Thank you, captain,” Bond said. He sipped the drink and said, “You make a fine martini.”
Howard gave a slight bow and left the room.
After a few moments, Sergeant Chandra came into the room. He, too, was dressed in civilian clothes consisting of dark trousers and a green pullover sweater. He was a stocky five feet two inches tall and weighed roughly one hundred and fifty pounds. He had shiny black hair slicked back on his head, and his skin was the olive brown color prevalent among the middle-Asian races who appeared to be mixtures of Indian and Chinese. What was immediately striking about the man was his huge, warm smile, which seemed to transform his entire face into a pleasant configuration of dimples and lines, especially around his sparkling, friendly eyes.
“Namaste. I am Sergeant Chandra Bahadur Gurung,” he said in good English. Namaste is the traditional Nepali greeting. Gurkhas are required to learn English, just as British officers serving in the regiment are required to learn Nepali, or Gurkhali, as the military calls it. The reason for this is that many words used are specific to the army and wouldn’t necessarily be part of normal conversation in Nepal.
Bond stood up and shook the man’s hand. He noted that it was a firm, dry handclasp, one that was full of strength and confidence. Chandra looked to be in his thirties, and there was experience and intelligence in his eyes. Bond knew from his record that the sergeant had been in the army since he was eighteen years old.
“James Bond,” he said. “It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, sit down.” Chandra gestured to the chair and waited until Bond had sat before taking the chair across from him.
“Sergeant, I understand you’ve been briefed on all aspects of the mission.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bond put up his hand. “Let’s forget the sir, all right? This isn’t a military operation, and I’m not your commanding officer. As far as I’m concerned, we’re equals.”
Chandra smiled again. “My orders are to follow your orders.”
“Well, yes, unless they are totally without merit. In the Himalayas, they might often be.”
Chandra laughed. “You have climbed before?”
Bond nodded. “Oh, yes, but I’m no expert. I’ve been to the top of Everest and several big peaks in Switzerland and the Austrian Tyrol.
“Never on Kangchenjunga?”
“Never. What about you?”
“I went halfway up Kangchenjunga once. I was forced down by an avalanche and then a bad storm. I am eager to try again.”
“How did you get to be such a climber?” Bond asked.
“We live our entire lives going up and down hills and mountains,” Chandra said. “That’s why the muscles in our legs are so big. When I was a boy I went on a climbing expedition with my father, who was friends with some Sherpas in Kathmandu. They operated one of the first trekking services there. As I grew older, I made frequent trips to THE Himalayas and climbed. I guess I just like it.”
“You get on well with the Sherpas?” Bond asked. Sherpas are the tribe of Nepalese hill people more prominent in eastern and northern Nepal who are expert climbers and are almost always hired to haul equipment and luggage for western tourists wishing to trek across the country or up into the mountains.
“Yes, absolutely. Although Nepal has many dialects and tribes, Nepali is understood by everyone. Sherpas have called me their ‘climbing cousin’ because not many Gurungs have shown much interest in mountain climbing. I am an exception. Every time I go home to Nepal, my wife gets angry with me because I take some time to go climbing!”
“She’s in Nepal?”
“Yes,” Chandra said. He smiled broadly, obviously pleased with the thought of his mate. “Our wives remain in Nepal. They are not allowed to visit very often. Every three years we can go home for six months. That is in addition to our normal block leave of one month and the family leave in which she was with me for two years in the Far East. So I see her every now and then.”
“What do you think of Group Captain Marquis’s schedule for getting up Kangch?”
Chandra shook his head. “Not quite impossible.”
“But almost.”
Chandra’s smile said a thousand words. Then he added, “We must the monsoon. It’s the only way.”
“What do you think our chances for success are?”
Chandra looked hard at Bond. “Sixty-five percent.”
Bond leaned forward and lowered his voice. “What do you know about the Union?”
Chandra frowned. “Not much. I spent most of last night reading the file your people gave me. Very interesting group of people. I am interested in their psychology.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I am interested in how their minds work,” Chandra clarified. “I don’t understand men who will do that sort of thing for money. I come from one of the poorest countries on earth. The con-cept of working hard for a living is an accepted way of life for us. To turn to crime, especially betraying one’s country, is confounding to me.”
“They are very dangerous,” Bond said. “We’ll have to have eyes in the backs of our heads.”
“If they are responsible for the theft of Skin 17, then I’m sure we will encounter them along the way,” Chandra surmised. “They will try to sabotage the mission.”
Bond sat back in his chair and raised his martini glass to his new companion. “Oh, of that I am sure, sergeant. You can count on it.”
THIRTEEN
LE GÉRANT
STEVEN HARDING HATED North Africa. It smelled, the vast culture shock frightened him, he was suspicious of everyone he met, and it was hot. It was so hot that he was afraid the sweat would ruin the carefully applied makeup that had enabled him to get to Morocco as Randall Rice.
At least Casablanca was a bit more westernized than other places Harding had been to. By far Morocco’s largest city with a population of three million, it is the country’s industrial center and port, and the most attractive tourist stop in western North Africa. The famed Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman film is, in part, responsible for the attention that Casablanca receives. As it is the place to go when Moroccans aspire to fame and fortune, Casablanca has all the trappings of a western metropolis, with a hint of the decadent ambience of southern European cities. Alongside the business suits, long legs, high heels, and designer sunglasses are the willowy robes of djellabas and burnooses of traditional Morocco.
Wearing a suit much too heavy for the climate, Harding stepped out into the bright sunlight and donned his sunglasses. The heat was barely tolerable, and it was only midmorning. Frowning, he walked away from the Sheraton and went south on Rue Chaoui, ignoring the cluster of beggars, old and young, who reached out to people entering and exiting the hotel.
He walked along what seemed to be a fairly modern street with western architecture. The atmosphere completely changed two blocks away, when Harding entered the Central Market bazaar. Here he felt as if he’d walked into another century. As colorful and noisy as any Hollywood film depiction, the market was an overwhelming assault on the senses. Harding focused straight ahead, walking quickly through the mass of veils, fezes, turbans, and fedoras. The visual display of the distinctive customs and clothing of local tribes-people who had come to buy and sell didn’t excite him. He didn’t want to buy fruits, vegetables, or spices.
No, thank you, he thought as he rudely brushed past a vendor. He was not interested in the “special” on rich, golden argan oil. There was another one tugging on his sleeve. Sorry, he hadn’t any money today. That flatwoven carpet is indeed a beauty, but he didn’t want to buy one, thank you anyway.