And Bond had leaped at the flimsy thread and had pursued it for another two hours— in the Customs building and in the Commissioner’s office— and, as a result, he had gone walking in the town to see if he could get a look at Largo or any of his party or pick up any other shreds of gossip. As a result he had got a good look at Domino Vitali.
And now?
The taxi had arrived at the airport. Bond told the driver to wait and walked into the long low entrance hall just as the arrival of Larkin’s flight was being announced over the Tannoy. He knew there would be the usual delay for customs and immigration. He went to the souvenir shop and bought a copy of the New York Times . In its usual discreet headlines it was still leading with the loss of the Vindicator. Perhaps it knew also about the loss of the atom bombs, because Arthur Krock, on the editorial page, had a heavyweight column about the security aspects of the NATO alliance. Bond was halfway through this when a quiet voice in his ear said, “007? Meet No. 000.”
Bond swung round. It was! It was Felix Leiter!
Leiter, his C.I.A. companion on some of the most thrilling cases in Bond’s career, grinned and thrust the steel hook that was his right hand under Bond’s arm. “Take it easy, friend. Dick Tracy will tell all when we get out of here. Bags are out front. Let’s go.”
Bond said, “Well God damn it! You old so-and-so! Did you know it was going to be me?”
“Sure. C.I.A. knows all.”
At the entrance Leiter had his luggage, which was considerable, put aboard Bond’s taxi, and told the driver to take it to the Royal Bahamian. A man standing beside an undistinguished-looking black Ford Consul sedan left the car and came up. “Mr. Larkin? I’m from the Hertz company. This is the car you ordered. We hope she’s what you want. You did specify something conventional.”
Leiter glanced casually at the car. “Looks all right. I just want a car that’ll go. None of those ritzy jobs with only room for a small blonde with a sponge bag. I’m here to do property work— not jazz it up.
“May I see your New York license, sir? Right. Then if you’ll just sign here . . . and I’ll make a note of the number of your Diner’s Club card. When you go, leave the car anywhere you like and just notify us. We’ll collect it. Have a good holiday, sir.”
They got into the car. Bond took the wheel. Leiter said that he’d have to practice a bit on what he called “this Limey southpaw routine” of driving on the left, and anyway he’d be interested to see if Bond had improved his cornering since their last drive together.
When they were out of the airport Bond said, “Now go ahead and tell. Last time we met you were with Pinkertons. What’s the score?”
“Drafted. Just damned well drafted. Hell, anyone would think there was a war on. You see, James, once you’ve worked for C.I.A., you’re automatically put on the reserve of officers when you leave. Unless you’ve been cashiered for not eating the code book under fire or something. And apparently my old Chief, Alien Dulles that is, just didn’t have the men to go round when the President sounded the fire alarm. So I and twenty or so other guys were just pulled in—drop everything, twenty-four hours to report. Hell! I thought the Russians had landed! And then they tell me the score and to pack my bathing trunks and my spade and bucket and come on down to Nassau. So of course I griped like hell. Asked them if I shouldn’t brush up on my Canasta game and take some quick lessons in the cha-cha. So then they unbuttoned and told me I was to team up with you down here and I thought maybe if that old bastard of yours, N or M or whatever you call him, had sent you down here with your old equalizer, there might be something cooking in the pot after all. So I picked up the gear you’d asked for from Admin., packed the bow and arrows instead of the spade and bucket, and here I am. And that’s that. Now you tell, you old sonofabitch. Hell, it’s good to see you.”