Yes, it had all been very satisfactory so far as Washington was concerned, but what about the English end? Who in America cared about the Bank of England’s gold? Who cared that two English girls had been murdered in the course of this business? Who really minded that Goldfinger was still at liberty now that America’s bullion was safe again?
They idled across the drab plain of Idlewild, past the ten-million-dollar steel and cement skeletons that would one day be an adult airport, and pulled up outside the makeshift huddle of concrete boxes that Bond knew so well. Already the well mannered iron voices were reaching out to them. ‘Pan American World Airways announces the departure of its President Flight PA 100’, ‘Transworld Airways calling Captain Murphy. Captain Murphy, please.’ And the pear-shaped vowels and fluted diction of BOAC, ‘BOAC announces the arrival of its Bermudan Flight BA 491. Passengers will be disembarking at gate number neyne.’
Bond took his bag and said goodbye to Leiter. He said, ‘Well, thanks for everything, Felix. Write to me every day.’
Leiter gripped his hand hard. He said, ‘Sure thing, kid. And take it easy. Tell that old bastard M to send you back over soon. Next visit we’ll take some time off from the razzmatazz. Time you called in on my home state. Like to have you meet my oil-well. ‘Bye now.’
Leiter got into his car and accelerated away from the arrival bay. Bond raised his hand. The Studillac dry-skidded out on to the approach road. There was an answering glint from Leiter’s steel hook out of the window and he was gone.
Bond sighed. He picked up his bag and walked in and over to the BOAC ticket counter.
Bond didn’t mind airports so long as he was alone in them. He had half an hour to wait and he was quite content to wander through the milling crowds, have a bourbon and soda at the restaurant and spend some time choosing something to read at the bookstore. He bought Ben Hogan’s Modern Fundamentals of Golf and the latest Raymond Chandler and
“sauntered along to the Souvenir Shop to see if he could find an amusing gimmick to take back to his secretary.
Now there was a man’s voice on the BOAC announcing system. It called out a long list of Monarch passengers who were required at the ticket counter. Ten minutes later Bond was paying for one of the latest and most expensive ballpoint pens when he heard his own name being called. ‘Will Mr James Bond, passenger on BOAC Monarch flight No 510 to Gander and London, please come to the BOAC ticket counter. Mr James Bond, please.’ It was obviously that infernal tax form to show how much he had earned during his stay in America. On principle Bond never went to the Internal Revenue Office in New York to get clearance and he had only once had to argue it out at Idlewild. He went out of the shop and across to the BOAC counter. The official said politely, ‘May I see your health certificate, please, Mr Bond?’
Bond took the form out of his passport and handed it over.
The man looked at it carefully. He said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but there’s “been a typhoid case at Gander and they’re insisting that all transit passengers who haven’t had their shots in the last six months should be topped up. It’s most annoying, sir, but Gander’s very touchy about these things. Too bad we couldn’t have managed a direct flight, but there’s a strong head-wind.’
Bond hated inoculations. He said irritably, ‘But look here, I’m stuffed with shots of one kind or another. Been having them for twenty years for one damned thing or another!’ He looked round. The area near the BOAC departure gate seemed curiously deserted. He said, ‘What about the other passengers? Where are they?’
‘They’ve all agreed, sir. Just having their shots now. It won’t take a minute, sir, if you’ll come this way.’
‘Oh well.’ Bond shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He followed the man behind the counter and through a door to the BOAC station manager’s office. There was the usual white-clothed doctor, a mask over the bottom of his face, the needle held ready. ‘Last one?’ he asked of the BOAC official.