Bond caught a glint of movement out in the open behind Largo. Someone to the rescue? But the glint was white, not black. It was one of theirs!
Largo leaped forward.
Bond kicked off the coral and dived down for Largo’s groin, the jagged rock in his hand. But Largo was ready. His knee came up hard against Bond’s head and at the same time his right hand came swiftly down and clamped the small octopus across Bond’s mask. Then from above, both his hands came down and got Bond by the neck, lifted him up like a child, and held him at arm’s length, pressing. Bond could see nothing. Vaguely he felt the slimy tentacles groping over his face, getting a grip on the mouthpiece between his teeth, pulling. But the blood was roaring in his head and he knew he was gone. Slowly he sank to his knees. But how, why was he sinking? What had happened to the hands at his throat? His eyes, squeezed tight in agony, opened and there was light. The octopus, now at his chest, let go and shot away among the coral. In front of him Largo, Largo with a spear sticking horribly through his neck, lay kicking feebly on the sand. Behind him and looking down at the body stood a small, pale figure fitting another spear into an underwater gun. The long hair flowed round her head like a veil in the luminous sea.
Bond got slowly to his feet. He took a step forward. Suddenly he felt his knees beginning to give. A wave of blackness began to creep up over his vision. He leaned against the coral, his mouth slackening round the oxygen tube. Water seeped into his mouth. No! He said to himself. No! Don’t let that happen!
A hand took one of his. But Domino’s eyes behind her mask were somewhere else. They were blank, lost. She was ill! What was the matter with her? Bond was suddenly awake again. His eyes took in the blood patches on her bathing dress, the angry red marks on her body between the scraps of bikini. They would both die, standing there, unless he did something about it. Slowly his leaden legs began to stir the black fins. They were moving up. It wasn’t so difficult after all. And now, vaguely, her own fins were helping.
The two bodies reached the surface together and lay, face downward, in the shallow troughs of the waves.
The oyster light of dawn slowly turned pink. It was going to be a beautiful day.
24.
“Take It Easy, Mr. Bond”
Felix Leiter came into the white, antiseptic room and closed the door conspiratorially behind him. He came and stood beside the bed where Bond lay on the edge of drugged sleep. “How’s it going, feller?”
“Not bad. Just doped.”
“Doctor said I wasn’t to see you. But I thought you might care to hear the score. Okay?”
“Sure.” Bond struggled to concentrate. He didn’t really care. All he could think about was the girl.
“Well, I’ll make it quick. Doctor’s just doing his rounds and I’ll get hell if he finds me here. They’ve recovered both bombs, and Kotze—the physicist chap—is singing like a bird. Seems SPECTRE’S a bunch of really big-time hoodlums—ex-operators of SMERSH, the Mafia, the Gestapo—all the big outfits. Headquarters in Paris. Top man’s called Blofeld, but the bastard got away—or anyway they haven’t caught up with him yet, according to C.I.A. Probably Largo’s radio silence warned him. Must be quite a Mister Genius. Kotze says SPECTRE’S banked millions of dollars since they got going five or six years ago. This job was going to be the final haul. You were right about Miami. It was going to be Target No. 2. Same sort of operation. They were going to plant the second bomb in the yacht basin. Bond smiled weakly. “So now everybody’s happy.” “Oh, sure. Except me. Haven’t been able to get away from my damned radio until now. Valves were almost blowing. And there’s a pile of cipher stuff from M just longing for you to get around to it. Thank God the top brass from C.I.A. and a team from your outfit are flying in this evening to take charge. Then we can hand over and watch our two Governments getting snarled up over the epilogue— what to tell the public, what to do with these SPECTRE guys, whether to make you a lord or a duke, how to persuade me to run for President—tricky little details like that. And then we’ll damned well get away and have ourselves a ball some place. Maybe you’d care to take that girl along? Hell, she’s the one that rates the medals! The guts! They cottoned onto her Geiger counter. God knows what that bastard Largo did to her. But she didn’t sing—not a damned word! Then, when the team was under way, she somehow got herself out of the cabin porthole, with her gun and aqualung, and went to get him. Got him, and saved your life into the bargain! I swear I’ll never call a girl a `frail’ again—not an Italian girl, anyway. Leiter cocked an ear. He moved swiftly to the door. “Hell, there’s that damned medic gumshoeing down the corridor! Be seeing you, James.” He quickly turned the door handle, listened for a moment, and slipped out of the room.