High Time To Kill Read online

  High Time to Kill

  By Raymond Benson

  Ian Fleming Publications

  IAN FLEMING PUBLICATIONS

  E-book published by Ian Fleming Publications

  Ian Fleming Publications Ltd, Registered Offices: 10-11 Lower John Street London

  www.ianfleming.com

  First published in the UK by Hodder and Stoughton 1999

  First published in the USA by G.P.Putnam’s Sons 1999

  Copyright © Ian Fleming Publications, 1999

  All rights reserved

  James Bond and 007 are trademarks of Danjaq, LLC, used under licence by Ian Fleming Publications Ltd

  The moral right of the copyright holder has been asserted

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-1-906772-51-2

  JAMES BOND TITLES BY RAYMOND BENSON

  NOVELS

  Zero Minus Ten (1997)

  The Facts of Death (1998)

  High Time to Kill (1999)

  DoubleShot (2000)

  Never Dream of Dying (2001)

  The Man With the Red Tattoo (2002)

  FILM NOVELIZATIONS

  (based on the respective screenplays)

  Tomorrow Never Dies (1997)

  The World is Not Enough (1999)

  Die Another Day (2002)

  SHORT STORIES

  Blast From the Past (1997)

  Midsummer Night's Doom (1999)

  Live at Five (1999)

  ANTHOLOGIES

  The Union Trilogy (2008)

  Choice of Weapons (2010)

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Besides writing official James Bond fiction between 1996-2002, RAYMOND BENSON is also known for The James Bond Bedside Companion, which was published in 1984 and was nominated for an Edgar. His first two entries of a new series of thrillers, which Booklist called “prime escapism,” are The Black Stiletto and The Black Stiletto: Black & White. As “David Michaels” Raymond is the author of the NY Times best-sellers Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell and Tom Clancy’s Splinter Cell—Operation Barracuda. He recently penned the best selling novelizations of Metal Gear Solid and its sequel Metal Gear Solid 2—Sons of Liberty, as well as Homefront: the Voice of Freedom, co-written with John Milius. Raymond’s original thrillers are Face Blind, Evil Hours, Sweetie’s Diamonds, Torment, Artifact of Evil, A Hard Day’s Death and the Shamus Award-nominated Dark Side of the Morgue. Visit him at his websites, www.raymondbenson.com and www.theblackstiletto.net.

  For my mentors

  Francis Hodge

  and

  Peter Janson-Smith

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  1 HOLIDAYS ARE HELL

  2 OLD RIVALS

  3 SKIN 17

  4 EMERGENCY

  5 THE GOLDEN PACEMAKER

  6 THE ROAD TO BRUSSELS

  7 BITTER SUITE

  8 A TASTE OF BELGIUM

  9 COVERING TRACKS

  10 FLIGHT INTO OBLIVION

  11 THE GREEN LIGHT

  12 NOT QUITE IMPOSSIBLE

  13 LE GÉRANT

  14 WELCOMING RECEPTION

  15 TEAMWORK

  16 THE TREK BEGINS

  17 ELIMINATING THE COMPETITION

  18 TENSIONS RISE

  19 KANGCH AT LAST

  20 HIGHER AND HIGHER

  21 THE MISSING BODY

  22 LOVE AND DEATH AT 7,900 METERS

  23 BLOOD, SWEAT, AND DEATH

  24 A BETTER WAY TO DIE

  25 HUMAN MACHINES

  26 THE COLD STONE HEART

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ONE

  HOLIDAYS ARE HELL

  THE BARRACUDA SURPRISED THEM BY OPENING ITS JAWS TO AN ANGLE OF ninety degrees, revealing the sharp rows of teeth that were capable of tearing out chunks of flesh in an instant. It closed its snarling mouth just as quickly, leaving a half-inch gap.

  Had it yawned?

