know I get edgy when the job intrudes on normal life.’
‘What could be more important than your wedding day?’ They were cruising over Seven Mile Bridge, part of the oversea highway that runs for over one hundred miles from Miami right down the Florida Keys to Key West, where Felix Leiter was now stationed with the Drug Enforcement Agency. In a little over two hours he would be standing next to the beautiful Della in front of the altar of St Paul’s church on Duval Street which was better known for its bars and restaurants than the church.
‘Oh, nothing, I suppose.’ Leiter’s voice did not carry any conviction.
‘Come on, Felix, what is it?’
‘Well, I guess it’s Sanchez.’
‘Franz Sanchez? The drugs king?’
Leiter nodded. ‘For the past five years, I’ve been waiting for him to set foot on soil or sand where US law can deal with him. But the callous SOB rarely moves out of Central America.’
‘What’s that got to do with today: with your wedding?’
Leiter scratched his head. ‘You remember the phone-call I got during that toxic stag party you threw for me last night?’
‘Only vaguely.’ Bond smiled again. ‘I think I got bitten by a swarm of insects of the Pommery variety.’
‘Well, just take my word for it. I got a call.’
‘And?’ Bond was quietly dragging the London file on Franz Sanchez into the forefront of his mind. The British Secret Intelligence Service felt it necessary to keep files on all kinds of villains: particularly those connected with terrorism or drugs, for large-scale drug dealers could easily be used to finance terrorism. Franz Sanchez, so named because of a supposed conjunction between a fascist German woman and a wealthy Panamanian businessman.
‘There’s a chance that he’ll be lured into the open any time now.’
In his head, Bond saw the photographs of the man. Tall, dark, undoubtedly handsome in a brutal sort of way and, it was said, one of the wealthiest men in the world, all his money and power emanating from the huge drug distributing market he controlled from his hide-out in the Central American city of Isthmus. Bond recalled one note in the file which said, Sanchez is a man who believes that anyone who opposes him can either be bought or killed. In other words, he possessed that most dangerous of psychological defects folie de grandeur, fuelled by the power he wielded through drugs and money.
‘Why lured now?’
‘You’ve read his file?’
Bond nodded.
‘Then you know of his lady friend.’
‘Miss Thing . . . Not Miss World . . . Miss . . .’
‘Miss Galaxy. Star beauty queen. The delectable Ms Lupe Lamora, though I don’t believe that name for a moment.’
‘Quite a lady.’
‘Yes, and darned stupid as well. She’s left him. Gone off with one of his former business partners. Guy called Alvarez.’
‘That figures,’ Bond shrugged.
‘They’re a dangerous mix, and Lupe’s elopement with Alvarez is enough to flush Sanchez out.’
Bond laughed. ‘I know what I’d rather be doing, Felix. I’d prefer a honeymoon with Della to the hurly-burly of the Sanchez-Alvarez-Lamora triangle. This is dull talk on your wedding day.’ He glanced out to the left and the Old Seven Mile Bridge which ran almost parallel with the structure over which they travelled: the longest stretch of the highway to run directly over the ocean on this hundred-mile-plus highway, which was the beginning, or end, of US Route One.
It all looked tranquil enough, though Bond had reason to remember the dangers that could lurk along the Florida Keys. For no particular reason he twisted, glancing back and there, almost on cue, he saw the white predatory shape of a helicopter approaching them fast from behind.
A second later they all heard the clatter of the engine, and, within seconds the beast was flying alongside to their right – a big S-61B with US coastguard in black against the white side of the machine. The door was open and a figure smiled down, waving and holding a printed ‘Follow Me’ notice.
Felix Leiter waved back.
‘Friend of yours?’ Bond asked.
Leiter was sitting bolt upright. ‘Yea, my DEA partner at Key West. Hawkins.’
Quietly Sharky muttered an ‘Uh-oh.’
They drove on for about a mile, watching the helicopter which had moved forward, speeding low over the bridge, then hovering and landing. By the time the Bentley arrived Hawkins was out of the door clutching a pile of papers.
Felix Leiter made a quick movement with his gloved left hand, expertly adjusting the mechanism of his artificial leg. Bond felt a wave of bleakness as he always did when he saw his old friend manipulate the false limbs, for the shark that had so mutilated Leiter a long time ago now, had been meant for him and, in a strange way, Bond felt responsible.
The mood passed as he saw how nimbly Felix moved towards Hawkins. The disabilities were not apparent unless you knew about them.
Both Hawkins, a lean, tall and tanned man, and Leiter were already in animated conversation by the time Bond and Sharky reached them.
