After the meal, he went around the entire villa to make certain every lock was applied, every bolt closed, and all curtains drawn.
Then he sat in the main room, with the toolkit beside him, and stripped the automatic, examining each part before reassembling it.
Then, carefully using two pairs of pliers, he removed the bullets from four rounds of ammunition, each taken at random from the four magazines. Once he checked that they were the real thing Bond disposed of the mutilated shells, filled one magazine and slammed it into the Browning’s butt, cocking the mechanism before readjusting the other clips - one full, the other two with a couple of rounds short.
It was almost ten o’clock by the time he was ready for the next move. In the bathroom he showered, then changed into the thick roll-neck, heavy cord slacks, and a pair of soft black moccasins. He strapped on a leather shoulder-holster from the bottom of his case, then shrugged on his windcheater before sliding the Browning in place, and distributing the spare magazines around his pockets. It was not, he considered, going to be the most comfortable Christmas week he had ever spent.
Finally, Bond moved from room to room, starting in the kitchen, altering the furniture, placing it against doors and near window-entry points bel~re strewing bottles and cans from the kitchen like mines across the floor. He worked back towards his bedroom so that anyone who managed to gain entrance would have to use a torch or cause a great deal of noise. Even with a torch, a trained man would have problems in not bumping against, or falling over, one of the obstacles. He stretched strings between chairs, tying them to pots and pans. He even fitted simple booby-traps of pans, plastic buckets and cooking utensils near doors or the smaller windows.
He then arranged the pillows in the bed, so that the impression to any intruder would be that he was quietly sleeping. It was a very old dodge, but one that worked efficiently on an assassin doing a quick in-and-out job. Lastly, Bond pulled a sleeping-bag from the bottom of his case and, still moving furniture and scattering traps, he put out the lights, carefully heading towards the french windows which led from the dining-room to the rear terrace.
The sky was clear outside, and the moon not fully up as yet.
Silently he closed and locked the windows, making his way slowly and without a sound, to the covered roof-top. The night air stung his face with cold, but, once zipped snug inside the sleeping-bag, set close to the wall near the steps, James Bond closed his eyes and drifted into a light sleep.
Sleep, for Bond, was always shallow: it came with the job.
When he woke it was suddenly, his eyes snapping open, all senses alert, ears straining for sounds. Certainly there was a soft noise, a scraping coming from below, near the french windows.
He quietly unzipped himself from the sleeping-bag, rolled away and stood up, Browning out and ready with the safety off - all in a matter of thirty or forty seconds. Crouching, he peered over the parapet at the top of the open steps leading to the rear terrace.
The moon was sinking, but still gave him enough light to see the figure, kneeling and examining the lock.
Hardly breathing, he inched towards the steps. Below, the figure rose and he could see the intruder’s shape and form coming up from the kneeling position, straightening and turning carefully. There was a weapon in the crouching figure’s hand, an automatic pistol, held with both hands, as the person moved with the proficiency of an expert.
As she turned, Bond stood up, arms stretched out, grasping his own pistol, feet apart in the classic stance.
“Don’t even think about it, Beatrice,” he said loudly. “Just drop the gun and kick it away.” The figure below tuned sharply, giving a sudden little gasp.
“Do as I say! Now!” Bond commanded.
She did not drop the pistol, but threw it into the bushes so that it made no noise.
“James. Hellkin,” she whispered. “Hellkin. There’s someone in the grounds.”
Her voice, Bond thought, had lost its broad accent, and she had given him the code, obeyed his orders, but with the care of one who wishes to avoid noise that might just be heard by some third person.
He came down the steps quickly, keeping his back to the wall.
“Hellkin” was enough for him.
“What did you see or hear?” He was close to her, whispering in her ear.
“A torch. A light. Down by the second gate. Five minutes ago.
I came straight away.”
“You saw it from where?”
“The main villa. I was on watch: the balcony at the top.”
“Find your pistol.” Bond cocked his head in the direction of the bushes.
“Then follow me down and cover me.
She dropped to her knees and then flattened her body, squirming into the undergrowth while Bond kept his back to the french windows, standing stock still, waiting for her. Hellkin, he thought.
She was on the side of the angels but the intellectuals who still chose cryptos and code names in London were being clever clever. He seemed to recall that Hellkin was one of the twelve lUrk-bearing lesser demons of Dante’s Inferno. Hellkin - Alchino, the Allurer. Well, Beh-ah-Tree-che was certainly alluring.
She was back with him now, holding up a Browning similar to his.
“Cover me,” he whispered again as he moved along the wall, flattening himself at the corner, then going around it fast, pistol up ready to take out anyone skulking near the kitchen door.
Nobody. He moved on along the wall, back flat to the stucco again, glancing behind to see that Beatrice was following. He could make out the dark shape against the white wall, inching forward, hands locked around the pistol, elbows bent so that the weapon came level with her forehead.
The next turning of the wall would bring them to the front of the villa: to the terrace and winter-covered pool. Bond threw himself forward, rolled across the tarmac, arms stretched out and pistol at the ready.
He saw the movement close to the gate at the foot of the steps and shouted, “Halt! Halt, we’re armed.”
Whoever was on the other side of the gate imagined they were in with a chance, for two bullets ripped through the water lilies and palms, gouging hunks out of the green floor covering of the terrace, all a little close to Bond for comfort. He could see nothing now, but heard the quick double bark of Beatrice’s Browning and a cry, like an animal mewing with pain.
Bond spun around just in time to see Beatrice come pounding out of the shadows in pursuit of whoever had been hit on the other side of the gate. He shouted to her to stop, seeing the dangers that could lurk below the steps. They would nOt simply send one man to deal with him.
Unless he was greatly mistaken, a whole hit team would be operational and, if anything, Beatrice had probably winged the locksmith who had not even got through the single, second, gate.
He followed her, trying to keep close to the wall in the darkness, wincing in anticipation of the fatal burst.of machine-gun fire that would surely come at any moment. Somewhere from outside, a fair way off, he heard the stutter of a car ignition, then the grind of gears.
Beatrice had reached the gate without any further shots coming out of the night, turning her head and calling, low-voiced, “The keys, James. You have the keys.”
He already had them out on the penlight ring in his left hand, running his fingers through them to select the key to the inner gate.
Beatrice had stopped with her back to the wall, trying to find cover in the slim stern of a vine as Bond passed her, fumbling with the keys. It took around twenty seconds which seemed like an hour, but, when the key turned, there was Beatrice at his back, preparing to give covering-fire.
Nobody. No movement. No sudden fire slashing through the night.