M listened stoically until Gray had exhausted himself and stalked off across the square, detonating clouds of pigeons. He watched him go and then crossed to Bond’s side. He felt in his pocket and withdrew his pipe. ‘What the hell is going on, 007? Have they got at you with drugs again?’
Bond shook his head. ‘No, sir. There was a laboratory there. Drax is a damned clever operator, that’s all.’
M looked sceptical. ‘He must be if he can remove all traces of the structure you described in a few hours.’
Bond felt inside his jacket. ‘He couldn’t remove this, Sir.’ He produced the phial and handed it to M. ‘This is what they were distilling. I’d like Q to analyse it. But exercising extreme caution. It killed two men.’
‘One more than you,’ said M drily. He closed his hand around the phial and looked up at Bond. ‘What am I going to do with you, James? You heard what Gray said. You’ve got to come off the assignment.’
Bond’s eyes twinkled. ‘Compassionate leave, sir?’
M looked from his beloved pipe to the phial and pocketed the former. ‘Where did you have in mind?’
Bond’s voice was level. ‘I’ve always had a hankering to visit Rio de Janeiro, sir.’
M nodded. ‘Oh, yes. I recall you mentioning it on the way from the airport.’ His voice suddenly took on a harsh edge. ‘Very well. But no slip-ups, 007. Otherwise we’re both in trouble.’
From the first floor of the Venini Glass shop, Drax watched Bond and M walk away across the square. A thin but triumphant smile played around his ugly mouth. To see the proud English picking at a dish of humble pie was always a pleasing sight. Drax crossed to a telephone and punched out thirteen numbers authoritatively. There was a pause and then the ringing phone was answered. Drax quickly announced himself and dealt with the worried inquiries. ‘Yes, yes. There is no further cause for alarm. I have taken care of everything. A minor crisis has been averted.’ His tone became urgent. ‘But, one important thing: as from now, all merchandise must be re-routed. It is possible that you may be receiving visitors. Nosey visitors. Have no qualms about disposing of them.’ There was a spurt of acquiescence from the other end of the line. Drax waited for it to expend itself. ‘There is also the matter of a replacement for Chang. What have you achieved?’ Drax listened and showed his uneven teeth in a smile. ‘Excellent. If you can get him, I will be well pleased.’ More assurances flooded his ears. ‘You’ve got him on the next flight? Splendid. Most gratifying. You have done well.’ Drax replaced the receiver on the sound.of thanks being expressed for gratitude and stretched back in his chair until the joints creaked. In a few hours he had retrieved the work of a lifetime. Now the future — his future — seemed assured.
The high-pitched electronic screech cut through the voice of the flight announcer and the security guard sprang forward. The giant figure was almost wedged in the electronic arch, the shoulders braced against the sides and the head stooped. A quick search revealed nothing that might have triggered off a reaction, and yet the ear-splitting racket continued. Another security guard hurried up and a crowd began to form. It was at this point that the man’s mouth broke open and he showed his teeth in a terrifying glare.
Two rows of shiny, jagged steel teeth.
The alarm note rose to an even higher and more frantic pitch and the last call for the flight to Rio de Janeiro was completely blotted out.
11
STEEL TEETH IN RIO
Bond decided that the most beautiful views in Rio de Janeiro were looking out to sea; from the Copacabana beach to the Ponto de Leme and the Ilha de Contunduba with the uneven brown and green heights of Niterói in the background. All that and the beach itself, a magnificent sweep of sand like a great playing field speckled with football pitches and volley ball courts, where all colours of skin from honey to jet black twisted, turned, dived and leapt to steer balls over nets or between posts, and where to lie still beneath the tropical sun and listen to the Atlantic waves thump against the flattened strand was a confession of apathy tolerated only in tourists and exceptionally beautiful girls. Behind the beach and the broad divided highway the unremarkable hotels and apartment blocks stood shoulder to shoulder like white pickets in a fence. Held back behind them was the jungle. Two and a half thousand miles of it, stretching to the Pacific cordillera, and still within the boundaries of Brazil.
Bond pressed a button and the window of the Rolls-Royce purred down to bury itself in the coachwork. It seemed amazing that in only five and a half hours’ flying time Concorde had borne him from Europe to half-way down the coast of South America. The mist-shrouded Charles de Gaulle Airport belonged not only to another continent but to another season. Here the air was warm, balmy with fragrance; the light, lucid and clear. In Paris the lights of cars had shone dully through an opaque screen; people walked in a cloud of their own breath.
The Rolls came to another halt in the slowly moving procession of traffic and Bond sniffed the smell of freshly roasted coffee and watched the ebb and flow of humanity scurrying about him. The soft drinks and hot dog vendors, the shoe-shine boys darting between the pavement cafés. The fat American tourists with their cameras wobbling on their bellies like an extra roll of fat. A gaggle of sweating workmen hoisting carnival decorations into the air. A small boy chasing an errant football amongst the slow-turning wheels.
The traffic began to move again and Bond glanced behind him with the wariness born of a hundred missions. A Ferrari Dino was threading through the pursuing automobiles at a speed that invited disaster. As he watched it nearly mounted the centre section and attracted a blare of horns before nipping into a space three automobiles behind.
Bond smelt danger. ‘Take the next right!’
Bond saw the chauffeur’s eyebrows rise as he glanced in the rear-view mirror. ‘Sim, senhor.’
The Rolls pulled out and with a discreet squeal of tyres cut across the oncoming traffic and accelerated into a defile between apartment blocks. A tumultuous volley of motor horns informed Bond that the Ferrari was on his heels. He glanced back and had an impression of a pretty dark-haired girl wearing a headscarf. Her expression was determined as she leant forward over the wheel. Bond’s was grim as he leant forward to the driver. ‘Lose her.’ This time the reply was given by the limousine. Before Bond had time to brace himself, the wheel was flung over and the Rolls careered up a private driveway between two blocks of apartments, swerving past the entrance to an underground garage. The driver of a family saloon prepared to meet his maker as the Rolls bounded towards him — and opened his eyes to see it transformed into a Ferrari. There was a squeal of brakes and both automobiles screeched nose to tail into a narrow tree-lined street. Traffic was building up at an intersection and there was a further flurry of horns as the Rolls jumped the queue, narrowly avoiding the oncoming traffic and a lorry which was swinging in from the left. Coming down a steep incline to the right was a tram, the rear platform crowded with passengers, some clinging to its sides like refugees.
Bond watched the Ferrari streaking up behind him and called out fresh instructions to the driver. The Rolls bounded across the tram lines and then accelerated up the road which the tram had descended. The Ferrari skidded to a halt as the tram momentarily blocked its path, and then roared off in pursuit.