  It was easily a twenty-pound fish. One of the most dangerous predators in the sea, the barracuda is an eating machine that rivals the ferocity of a shark. This one swam lazily along beside them, watching. It was curious about the two strange larger fish that had invaded its habitat.

  James Bond had never cared for barracudas. He’d rather be in a pit full of snakes than in proximity to one of them. It wasn’t that he was afraid of them but merely that he found them mean, vicious, and unpredictable creatures. There was no such thing as a barracuda in a good mood. He had to be on his guard without showing fear, for the fish could sense apprehension and often acted on it.

  Bond looked over at his companion. She was handling it well, watching the long, slender fish with fascination rather than trepidation.

  He motioned for her to swim on, and she nodded. They decided to ignore the barracuda, which proved to be the best tactic. It lost interest after a few minutes and swam away into the misty blue.

  Bond had always likened the undersea world to an alien landscape. It was silent and surreal, yet it was full of life. Some sea flowers shot down holes in the seabed as the two humans moved over them. A small octopus, or “pus-feller” (as Ramsey, his Jamaican housekeeper, called it), was propelling itself along the orange-and-brown-colored reef. Patches of sea grass hid the domains of the night-crawling lobsters and crabs.

  They swam toward the beach, eventually reaching a spot where they could stand. Bond pulled off the face mask and snorkel. Helena Marksbury emerged from the water and stood beside him. She removed her own mask and snorkel and laughed.

  “I do believe that fish wanted to take part of us home as a souvenir,” she said.

  “It wasn’t interested in me,” Bond said. “It was staring at you. Do you usually have that kind of effect on barracuda?”

  “I attract all the meat eaters, James,” she said with an inviting smile.

  March in the Bahamas was quite pleasant at eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The hot summer was just around the corner, and Bond had decided to take a week’s leave before then. It was the perfect time of year to be in the Caribbean. He had originally planned to spend the holiday at Shamelady, his private home on the north shore of Jamaica, but changed his mind when Helena Marksbury said that she had never been to Nassau. Bond offered to show her the islands.

  “Where did everyone go?” she asked, looking around at the empty beach. Earlier, there had been a few other snorkelers and sunbathers in the area. Now it was deserted.

  It was just after noon. Helena looked around for some shade and sat in the sand next to a large rock that provided some shelter fromthe fiercely bright sun. She knew she had to be careful not to get too much of it, as she had a light complexion and burned easily. Nevertheless, she had worn the skimpiest bikini she could find. She was most likely the only person who might notice a flaw—that her left breast drooped slightly lower than her right—but Helena knew that she had a good body, and didn’tmind showing it off. It just proved that nobodywas perfect.

  They were on the southwest side of New Providence Island, the most populous of all the Bahamas. Luckily, Bond had found a villa at Coral Harbour, somewhat removed from the hustle and bustle of metropolitan Nassau, which is the center of commerce, government, and transportation, on the northern side of the island. Here they were surrounded by beautiful beaches and reefs, country clubs and exclusive restaurants.

  “What am I supposed to wear tonight?” she asked him as he sat down beside her in the sand.
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  “Helena, I shouldn’t have to tell you how to dress,” he said. “You look marvelous in anything.”

  They had a dinner invitation at the home of the former Governor of the Bahamas, a man Bond had known for many years. They had become friends after a dinner party at which the Governor had presented Bond with a theory concerning love, betrayal, and cruelty between marriage partners. Calling it the “quantum of solace,” the Governor believed that the amount of comfort on which love and friendship is based could be measured. Unless there is a certain degree of humanity existing between two people, he maintained, there can be no love. It was an adage Bond had accepted as a universal truth.

  The Governor had long since retired but had remained in Nassau with his wife. Bond had made it a point to stop in and see him every time he went through the Bahamas, which wasn’t very often. When Bond went to the Caribbean, it was usually to his beloved Shamelady in Jamaica.