‘He
’s out,’ Leiter laughed with pleasure. ‘The bastard’s left his lair.’ His finger stabbed towards the map held by Hawkins. ‘There,’ he said with undisguised glee, the finger hovering over the tiny island of Cray Cay in the Northern Bahamas. ‘Not far as these things fly. If we hustle we can catch him.’
Bond flinched, ‘Felix, your bride . . .’
But Leiter was not even listening. ‘You got everything?’ You could feel the anxiety and static.
‘You betcha,’ Hawkins grinned. ‘Green light from Nassau; Indictment; Arrest Warrant; Extradition Request; and Mullins here for extra muscle.’ Mullins, a very large black agent, nodded, smiling down from the chopper’s door.
‘You’re leaving nothing to chance, then?’ Bond’s prepared sarcasm was lost on Leiter, who was obviously in a very serious mood and merely shook his head violently.
‘Damned right I’m not. Sanchez is the prize and we’re going to get him at last.’
‘And Della?’ Bond put a hand on Leiter’s arm, feeling the hard metal of the artificial wrist under his fingers.
‘Oh, James, for God’s sake explain it to her. Just ask her to hang on. With luck and a prevailing wind we’ll be back. You’ll get me to the church on time.’
‘No way, Felix. You’re going to be two hours late at best.’
‘Well, just tell her to wait.’ Leiter was adamant. ‘She’ll understand. She knows about duty.’
Bond shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t bank on it. Nor am I going to face Della. I’d rather come along with you. Just for the ride, of course.’
Sharky shrugged and began to walk back to the Bentley. Over his shoulder he mouthed, ‘I’ll tell her. But, for pity’s sake, you move your asses. Right?’
Leiter was already climbing into the helicopter. He looked down at Bond following him. ‘You’re only coming as an observer, you got that?’
‘Naturally,’ Bond’s face was a mask. ‘Would I try to interfere?’
Within seconds the helicopter was lifting off, setting course, flying at full stretch. Below, Sharky looked up unhappily as he drove on towards Key West. He knew Della’s temper and, like Bond, would rather face the ruthless and violent danger of Franz Sanchez than the scalding tongue of Della Churchill.
Cray Cay supported a small resort community, one airstrip and a few scattered larger clapboard houses. The nearest, and largest, of these stood only a few hundred yards from the end of the airstrip where Franz Sanchez’s white-liveried Gates Learjet landed, then taxied back to the threshold, turning in readiness for a quick take-off. Several light aircraft stood, unmanned, around the threshold, and there was a little red Piper Cub parked near the house.
The S-61B coastguard helicopter was only thirty miles away as Sanchez unhurriedly climbed from the jet, looked around and sniffed the air like a man savouring a new and delightful morning. He was followed down the deployed steps by his close henchman, known to everyone simply as Perez, and a pair of well-chosen hoods – Braun, a German who had a price on his head back in his native Berlin; and Dario, squat, greasy and generally unpleasant.
The two pilots made their way back from the flight deck and Sanchez signalled for them to stay close to the aircraft as a jeep rumbled to a halt nearby. The driver, a short man built in the same mould as the other heavies, addressed Sanchez with deference. ‘They’re in the house over there, patron,’ pointing at the large single storey construction. ‘The woman and Alvarez’re inside. They have one guard, but he’s usually drunk or asleep.’
‘And which is it at the moment?’ Sanchez spoke quietly, radiating calm. To hear him you would not have thought of him as a man of violence.
‘Asleep, patron. On the steps: you can see him from here. And I think the others are asleep also. They were up until four this morning. At least lights were burning until then. I stayed on watch as you ordered.’
‘You’ve done well. It won’t be forgotten. Follow us after we go in.’ He nodded at the man in the jeep. Then, to the others, ‘It’s a short walk, and a pity to wake them. However . . .’ he jerked his head in the direction of the house.
A few yards from the steps Sanchez motioned to Perez, nodding towards the sleeping guard and sliding a finger across his own throat. Perez smiled and moved ahead, his hand reaching into the inside of his jacket from which he extracted a short length of cord.
The sleeping man neither heard nor felt a thing. Perez looped the cord around the guard’s neck in the classic garrotting motion, pulling quickly and hard. It was so well done that the man’s neck was broken before he suffered any pain from a slow strangulation.
Quietly, with Sanchez in the lead, they went up the steps and into the house. For a moment, Sanchez stood in the cool of the hallway, as though instinctively seeking out his prey, finally jerking his head towards a door to the left. Silently he opened it and entered the room.
