James Bond and Moonraker (11 page)

Now Chang let out a bellow of frustrated rage that was terrible to hear. Chang’s foot was on the bottom tread of the staircase as Bond reached the first landing, and he could feel the structure shaking behind him as the Chinaman charged in pursuit. He dashed up the next flight and emerged in a small loft littered with packing cases. Some were open, and in them he glimpsed spheres like those he had seen being filled in the laboratory. There was a pulley system in the corner, suggesting that the loft was used as a store room.

Bond ducked down and listened to his heart pumping, registering the words stencilled on a packing case before him: C&W. Rio de Janeiro. Interesting. But maybe a lead that had arrived too late. As Chang burst into the loft, Bond attempted to utilize his wrist gun. He jerked his wrist back and there was a sharp crack followed by an explosion of fragments and a cloud of brick dust from the far wall. Deadly but hardly accurate. Chang launched himself forward but checked as Bond sideslipped behind one of the packing cases. Chang’s expression as he glanced down at the contents showed that he was well aware that whatever was in the packing cases needed to be treated with respect.

Bond ran for a small door in the corner and up a last flight of creaking cobweb-strewn steps. His head rose above floor level and he found himself in a room crowded with antique machinery and illuminated by a translucent circle of light picked out with roman numerals. In a flash it came to him that he had emerged in the works chamber of the Clock Tower. He was standing behind the clock face. The pulleys, cog-wheels and chains that surrounded him were all working parts of the clock. There was no way out of the chamber apart from the staircase by which he had entered. Here he must stand and fight. Pulling back a bunch of chains, he swung them in Chang’s face as the Chinaman’s head appeared above floor level. The effect was no more than that of a goad on an elephant. Chang roared his rage and blundered through the chains as if they were a bead curtain. A swinging blow broke through Bond’s guard and seemed to lift his head a couple of inches from his shoulders. Again the numbing sensation set his teeth on edge and momentarily paralysed the right side of his body. He dropped his shoulder and lashed out with a left hook that struck Chang flush on the side of his recessed jaw. Chang smiled. It was not the involuntary smile that a boxer gives to prove that he is hurt. It was a smile that said, ‘I have taken your best punch and found it less damaging than a pat on the cheek.’ Bond retreated into the machinery and Chang followed, the grim smile still on his face. From around them there came a whirring sound and Bond heard one of the near-by clocks begin to strike the hour. He knew what the noise meant. The machinery was winding itself up to strike. At any moment the two Moors above their heads would start to hammer the bell as they had been doing for over four and a half centuries.

Chang’s eye-slits glistened in the half-light. As the machinery ground into action, he spread his elbows, preparing to strike. One arm swung back, but as Bond flinched, anticipating the blow, there was a cry of surprise. The sleeve of Chang’s robe had become entangled in the turning teeth of a cog. As he spun round to tear at it with his free hand, so a second cog-wheel moved into conjunction with the first and crushed his hand in its metal teeth. Chang fought to free himself as Bond snatched up a heavy weight on the end of a chain and swung it like a medieval battle weapon. The first blow crunched against the side of Chang’s head and Bond lashed out again while the two Moors began to beat out their own macabre accompaniment to the screams and the mad grinding of the machinery.

With an agonized yelp of pain, Chang tore his arm free and turned to receive the full force of the metal weight against his jaw. His mangled hand pawed the air in front of Bond’s face and Bond felt warm blood sting his cheek. Chang staggered forward, desperately trying to lay hands on Bond, who fell back almost to the clock face. As Chang made one desperate rush, Bond stepped aside, lashing out again. The weight of the blow struck Chang on the back of the head and he pitched forward, stretching out his arms to break his fall against the ghostly circle of light. There was a splintering sound and a sudden rush of night air into the room as Chang disappeared, leaving a jagged hole in the clock face.

From below, the sound of the orchestra playing in the square ended as abruptly as if a needle had been lifted from a record. It was replaced by a chorus of horrified screams. Bond let the weight drop from his numbed fingers and staggered forward to peer through the opening. Chang was lying face downwards on a table that had collapsed beneath his weight. A dark stain was quickly spreading over the spotless white tablecloth. Bond ducked back to avoid the startled faces that were tilted up to him and started to move fast for the stairs. It was time to be on his way.