  Helena reclined and looked at Bond with her bewitching, almondshaped green eyes. She was beautiful—wet or dry—and could easily have been a fashion model. Unfortunately, she was Bond’s personal assistant at SIS, where they both worked. So far they had kept their affair a secret. They both knew that if they carried on much longer, someone at the office would find out. Not that there was anything particularly wrong with it, but office romances in this day and age were frowned upon. Bond justified it to himself because there had been a precedent. Several years ago he had been romantically involved with another personal assistant, Mary Goodnight. How could he forget their time together in Jamaica during the Scaramanga case?

  Helena was different from Mary Goodnight. A thoroughly modern woman of thirty-three, Helena Marksbury had none of Ms. Goodnight’s charming yet scatterbrained personality. She was a serious girl, with weighty ideas about politics and current events. She loved poetry, Shakespeare, and fine food and drink. She appreciated and understood the work Bond did and considered her own job just as important in the scheme of things at SIS. She also possessed a stubborn moral conscience that had taken Bond several months to penetrate before she agreed to see him socially.

  It had begun in the courtyard in the back of Sir Miles Messervy’s house, Quarterdeck, near Great Windsor Park. The occasion was a dinner party held there a year earlier, and the mutual physical attraction between Bond and Helena had become too much for them to ignore. They had gone for a walk outside and ended up kissing behind the house in the rain. Now, after three months of false starts and two months of cautious experimentation, Bond and Helena were dating. While they both acknowledged that their jobs came first, they enjoyed each other’s company enough to keep it going casually. Bond felt comfortable with Helena’s level of commitment, and the sex was outstanding. He saw no reason to rock the boat.

  There was no mistaking the invitation in her eyes, so Bond settled next to her wet body and kissed her. She wrapped one slinky leg around his thighs and pulled him closer.

  “Do you think we’re all alone?” she whispered.

  “I hope so,” he replied, “but I don’t really care at this point, do you?” He slipped the straps off her shoulders as she tugged at his bathing trunks.

  “Not at all, darling,” she said breathlessly. She helped him remove her bikini, and then his strong, knowing hands were all over her. She arched her back and responded with soft moans of pleasure.

  “Take me now, James,” she said softly in his ear. “Here.”

  She didn’t have to ask him twice.

  The Governor greeted Bond with an enthusiastic warm, dry handshake.

  “It’s great to see you again, James,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir, you’re looking well.”

  The Governor shook his head. “Lord, I’m an old man, and I look like one. But you haven’t changed a bit. What do you do, take frequent trips to the Fountain of Youth? And who might this lovely lady be?”

  “This is my assistant, Helena Marksbury,” Bond said. She was dressed in a fashionable lightweight red cotton dress with a wrap covering her bare shoulders and ample cleavage. Bond was wearing a light blue cotton short-sleeve polo shirt and navy blue cotton twill trousers. His light, gray silk basketweave jacket covered the Walther PPK that he still kept in a chamois shoulder holster.

  “Do you remember my wife, Marion?” the Governor asked, gesturing to a handsome woman with white hair and sparkling blue eyes.

  “Of course, how are you?”

  “Fine, James,” the woman said. “Come on in, both of you, please.”

  The dinner party was in a century-old colonial-style mansion off Thompson Boulevard, near the College of the Bahamas. The former Governor was obviously wealthy, as there seemed to be no end to the line of servants waiting to attend to Bond and his date. More than two dozen guests were already in the drawing room, which was next to a large living room with an open bay window overlooking expansive gardens. There were people outside as well, standing in clusters with drinks in hand. Ceiling fans leisurely provided a breeze.

  For the first time since he had been visiting the Governor, Bond also noticed an undeniable presence of security. Large men dressed in white sport coats were positioned at various entrances, suspiciously eyeing everyone who walked past. He wondered if there was perhaps some VIP present who would require such protection.

  As they were uncomfortable socializing with people they didn’t know, Bond and Helena kept to themselves and went outside to the gardens. It was still bright, and night wouldn’t fall for another two hours.

