Bond noticed that some of the waiting tanks had gold ingots fitted in the centre, and others a gravel of jewels, and he revised his estimate of the treasure, quadrupling it to around four million sterling.
Mr. Big stood for a few moments with his eyes on the stone floor. His breathing was deep but controlled. Then they went on up.
Twenty steps higher there was another landing, smaller and with a door leading off it. The door had a new chain and padlock on it. The door itself was made of platted iron slats, brown and corroded with rust.
Mr. Big paused again and they stood side by side on the small platform of rock.
For a moment Bond thought of escape, but, as if reading his mind, the negro guard crowded him up against the stone wall away from The Big Man. And Bond knew his first duty was to stay alive and get to Solitaire and somehow keep her away from the doomed ship where the acid was slowly eating through the copper of the timefuse.
From above, a strong draught of cold air was coming down the shaft and Bond felt the sweat drying on him. He put his right hand up to the wound in his shoulder, undeterred by the prick of the guard’s dagger in his side. The blood was dry and caked and most of the arm was numb. It ached viciously.
Mr. Big spoke.
‘That wind, Mister Bond,’ he pointed up the shaft, ‘is known in Jamaica as “The Undertaker’s Wind”.’
Bond shrugged his right shoulder and saved his breath.
Mr. Big turned to the iron door, took a key from his pocket and unlocked it. He went through and Bond and his guard followed.
It was a long, narrow passage of a room with rusty shackles low down in the walls at less than yard intervals.
At the far end, where a hurricane light hung from the stone roof, there was a motionless figure under a blanket on the floor. There was one more hurricane light over their heads near the door, otherwise nothing but a smell of damp rock, and ancient torture, and death.
‘Solitaire,’ said Mr. Big softly.
Bond’s heart leapt and he started forward. At once a huge hand grasped him by the arm.
‘Hold it, white man,’ snapped his guard and twisted his wrist up between his shoulder-blades, hefting it higher until
Bond lashed out with his left heel. It hit the other man’s shin, and hurt Bond more than the guard.
Mr. Big turned round. He had a small gun almost covered by his huge hand.
‘Let him go,’ he said, quietly. ‘If you want an extra navel, Mister Bond, you can have one. I have six of them in this gun.’
Bond brushed past The Big Man. Solitaire was on her feet, coming towards him. When she saw his face she broke into a run, holding out her two hands.
‘James,’ she sobbed. ‘James.’
She almost fell at his feet. Their hands clutched at each other.
‘Get me some rope,’ said Mr. Big in the doorway.
‘It’s all right, Solitaire,’ said Bond, knowing that it wasn’t. ‘It’s all right. I’m here now.’
He picked her up and held her at arm’s length. It hurt his left arm. She was pale and dishevelled. There was a bruise on her forehead and black circles under her eyes. Her face was grimy and tears had made streaks down the pale skin. She had no make-up. She wore a dirty white linen suit and sandals. She looked thin.
‘What’s the bastard been doing to you?’ said Bond. He suddenly held her tightly to him. She clung to him, her face buried in his neck.
Then she drew away and looked at her hand.
‘But you’re bleeding,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
She turned him half round and saw the black blood on his shoulder and down his arm.
‘Oh my darling, what is it?’
She started to cry again, forlornly, hopelessly, realizing suddenly that they were both lost.
‘Tie them up,’ said The Big Man from the door. ‘Here under the light. I have things to say to them.’
The negro came towards them and Bond turned. Was it worth a gamble? The negro had nothing but rope in his hands. But The Big Man had stepped sideways and was watching him, the gun held loosely, half pointing at the floor.