Holly Goodhead moved to the edge of her balcony and spread her arms wide. Nosing against the wide, lamp-lit quay was a huddle of small steamers and ferry boats. A few seamen and tourists were hurrying home to their beds and directly below a waiter was folding the royal blue sun umbrellas over the coffee tables. The cold winter sunshine had produced little passing trade. Now the Canale di San Marco was a pinpoint blaze of lights and in the distance the Lido showed up against the night like glistening beads of dew on a spider’s web. Holly drank in one of the most beautiful views in the world and turned to enter her suite. Her address had been well received, but a combination of tension, exhilaration and relief made her welcome the thought of sleep. She was stretching out a hand for a standard lamp when a second hand closed over hers. She pressed the switch and the light acked on to reveal Bond staring down at her, his eyes hard, his mouth a ruthless slit. His hair was dishevelled and there were bruises on his face that she would gladly have added to.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Bond’s expression did not relent. ‘Convalescing. Your friend Chang just tried to kill me.’

Holly flared her nostrils and willed her heartbeat to return to normal. ‘And you think I had something to do with it?’

Bond released her hand contemptuously and moved around the suite, turning on more lights. ‘The thought had flashed across my mind.’ He moved to a bureau and picked up a slim gold retractable ball-point pen. ‘What’s Drax up to in that laboratory?’

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’

‘I intend to.’ Bond started to doodle on a pad.

Holly placed one hand on her hip and ran the other through her hair. ‘Are you leaving me your telephone number?’

Bond smiled grimly. ‘I don’t see the point.’ He held up the pen before his eyes and pressed its base. A hypodermic needle darted out like a snake’s tongue. Bond winced. ‘Ah — now I do.’ He pressed again and a fine jet of colourless liquid squirted into the air. ‘Not what I want to get stuck with tonight.’ He pressed a third time and the needle retracted. Bond pocketed the pen and continued to prowl.

Holly followed him uneasily. ‘Why don’t you fix yourself a drink, James?’

Bond flashed an icy smile. ‘I see we’ve gravitated to first name terms at last.’ His hand rummaged through the cosmetics on the recessed dressing table. He picked up a small scent atomizer and sniffed it.

Holly smiled winsomely. ‘You approve?’

Bond directed the atomizer at the mirror and pressed its top. A sheet of flame emerged as from a flame-thrower, and his image was obliterated. The blackened mirror cracked and rained glass on the dressing table. Bond wrinkled his nostrils and, holding the atomizer between finger and thumb, replaced it. ‘It’s a trifle overpowering, isn’t it?’

Hardly pausing, he moved to Holly’s handbag and emptied its contents on the embroidered counterpane of the large double bed. A small leather-bound pocket diary with a slim pencil tucked into its spine appeared in his hand. He directed the diary at an armchair and squeezed. The ‘pencil’ was fired like a dart to bury itself in the stuffing of the chair. ‘No doubt tipped with cyanide,’ said Bond as if making an inventory. He picked up a pair of thick-rimmed spectacles and examined the decoration by the hinges. A tiny tube was visible pointing in the direction in which the wearer would be looking. Bond put on the spectacles.

Holly shook her head. ‘They do nothing for you.’

Bond held a blotter in front of his face and tapped the top of the spectacles as if ruminating on something. There was an almost inaudible hiss. and a dart scarcely larger than a thorn was embedded in the blotter. ‘They’d do less for me if you were wearing them,’ said Bond. He pressed the side of a powder compact and a wicked-looking blade flicked out. ‘You do have some rough toys.’

‘A girl has to look after herself these days,’ said Holly.

Bond smiled grimly. ‘I know Third World armies that aren’t this well equipped.’ He pulled apart a lipstick holder to reveal what looked suspiciously like a miniature detonator and explosive charge. The cylinder of a Zippo lighter was divided so that not only could it light a cigarette but squirt Mace in the face of an attacker.

Bond shook his head. ‘I bet you pulled the arms off all your dolls.’

‘I never had any dolls,’ said Holly. ‘I always used to be out on the streets with a catcher’s glove.’

‘With a baseball bat, more likely,’ said Bond. He pressed one of the clasps on the side of the handbag and a telescopic aerial began to glide silently into the air. There was a subdued crackle of static electricity and the second clasp glowed with the numbers of radio bands.

