‘Interesting place, Key West,’ mused Quinn. ‘Hemingway once called it the poor man’s St Tropez. Tennessee Williams lived here too. President Truman established a little White House near what used to be the Naval Base and John F. Kennedy brought the British PM, Harold Macmillan, to visit it. Cuban boat people landed here, but long before that it was a pirates’ and wreckers’ paradise. I’m told it’s still a smugglers’ heaven, and the US Coastguard operates a tight schedule out of here.’
They swept in over the threshold and touched down with hardly a bump.
‘There’s history in this airport as well,’ Quinn continued. ‘First regular US mail flight started from here; and Key West is both the beginning and end of Highway Route One.’ They rolled to a halt, then began to taxi towards a shack-like hut with a veranda. Bond saw a low wall with faded lettering: ‘Welcome to Key West the Only Frost-Free City in the United States’.
‘And they have the most spectacular sunsets,’ Quinn added. ‘Really incredible. Pity you won’t be around to see one.’
The heat hit them like a furnace as they left the aircraft. Even the mild breeze felt as if it was blowing from an inferno.
The departure from the jet was as carefully organised as the boarding, with Kirchtum close enough to use his deadly little syringe at any moment, should Bond alert their suspicion.
‘Smile and pretend to talk,’ muttered Quinn, glancing towards the veranda where a dozen or so people were waiting to welcome passengers off a newly arrived PBA flight. Bond scanned the faces, but recognised nobody. They passed through a small gate in the wall beside the shack, Quinn and Kirchtum pushing him towards another sleek dark automobile. In a few moments, Bond was again seated between the two men. This time the driver was young, in an open-necked shirt and with long blond hair.
‘Y’awl okay?’
‘Just drive,’ Quinn snapped. ‘There’s a place arranged I understand.’
‘Sure thing. Git y’there in no time.’ He drew out on to the road, turning his head slightly. ‘Y’awl mind if’n I have some music playin’?’
‘Go ahead. As long as it doesn’t frighten the horses.’
Quinn was very relaxed and confident. If it had not been for Kirchtum, tense on the other side, Bond would have made a move. But the doctor was wound up like a hair trigger. He would have the hypo into 007 if he moved a muscle. A burst of sound filled the car, a rough voice singing, tired, cynical and sad:
There’s a hole in Daddy’s arm,
Where all the money goes . . .
‘Not that!’ cracked Quinn.
‘Ah’m sorry. I kinda like rock and roll. Rhythm and blues. Man, it’s good music.’
‘I said not that.’
The car went silent, the driver sullen. Bond watched the signs – South Roosevelt Boulevard, a restaurant alive with people eating, Martha’s. There were wooden, clapboard houses, white with fretted gingerbread decorations along the porches and verandas; lights flashing – Motel; No vacancy. Lush tropical foliage lined the road, with the ocean on their right. They appeared to be following a long bend taking them away from the Atlantic. Then they turned suddenly at a sign to Searstown. Bond saw they were in a large shopping area.
The car pulled up beside a supermarket alive with late shoppers and an optometrist’s. Between the two lay a narrow alley.
‘It’s up there. Door on the right. Up above the eye place, where they sell reading glasses. Guess y’awl want me to pick you up.’
‘Five o’clock,’ Quinn said quietly. ‘In time to get to Garrison Bight at dawn.’
‘Y’awl goin’ on a fishin’ trip, then?’
The driver turned round and Bond saw his face for the first time. He was not a young man, as Bond had thought, despite the long blond hair. Half his face was missing, sunken in and patched with skin grafts. He must have sensed Bond’s shock for he looked at him straight with his one good eye, and gave an ugly grimace.
‘Don’t you worry about me none. That’s why I work for these gentlemen here. I got this brand new face in Nam, so I thought I could put it to use. Frightens the hell outa some folks.’
‘Five o’clock,’ Quinn repeated, opening the door.
The routine did not vary. They had Bond out, along the alley, through a door and up one flight of stairs in a few seconds. They had brought him to a bare room. In it were only two chairs and two beds, flimsy curtains and a noisy air-conditioning unit. Again they used the handcuffs and shackles, and Kirchtum sat close to Bond, the hypodermic in his hand, while Quinn went out for food. They ate melon and some bread and ham, washing it down with mineral water. Then Quinn and Kirchtum took turns in guarding Bond, who, resigned, fell asleep with exhaustion.
It was still dark when Quinn shook him awake. He stood over Bond in the bare, functional little bathroom as he tried to fight off the grogginess of travel. After about ten minutes they led him downstairs to the car.
There were few signs of life so early in the morning. The sky looked hard and grey, but Quinn said it was going to be a beautiful day. They came to North Roosevelt Boulevard, then passed a marina on their left with yachts and big powered fishing boats moored. Water appeared on the right as well. Quinn pointed.
‘That’s where we’ll be heading. The Gulf of Mexico. The island’s out on the far side of the reef.’
At the Harbour Lights restaurant sign Bond was hustled out of the car, along the side of the sleeping restaurant and down on to the marina quayside. A tall, muscular man waited beside a large, powered fishing boat with a high laddered and skeletal superstructure above the cabin. The engines were idling.
Quinn and the captain exchanged nods, and they pushed Bond aboard and down into the narrow cabin. Once more the handcuffs and shackles were put on. The noise of the engine rose, and Bond could feel the swell as the craft started out from the quayside, cruising into the marina and under a bridge. As the boat picked up speed, Kirchtum grew calmer. He put away the hypodermic. Quinn joined the captain at the controls.
Five minutes out, they had really started to make way, the boat rolling slightly and bounding, slapping hard down into the water. Everyone appeared to be concentrating on the navigation, and Bond began to think seriously about his predicament. They had spoken of an island outside the reef, and he wondered how long it would take them to reach it. He then concentrated on the handcuffs realising that there was little he could do to get out of them. Unexpectedly, Quinn came down into the cabin.
‘I’m going to gag you and cover you up.’ Then he spoke to Kirchtum and Bond just made out what he was saying. ‘There’s another fishing boat to starboard . . . appears to be in some kind of trouble . . . The captain says we should offer to help . . . they could report us. I don’t want to raise suspicion.’
He pushed a handkerchief into Bond’s mouth and tied another around it, so that, for a moment he thought he would suffocate. Then, after checking the shackles, Quinn threw a blanket over him. In the darkness, Bond listened. They were slowing, rolling a little, but definitely slowing.
Above, he heard the captain shouting, ‘You in trouble?’ Then, a few seconds later, ‘Right, I’ll come aboard, but I have an RV. May have to pick you up on the way back.’
There was a sharp bump, as though they had made contact with the other boat, and then all hell broke loose. Bond lost count after the first dozen shots. There were the cracks of hand guns followed by the stutter of a machine pistol; then a cry, which sounded like Kirchtum, and thumps on the deck above. Then silence, until he heard the sound of bare feet descending into the cabin.