Mr Spang of the Spangled Mob, who had just killed a man-the final one of how many others?
Bond could imagine the scene in the narrow cockpit, the big man holding on with one hand and wrenching at the controls with the other as he watched the needle of the altimeter dip down through the hundreds. And there would be the red glare of terror in the eyes, and the hundred thousand pound pocketful of diamonds would be just so much deadweight, and the gun which had been a strong right arm since boyhood would be no comfort.
“He’s coming right back to the bush,” shouted the Corporal above the clatter in the sky.
“He’s a goner now,” said the Captain, half to himself.
They watched the last bucketing lurches and then they held their breath as the aircraft, see-sawing wildly, gave a final tip to its nose and, as if the bush had been its enemy, made an angry dive through a twenty-yard curve and hurled itself and the threshing rotors into the stack of thorns.
Before the echoes of the crash had died, there came a hollow boom out of the heart of the bush followed by a jagged ball of flame that grew and billowed up into the air so that the moon was dimmed and the whole plain was bathed in an orange glare.
The Captain was the first to speak.
“Ouch!” he said with feeling. He slowly lowered his night-glasses and turned to Bond. “Well, Sir,” he said resignedly. “That’s just about that. ‘Fraid it’s going to be morning before we can get anywhere near that lot. And then it’s going to be hours more before we can start raking about in it. And this is going to bring the French frontier guards along at the gallop. Luckily we’re on pretty good terms with them, but the Governor’s going to have a fine time arguing the toss with Dakar.” The officer saw a vista of paper-work stretching ahead. The prospect made him tireder than he already was. He was matter-of-fact. He had had enough for one day. “Mind if we get a bit of shut-eye, Sir?”
“Go ahead,” said Bond. He looked at his watch. “Better get under the truck. Sun’ll be coming up in about four hours. Not feeling tired myself. I’ll keep an eye out in case the fire looks like spreading.”
The officer gave a curious glance at this quiet, enigmatic man who had suddenly arrived in the Protectorate amidst a flurry of ‘Absolute Priority’ signals. If ever a man needed sleep… But all this was nothing to do with Freetown. London stuff. “Thanks, Sir,” he said and jumped down from the truck.
Bond slowly took his feet off the trigger-pedals and sat back in the iron saddle. Automatically, with his eyes still on the leaping flames, his hands felt in the pockets of the faded khaki bush-shirt, borrowed from the Garrison CO, for his lighter and cigarettes, and he took out a cigarette and lit it and put the things back in his pockets.
So this was the end of the diamond pipeline. And the last page on the file. He took a deep lungful of smoke and let it out between his teeth in a long, quiet sigh. Six corpses to love. Game and set.
Bond put up a hand and wiped it across his dripping forehead. He pushed back the damp lock of hair above the right eyebrow and the red blaze lit up the hard lean face and flickered in the tired eyes.
So this great red full stop marked the end of the Spangled Mob and the end of their fabulous traffic in diamonds. But not the end of the diamonds that were baking at the heart of the fire. They would survive and move off again across the world, discoloured, perhaps, but indestructible, as permanent as death.
And Bond suddenly remembered the eyes of the corpse which had once had a Blood Group F. They had been wrong. Death is forever. But so are diamonds.
Bond dropped down off the truck and started walking slowly towards the leaping fire. He smiled grimly to himself. All this business about death and diamonds was too solemn. For Bond it was just the end of another adventure. Another adventure for which a wry phrase of Tiffany Case might be the epitaph. He could see the passionate, ironical mouth saying the words: