John Gardner - Seafire

"He's been fired – him and his girlfriend. Well, they've been suspended from duty. I think he wanted to go after you with guns blazing. I'm supposed to be keeping them under surveillance – that's a laugh. I've got complete control over the whole thing. Everything comes back to me, as usual."

"And?"

"And guess what? The pair of them have been dashing around London getting money and buying airline tickets."

"Going anywhere in particular?"

"Right into Sir Max's arms, I should think. They leave tomorrow. Gatwick/Atlanta, Georgia; then on to San Juan. I can pull the police and Security off, and let them out if you'd like another crack at them."

"What a coincidence." Goodwin gave a bray of laughter at the distant end. "When winter comes, then spring's not far behind. Thanks, Christopher. Maybe you'll get a bonus for this. Let 'em out."

"Just earning my keep, Maurice." The distant line went dead, and Christopher slowly put down the handset. "How did I do?"

"Best actor of the year. Oscar and our grateful thanks." Bond even managed to grin at the unpleasant man.

On the following morning, there was no holdup as they went through the routine passport check at Gatwick, and the flight to Atlanta took off on time.

Flicka seemed preoccupied as she looked out of the window next to her seat.

"You okay, Flick?" he asked.

"Sure, my dear. Sure. I think someone just walked over my grave and I got a bit maudlin. Wondered if I'd ever see this view again."

"Of course you will." He looked away, for if he had told the truth, he also had a lurking fear, an echo of his own mortality, something he rarely thought about.

From the air it looks lush and very beautiful: a green and pleasant land ringed by a shimmering sea. As their aircraft approached the rocky beaches, it seemed that the surf below was unmoving, as though sculpted onto a wonderful model, surrounded by an unreal emerald sea. Puerto Rico – Rich Port – is exactly what this island was for over four centuries: wealthy and powerful, the strategic gateway to the Caribbean, cooled by the gentle trade winds; guarded and nurtured by Spain, but also prey to pirates and acquisitive countries who coveted this staging point to the New World.

In the late twentieth century, it has again become rich, this time through tourism. Hardly a day passes without a major cruise ship lying in the port at San Juan, and the new luxury hotels and casinos, which line the shore of San José Lagoon, entice holidaymakers and high rollers.

Yet, side by side with its opulence and natural wonders, this lovely island has a dark side. The problems of drugs, poverty, and violence lurk, often unhidden, particularly in the old city of San Juan.

As they made the final approach into Luis Muñoz Marín International, Bond remarked that it looked as though they were landing on the huge strip of bridge that had only recently been completed across the lagoon. They seemed to be so low that they flew below the tops of high-rise buildings, and Flicka, usually oblivious to approach and landing dangers on commercial aircraft, closed her eyes and waited for the safe bump as the big jet's gear touched down on what even Bond considered a slightly narrow runway, a shade close to a long line of trees on their left side.

Nobody asked to see passports or any other documentation, and the porter who took their luggage from the carousel for them seemed quite happy to summon a taxi, and even happier with his tip. The driver of the cab asked if a price of twenty dollars was okay by them. Bond nodded, and the meter was immediately switched off.

They drove alongside the lagoon, glimpsing the new hotels where cruise ship passengers often stay in their hordes for one or two nights either before leaving or at the end of the cruise. These smart beehives, complete with large casinos and a multitude of restaurants, including fast-food joints imported from the United States, were often all visitors saw, except for a quick outing to Old San Juan and the two great forts, Castillo San Felipe del Morro – usually referred to simply as El Morro – and Castillo de San Cristóbal. Fortifications which rank among the greatest still standing.

Their driver skirted the old town and finally deposited them in a small open square facing the San Juan Cathedral. Porters hurried down steps to their left, and after Bond paid for the cab, he turned to see the imposing entrance to the Gran Hotel El Convento. For two hundred and fifty years, El Convento was home to the island's Carmelite nuns. Now, centuries later, the building has emerged, beautifully refurbished, as a unique caravansary.

Once through the ancient doors, they found themselves greeted like royalty, and, unusually, shown straight upstairs to their beautiful airy room with a large canopied bed.

"You think there's the ghost of a nun here?" Flicka laughed. "I mean, we're probably usurping some old holy woman's cell."

"I don't think whoever lived here before would even recognize it. The Carmelites are a rather strict order. Wouldn't know how to work the TV anyway."

They had been told to go through the registration procedure once they had settled in, so Bond went down, completed the paperwork, and asked if any forwarded luggage had arrived for them.

The young woman at reception told him mat there were two special cases that would be delivered to the room directly.

He was on his way back when an instantly recognizable voice spoke from behind him.

"Just in time for a predinner drink, James, old buddy."

"Felix!" He turned and could hardly believe that his old friend, Felix Leiter, stood behind him, leaning on his walking stick, a broad smile on his leathery Texan face.

"Fancy meeting me here, James. You haven't changed, I see. Noticed you arrived with a gorgeous lady in tow."

"There's a surprise for you regarding the lady." He looked affectionately at his old friend, who for many years had served with the Central Intelligence Agency. That career had been cut short by an argument with a shark while he was working with Bond, though you would hardly know that he had lost both a leg and an arm. True, he walked with the aid of a stick, but the prosthetic leg and arm allowed him to live an almost normal life.

"You here on business?" Bond stepped close to his old friend.

"You never get to leave the business completely, James. You should know that. They just pulled on my leash and brought me back. When they told me it concerned you, I couldn't say no. Anyway, the hotel's good, and the food and drink are more than bearable."

"How's Cedar?" Cedar Leiter was Felix's daughter, who had followed in her father's footsteps. Much to her father's concern, she had even worked with Bond on a case some years ago.

"Cedar's as lovely as ever. Thinking of getting married, but I have my doubts."

"Why? She's a great girl."

"Can you see Cedar married to a young man who never had to do a day's work in his life because his daddy made a killing in oil, way back when the USA produced all the gas you needed and then some?"

"She'd know how to spend his money."

"Sure she would, but I have a feeling that she'd soon find him dull as dirt. The guy has all this money and he's never been any further than New York City – and he thinks that den of iniquity is 'cool and awesome.' Those were his exact words, and he's over forty years old."

Bond leaned closer, and his lips hardly moved. "You know everything?"

"About Apocalypse? Sure, I know most of what you know. I've even been across the island to look at the little country place he has here. I'll take you over for a look-see tomorrow."

"So we're working together again, eh?"

"I am your guide, philosopher, and friend, James. Now, off you go and bring your lady down to the Campana Bar. Still like your martinis shaken, not stirred? And with the same ingredients?"