THUNDERBALL: by Ian Fleming

“It certainly must. Mr. Player must have been a very thoughtful man.”

The girl was slowly returning from her dreamland. She said in a different, rather prim voice, “Well, thank you anyway for having listened to the story. I know it’s all a fairy tale. At least I suppose it is. But children are stupid in that way. They like to have something to keep under the pillow until they’re quite grown up—a rag doll or a small toy or something. I know that boys are just the same. My brother hung on to a little metal charm his nanny had given him until he was nineteen. Then he lost it. I shall never forget the scenes he made. Even though he was in the Air Force by then and it was the middle of the war. He said it brought him luck.” She shrugged her shoulders. There was sarcasm in her voice as she said, “He needn’t have worried. He did all right. He was much older than me, but I adored him. I still do. Girls always love crooks, particularly if they’re their brother. He did so well that he might have done something for me. But he never did. He said that life was every man for himself. He said that his grandfather had been so famous as a poacher and a smuggler in the Dolomites that his was the finest tombstone among all the Petacchi graves in the graveyard at Bolzano. My brother said he was going to have a finer one still, and by making money the same way.” Bond held his cigarette steady. He took a long draw at it and let the smoke out with a quiet hiss. “Is your family name Petacchi, then?”

“Oh, yes. Vitali is only a stage name. It sounded better so I changed it. Nobody knows the other. I’ve almost forgotten it myself. I’ve called myself Vitali since I came back to Italy. I wanted to change everything.”

“What happened to your brother? What was his first name?” “Giuseppe. He went wrong in various ways. But he was a wonderful flyer. Last time I heard of him he’d been given some high-up job in Paris. Perhaps that’ll make him settle down. I pray every night that it will. He’s all I’ve got. I love him in spite of everything. You understand that?”

Bond stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. He called for the bill. He said, “Yes, I understand that.”

16.

Swimming the Gantlet

The dark water below the police wharf sucked and kissed at the rusty iron stanchions. In the latticed shadows cast through the ironwork by the three-quarter moon, Constable Santos heaved the single aqualung cylinder up onto Bond’s back and Bond secured the webbing at his waist so that it would not snarl the strap of Leiter’s second Geiger counter, the underwater model. He fitted the rubber mouthpiece between his teeth and adjusted the valve release until the air supply was just right. He turned off the supply and took out the mouthpiece. The music of the steel band in the Junkanoo night club tripped gaily out over the water. It sounded like a giant spider dancing on a tenor xylophone.

Santos was a huge colored man, naked except for his swimming trunks, with pectoral muscles the size of dinner plates. Bond said, “What should I expect to see at this time of night? Any big fish about?”

Santos grinned. “Usual harbor stuff, sah. Some barracuda perhaps. Mebbe a shark. But they’s lazy an’ overfed with the refuse an muck from de drains. Dey won’t trouble you—less you bleedin’ that is. They’ll be night-crawlin’ things on the bottom—lobster, crab, mebbe a small pus-feller or two. The bottom’s mostly seagrass on bits o’ iron from wrecks an plenty of bottle and suchlike. Mucky, if you get me, sah. But the water’s clear and you’ll be hokay with this moon and the lights from the Disco to guide you. Tek you bout twelve, fifteen minute, I’da say. Funny ting. I been lookin’ for an hour and dere’s no watchman on deck an no one in the wheelhouse. An the bit o’ breeze should hide you bubbles. Coulda give you an oxygen rebreather, but ah doan like dem tings. Them dangerous.”