  They approached the outdoor bar. “Vodka martini, please,” Bond said, “shaken, not stirred, with a twist of lemon.”

  “I’ll have the same,” Helena said. She had actually grown to like the way Bond ordered his martini.

  “This is lovely,” Helena said.

  “It’s lovely as long as we’re alone,” Bond replied. “I don’t relish making small talk with the Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Millers of the world,” he said, indicating the other people milling around.

  “Who are Mr. and Mrs. Harvey Miller?”

  “Just a couple I met at a previous dinner party here.”

  “Ah, there you are,” the Governor declared. “I see you’ve got yourselves something to drink, good, good.… How’s Sir Miles doing, by the way?” He was referring to Bond’s old chief, the former M, Sir Miles Messervy.

  “He’s fine,” Bond was happy to report. “His health improved rapidly after he retired. Getting out of the job was the best thing for him really. He seems ten years younger.”

  “That’s good to hear. Tell him hello for me the next time you see him, would you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How do you get on with the new M?” the Governor asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “We have a sterling relationship,” Bond said.

  “No problems accepting orders from a woman? I’m surprised, James! You’re the one who once told me that you could marry only an air hostess or a Japanese woman.”

  Bond grinned wryly at the memory. “She runs a tight ship and runs it well.”

  “Well, that’s great! I’m glad to hear it,” the Governor said with a little too much enthusiasm. Bond thought he might be a bit drunk. “Listen, I’m so glad you came, really, James, because I want to—”

  The Governor’s attention was distracted by the head servant, a black man with gray hair and glasses, whispering to one of the security guards some fifteen feet away. The guard, a Caucasian who might have been a professional wrestler, nodded and left the scene.

  “Everything all right, Albert?” the Governor called.

  “Yessuh,” Albert said. “I sent Frank to take a look at someone’s motor scooter parked outside the fence.”

  “Ahhh,” the Governor said. For a moment Bond thought he appeared nervous and perhaps a little frightened.

  Bond asked, “You were saying?”

  “Right. I was saying there was something I’d like you to take a look at. Privately. In my office. Would you mind?”

  Bond loo
ked at Helena. She shrugged. “I’m fine,” she said, eyeing a large tray of peeled shrimp. “Go ahead. I’ll be somewhere around here.”

  Bond squeezed her arm and then followed the Governor back into the house. They went up an elegant winding staircase to the second floor and into the Governor’s study. Once they were inside, the Governor closed the door.

  “You’re being very mysterious,” Bond said. “I’m intrigued.”

  The Governor moved around his desk and unlocked a drawer. “I think I’m in a bit of trouble, James,” he said. “And I’d like your advice.”

  The man was genuinely concerned. The levity in Bond’s voice immediately vanished. “Of course,” he said.

  “Ever heard of these people?” his friend asked, handing over a letter in a transparent plastic sleeve.

  Bond looked at the piece of paper. It was an 8 12-by-11-inch piece of typing paper with the words “Time Is Up” centered in the middle of the page. At the bottom it was signed “The Union.”

  Bond nodded. “The Union. Interesting. Yes, we know about the Union.”

  “Can you tell me about them?” the Governor asked. “I haven’t gone to the local police here, but I’ve already sent a query to London. I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “Is this message, ‘time is up,’ meant for you?” Bond asked.

  The Governor nodded. “I’m heavily in debt to a man in Spain. It was a real estate transaction that wasn’t particularly … honest, I’m sorry to say. Anyway, I received one letter from this Union, or whatever they are, two months ago. In that one it said that I had two months to pay up. I don’t want to do that because the man in Spain is a crook. I got this letter four days ago.Who are they, James?Are they some kind of Mafia?”

  “They’re not unlike the Mafia, but they are much more international. SIS only recently became aware of their activities. What we do know is that they are a group of serious mercenaries out for hire by any individual or government that will employ them.”

  “How long have they been around?”