Alvarez slept on the far side of the bed, his hair tousled and his face in repose. Sanchez prided himself on his knowledge of human frailty, and he understood the younger man’s motives. Women had always been Alvarez’s weak point. Often Franz Sanchez had told him they would lead to his death. As for the beautiful Lupe, whose long dark hair spread across the pillow like a thick question mark, well, she could be forgiven. After all she was only a woman and women had a habit of falling for younger men with glib tongues, and a good line of chat. Sanchez had often remarked to Alvarez that he should not promise his women so much, ‘Your problem, my friend,’ he had said, ‘is that you always have to tell them you love them. It is a great folly this, because they all have a tendency to believe you. One day you will say this to the wrong woman.’
That day, he thought, had now come.
His eyes moved back to the sleeping man. There was a pistol within reach on the bedside table. Quietly Sanchez drew his own automatic and began to whisper. ‘Alvarez . . . Wake up . . . Alvarez . . . time to start work.’ Then, louder, ‘Alvarez!’
The sleeping man’s eyes popped open, fear crossing his face as he locked eyes with Sanchez. Then he moved, grabbing out towards the night table.
Sanchez fired twice and the table leapt into the air, sending the weapon skittering across the room. Perez and Braun, taking their cue from their chief, hauled the young man from the bed, holding him in an arm lock, so that he stood naked between them, his eyes full of the terror reflected by the screams coming from the now wide-awake Lupe.
‘Hush, pretty one. Ssssh.’ Sanchez put away his pistol and stepped towards her. ‘Don’t be afraid. It’s me . . . Franz. I wouldn’t harm you. You know that. Punish you, perhaps, but never harm you.’ Then his eyes flicked up towards Alvarez who, in spite of the warmth of the room, was shivering between Dario and Braun.
‘What did he promise you, honey?’ he asked Lupe. ‘Did he promise you his heart?’
The silence was unbearable: the group frozen like some waxwork tableau. Then Sanchez spoke again, harsh and commanding. ‘Give the lady what our friend Alvarez promised her.’
Dario and Braun looked at him blankly.
‘Give her this fool’s heart.’
Dario’s eyes widened, seeming to plead for a moment.
‘Do it! Now!’ snapped Sanchez.
From under his jacket Dario produced a long serrated hunting knife.
‘Out there!’ Sanchez nodded towards the door through which his two hoodlums hustled the now whimpering Alvarez.
Taking three steps away from the bed, Sanchez closed the door, then returned to Lupe who also shook with terror, sitting bolt upright with only the flimsy sheet held in front of her to cover her breasts, which showed clearly through the material: her nipples erect as though the terror and violence aroused her.
‘Franz . . .’ she managed to say, her voice cracked, the throat dry with terror. ‘Franz, I didn’t mea . . .’
Sanchez smiled down at her, ruffling her thick hair with his hand. ‘It’s okay, baby, we all make mistakes,’ his voice soothing.
‘I only . . .’ she began again.
‘S
ssssh, my dear. Not a word. Not another word.’ His hand twisted on her head, so that she turned her whole body to relieve the pressure. The sheet fell away exposing the wonderful shoulders and the slim curve of her back. Her skin, Sanchez often thought, looked to have the texture of silk.
Sanchez slid his right hand inside his jacket again, drawing a whip from his belt. It had been fashioned from the long tail of a stingray and he laid it, almost lovingly across Lupe’s naked back before lifting it and bringing it down with a terrible crack. The girl shuddered and screamed, again and again as Sanchez brought the whip down covering her smooth back with ugly bloody stripes, painting a picture of surrealist violence on the canvas of her skin. Yet, even as she sobbed and screamed with pain, Lupe’s voice was drowned by the blood-curdling shrieks of Alvarez in the hallway.
A few seconds later, the screaming stopped and the unmistakable sound of a helicopter’s engine, growing louder, rumbled and clattered from the sky.
Sanchez flung the girl away from him across the bed. ‘Get some clothes on. Quick. We must move.’
The coastguard chopper came in low over the beaches, then crossed the airstrip, the pilot juggling with the cyclic and collective controls, his feet moving on the rudder bars like a dancer so that the large machine seemed to stand on its aft rotor, then turned to sweep back across the area.
‘There,’ yelled Hawkins above the chattering din of the rotors, his hand outstretched. They could all see the jeep in front of the low house and, as they passed, something was thrown from one of the far windows.
‘Jesus,’ Leiter swallowed hard. ‘That looked like a mutilated body. Head for the Learjet.’
Hawkins made signals to the pilot who turned again and brought his machine hovering in to block any attempted take-off by the jet.
As they reached the ground, Leiter, Hawkins and the agent called Mullins, who had done nothing but smile amiably since the take-off from Seven Mile Bridge, grabbed at the rack of weapons fitted to the starboard side of the cabin, each selecting an M16 carbine. Leiter saw the look in Bond’s eyes and, smiling, passed him an automatic pistol. ‘Only if absolutely necessary,’ he cautioned.