Bond tossed the handbag on to the bed beside its contents. ‘I’ve seen this equipment before, Holly, and it wasn’t in Macy’s.’ He paused for a moment before he crossed to a drinks trolley. ‘It was being developed by the C.I.A. An old friend of mine, Felix Leiter, gave me a sneak preview.’ Bond turned his back to throw some ice cubes into a glass and top it up with Chivas Regal. ‘I think you probably know him.’ There was no reply from Holly. ‘Because it occurs to me that the C.I.A. placed you with Drax. Correct?’

He waved a hand towards the trolley in invitation. Holly shook her head. ‘Correct.’ Her face softened into a conciliatory smile. ‘Could it be that this is the moment for us to pool our resources?’

Bond studied Holly over the top of his glass. It was the first time he could remember her smiling like that. So warm. So guileless. So insincere. He put down his glass. ‘That might have its compensations.’

Holly took a step towards him so that she was close enough to be touched. Her long silk gown could have been tied tightly across her low-cut nightdress but it was not. Bond drew her to him and kissed the corner of her mouth gently. His eyes were still suspicious.

‘You think I’m trying to hide something, don’t you?’ said Holly.

Bond raised his eyebrows and suppressed a smile. ‘Yes and no,’ he said drily.

Holly watched his eyes warily circling the room. ‘Haven’t you done enough detective work for one evening?’ She broke away and started replacing the contents of her handbag.

Bond caught a glimpse of his battered face in a mirror and smiled ruefully. ‘I am tempted to call it a day.’

Holly smoothed down the counterpane seductively and placed her bag on a bedside table. She crossed to Bond and winced as she saw his hand. ‘You’d better let me take a look at that.’ She unfolded his fingers one by one and examined the deep cut across his palm. ‘I’ve got something in the bathroom.’

Bond smiled. ‘As long as it’s not in your handbag.’ He rested his nose against her hair. ‘I suppose you’re right, Holly. We would be better off working together.’ She tilted back her head to look at him and he closed his free hand over hers. ‘Détente?’

Holly nodded. ‘Agreed.’

‘Understanding?’

Holly twisted her head quizzically. ‘Possibly.’

‘Co-operation?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Trust?’

Her mouth came up to his fast. ‘Why do you have to talk so much?’

Four hours later, Bond lay naked beneath a sheet, feeling Holly nuzzling into his shoulder. She let out a small contented sigh and draped an arm across his chest. Bond drove a tiger from his loins and stretched out a furtive right arm. His Rolex Oyster Perpetual, glowing in the darkness, told him that it was time to leave. He slid from the bed, gently replacing Holly’s arm on the warm sheet. Holly made another contented noise and burrowed into the pillow. Bond suddenly thought how vulnerable she looked and pulled the sheet up about her shoulders. His clothes lay mingled with hers and a shaft of moonlight played on the label of the woollen jacket that had caught his eye in the glass shop: ‘Victoria Bevan, Handmade Knitwear. Great Shelford, Cambridge, England’. Dr Holly Goodhead obviously cast her net wide in the pursuit of excellence. Bond felt a pang of nostalgia as he looked down at this link with a country that meant more to him than any other in the world. England in winter matched the bleak asperity of his spirit, yet an immediate return was out of the question. His only lead directed him to more tropical climes. He breathed in the cool night air and briskly pulled on his polo-neck pullover. There were five hours to daybreak and he had work to do. Holly permitted herself another sigh as she shifted her position to take full advantage of the warm space left by Bond and listen to the sounds of him dressing. There was a nearly inaudible exhalation as he pulled on his shoes, and she heard a floorboard creak as he moved to the door. The handle turned. A pause, a click. The door was shut again. Holly lay still and listened for several seconds. ‘James?’ Her voice was bruised and plaintive. She raised herself on one elbow and looked around. There was no sign of Bond lurking. Quickly she sat up and brushed the hair from her face before picking up the telephone. She waited, irritably flicking at the tip of her nose. Nobody would have believed, looking at that serious, composed face, that an hour before she had been indulging in the most passionate lovemaking of her life.

The ever-hopeful voice of an Italian night porter sounded on the end of the line. ‘
Si, signora?
’

The voice was as cold as that of a mid-western Baptist schoolmistress making her first trip east of the Great Lakes. ‘Send up somebody for my bags... At once, please.’