Read Bond 02 - Live and Let Die Online
Authors: Ian Fleming
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Action & Adventure, #Espionage
Bond 02 - Live and Let Die (2 page)
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service
You Only Live Twice
The Man with the Golden Gun
Octopussy
and
The Living Daylights
LIVE AND LET DIE © Ian Fleming Publications Ltd 1954
Thomas & Mercer edition, October 2012
Ian Fleming has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
James Bond
and
007
are registered trademarks of Danjaq LLC, used under license by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published in Great Britain by Jonathan Cape in 1954.
All rights reserved.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612185446
ISBN-10: 1612185444
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012945139
14 | ‘HE DISAGREED WITH SOMETHING THAT ATE HIM’
T
HERE ARE
moments of great luxury in the life of a secret agent. There are assignments on which he is required to act the part of a very rich man; occasions when he takes refuge in good living to efface the memory of danger and the shadow of death; and times when, as was now the case, he is a guest in the territory of an allied Secret Service.
From the moment the B.O.A.C. Stratocruiser taxied up to the International Air Terminal at Idlewild, James Bond was treated like royalty.
When he left the aircraft with the other passengers he had resigned himself to the notorious purgatory of the U.S. Health, Immigration and Customs machinery. At least an hour, he thought, of overheated, drab-green rooms smelling of last year’s air and stale sweat and guilt and the fear that hangs round all frontiers, fear of those closed doors marked
PRIVATE
that hide the careful men, the files, the teleprinters chattering urgently to Washington, to the Bureau of Narcotics, Counter Espionage, the Treasury, the F.B.I.
As he walked across the tarmac in the bitter January wind he saw his own name going over the network:
BOND, JAMES
.
BRITISH DIPLOMATIC PASSPORT
0094567, the short wait and the replies coming back on the different machines:
NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE, NEGATIVE
. And then, from the F.B.I:
POSITIVE AWAIT CHECK
. There would be some hasty traffic on the F.B.I. circuit with the Central Intelligence Agency and then:
F.B.I. TO IDLEWILD: BOND OKAY OKAY
, and the bland official out front would hand him back his passport with a ‘Hope you enjoy your stay, Mr Bond.’
Bond shrugged his shoulders and followed the other passengers through the wire fence towards the door marked
U.S. HEALTH SERVICE
.
In his case it was only a boring routine, of course, but he disliked the idea of his dossier being in the possession of any foreign power. Anonymity was the chief tool of his trade. Every thread of his real identity that went on record in any file diminished his value and, ultimately, was a threat to his life. Here in America, where they knew all about him, he felt like a negro whose shadow has been stolen by the witchdoctor. A vital part of himself was in pawn, in the hands of others. Friends, of course, in this instance, but still …
‘Mr Bond?’
A pleasant-looking nondescript man in plain clothes had stepped forward from the shadow of the Health Service building.
‘My name’s Halloran. Pleased to meet you!’
They shook hands.
‘Hope you had a pleasant trip. Would you follow me, please?’
He turned to the officer of the Airport police on guard at the door.
‘Okay, Sergeant.’
‘Okay, Mr Halloran. Be seeing you.’
The other passengers had passed inside. Halloran turned to the left, away from the building. Another policeman held open a small gate in the high boundary fence.
‘’Bye, Mr Halloran.’
‘’Bye, Officer. Thanks.’
Directly outside a black Buick waited, its engine sighing quietly. They climbed in. Bond’s two light suitcases were in front next to the driver. Bond couldn’t imagine how they had been extracted so quickly from the mound of passengers’ luggage he had seen only minutes before being trolleyed over to Customs.
‘Okay, Grady. Let’s go.’
Bond sank back luxuriously as the big limousine surged forward, slipping quickly into top through the Dynaflow gears.
He turned to Halloran.
‘Well, that’s certainly one of the reddest carpets I’ve ever seen. I expected to be at least an hour getting through Immigration. Who laid it on? I’m not used to V.I.P. treatment. Anyway, thanks very much for your part in it all.’
‘You’re very welcome, Mr Bond.’ Halloran smiled and offered him a cigarette from a fresh pack of Luckies. ‘We want to make your stay comfortable. Anything you want, just say so and it’s yours. You’ve got some good friends in Washington. I don’t myself know why you’re here but it seems the authorities are keen that you should be a privileged guest of the Government. It’s my job to see you get to your hotel as quickly and as comfortably as possible and then I’ll hand over and be on my way. May I have your passport a moment, please.’
Bond gave it to him. Halloran opened a brief-case on the seat beside him and took out a heavy metal stamp. He turned the pages of Bond’s passport until he came to the US Visa, stamped it, scribbled his signature over the dark blue circle of the Department of Justice cypher and gave it back to him. Then he took out his pocket-book and extracted a thick white envelope which he gave to Bond.
‘There’s a thousand dollars in there, Mr Bond.’ He held up his hand as Bond started to speak. ‘And it’s Communist money we took in the Schmidt-Kinaski haul. We’re using it back at them and you are asked to co-operate and spend this in any way you like on your present assignment. I am advised that it will be considered a very unfriendly act if you refuse. Let’s please say no more about it and,’ he added, as Bond continued to hold the envelope dubiously in his hand, ‘I am also to say that the disposal of this money through your hands has the knowledge and approval of your own Chief.’