They arranged to disembark separately at Zurich, to travel independently on the Pan Am flight and to meet up again by the Delta Airlines desk in the main building at Miami International.
‘Get a Skycap to take you there,’ Bond advised them. ‘The place is vast and you can easily get lost. And beware of legal panhandlers – Hare Krishna, nuns, whatever, they’re . . .’
‘Thick on the ground,’ finished Nannie. ‘We know, James, we’ve been to Miami before.’
‘Sorry. Right, we’re set then. If either of you have second thoughts . . .’
‘We’ve been over that as well. We’re going to see it through,’ said Nannie firmly.
‘To the bitter end, James.’ Sukie leaned forward and covered his hand with her own. Bond nodded.
He caught sight of the pair at Zurich having a snack in one of the splendid cafés that seem to litter that clean and pleasant airport. Bond drank coffee and ate a croissant before checking in for the Pan Am flight.
On the 747, Sukie and Nannie were seated right up in the front, while Bond occupied a window seat some way behind on the starboard side. Neither gave him a second look. He admired the way Sukie had so quickly picked up field technique; Nannie he almost took for granted, for she had already shown how good she could be.
The food was reasonable, the flight boring, the movie violent and cut to ribbons. It was hot and crowded when they landed at Miami International, soon after eight in the evening. Sukie and Nannie were already at the Delta desk when he reached it.
‘Okay,’ he greeted them. ‘Now we go through Gate E to the PBA departures.’
He handed them the tickets for the final flight.
‘Key West?’ queried Nannie.
‘The Last Resort, they call it,’ said Sukie, laughing. ‘Great. I’ve been there.’
‘Well, I want to arrive . . .’
The ping-pong of an announcement signal interrupted him. He opened his mouth to continue, expecting it to be a routine call for some departure, but the voice mentioned the name Boldman.
‘Would Mr James Boldman, passenger recently arrived from Zurich, report to the information desk opposite the British Airways counter. Mr Boldman, please.’
Bond shrugged. ‘I was going to say that I wanted to arrive incognito. Well, that’s my incognito. There must be some development from my people. Wait for me.’
He pressed his way through queues of people and baggage waiting to be checked in. At the information desk a blonde with teeth in gloss white and lips in blood red batted her eyelids at him.
‘Can I help y’awl?’
‘Message for James Boldman,’ he said, and saw her glance behind his left shoulder and nod.
The voice was soft in his ear, and unmistakable.
‘Good evening, Mr Boldman. Nice to see you.’
Steve Quinn pressed close as Bond turned. He could feel the pistol muzzle hard against his ribs, and knew his face to be etched with surprise.
‘How nice for us to be meeting again, Mr – what do you call yourself now – Boldman?’ Doktor Kirchtum stood on his right, his big face moulded into what appeared to be a big smile of welcome.
‘What . . .’ Bond began.
‘Just start walking quietly out of the exit doors over there.’ Quinn’s smile didn’t change. ‘Forget your travelling companions and the PBA flight. We’re going to Key West by a different route.’
14
FROST-FREE CITY
The aircraft was very quiet in flight. Only a low rumbling whine from the jets was audible. Bond, who had managed no more than a quick look before boarding, thought it was probably an Aerospatiale Corvette, with its distinctive long nose. The interior was decorated in blue and gold, with six swivel armchairs and a long central table.
Outside there was darkness, with only the occasional pin of light flashing in the distance. Bond guessed they were now high over the Everglades, or turning to make the run in to Key West across the sea.
The initial shock of finding himself flanked by Quinn and Kirchtum had passed very quickly. One learned to react instantly in his job. In this situation he had no option but to go along with Quinn’s instructions: it was his only chance of survival.
There had been a moment’s hesitation when he first felt the gun pressing into his ribs. Then he obeyed, walking calmly between the two big men who kept close beside him, as though making a discreet arrest. Now he was really on his own. The other two had their tickets to Key West, but he had told them to wait for him. They also had all the luggage, and his case contained the weapons – Nannie’s two little automatics, the ASP, and the baton.
A long black limousine with tinted windows stood parked directly outside the exit. Kirchtum moved forward a pace to open the rear door, bent his heavy body and entered first.
‘In!’ Quinn prodded Bond with the gun, almost pushing him into the leather-scented interior and quickly following him so that he was sandwiched between the two men.
The motor was started before the door slammed shut, and the vehicle pulled smoothly away from the kerb. Quinn had the gun out now – a small Makarov, Russian made and based on the German Walther PP series design. Bond recognised it immediately, even in the dim glow thrown into the car from the airport lights. By the same light he could see the driver’s head, like a large, elongated coconut, topped with a peaked cap. Nobody spoke, and no orders were given. The limousine purred on to a slip-road which, Bond guessed, led to the airport perimeter tracks.
‘Not a word, James,’ Quinn whispered, ‘on your life, and on May’s and Moneypenny’s as well.’
They were approaching large gates set into a high chain-link fence.
The car stopped at a security shed and Bond heard the electronic whine as the driver’s window was lowered. A guard approached. The driver offered him a clutch of identity cards and the guard muttered something. The nearside rear window slid down and the guard peered in, looking at the cards in his hand and then glancing in at Quinn, Bond and Kirchtum.
‘Okay,’ he said at last in a gravel drawl. ‘Through the gate and wait for the guide truck.’
They moved forward and stopped, lights dipped. Somewhere ahead of them there was a mighty roar as an aircraft landed, its reverse thrust blanketing all other sounds. Dimmed lights appeared as a small truck performed a neat turn in front of them. It was painted with yellow stripes and a red light revolved on the canopy. The rear carried a large ‘Follow me’ sign.
Keeping behind the truck, the car moved slowly past aircraft of all types – commercial jets being loaded and unloaded, large piston-engined aeroplanes, freighters, small private craft, the insignias ranging from Pan Am, British Airways, and Delta to Datsun and Island City Flying Service. They made for an aircraft that stood apart from the rest near a cluster of buildings on the far side of the field, pulling up so close that Bond thought for a moment they might touch the wing.
For large men, Quinn and Kirchtum moved fast. Like a well-drilled team, Kirchtum left the car almost before it had come to a standstill, while Quinn edged Bond towards the door, so that he was constantly covered from both sides. Once in the open, Kirchtum kept a steel grip on his arm until Quinn was out. Using an arm-lock, they forced him up the steps and into the aeroplane. Quinn’s pistol was now in full view as Kirchtum hauled in the steps and closed the door with a solid thud.