John Gardner - Seafire

"Yes indeed, even though the author of a book called Drinkmanship says that the mix is all wrong."

Leiter's laugh followed Bond as he took long strides in the direction of the cloistered arches and their room, where a porter was just delivering a pair of heavy aluminum cases.

"What have we got in those?" Flicka had already unpacked and showered. She sat at the elegant little dressing table putting on her warpaint, as she liked to call it. "They look like camera cases."

"A shade more lethal." He dialed in the prearranged codes on the locks of the cases and found the note in the first one he opened. Ann Reilly had done her best regarding the larger item for which he had asked.

Some of our friends , she had written, will see to it that you get the thing if you really need it .

As he went through the weapons, ammunition, and the like, held within the cases by egg-crate foam rubber, he told Flicka about Felix Leiter.

"You mean I get to meet him at last?" She had heard much about his old friend.

"You certainly do get to meet him." He lifted the foam rubber from the bottom of the second case to reveal five boxes about six inches long and two across. "She did it," he muttered. "Little jewels." He wondered how on earth Q'ute had managed to smuggle explosives onto the island.

"Where?"

"Not your kind of jewels, darling. This kind will blow people to kingdom come. By the way, what are you wearing tonight?"

"A skirt."

"There you go, then. Your favorite Beretta and a thigh holster."

"Oh, your favorite, James." She took the holster and strapped it on, reminding him of the first flash of her thighs that he had ever seen – when she had suddenly drawn a pistol from that same type of holster in Switzerland.

While she finished dressing, he took a quick shower, changed into slacks, comfortable moccasins, and a white shirt, over which he put on a lightweight blazer – mainly to hide the bulge made by the ASP.

Finally, after numerous changes in her small items of jewelry – and a lot of "What do you think, James? This one, or this?" – they went down to join Felix in the Campana Bar, where he already had a couple of martinis lined up.

"Just so you don't get too far behind." He gave Flicka a warm embrace, saying he had a kind of droit du seigneur where Bond's girlfriends were concerned.

"I'm afraid not with Flicka, Felix." He went on and broke the news to the American.

"You're kidding me? You, James?" Then, looking at Flicka, "Tell me he's kidding me."

"'Fraid not, Felix. It's the real thing this time, but for heaven's sake don't tell anyone. They'd whiz me out of here like a speeding bullet."

Felix said he was the most trustworthy man this side of George Washington, but this news, of course, called for champagne, which he ordered immediately. Under cover of the small ceremony by the waiters, he leaned over and spoke quietly to Bond. "There's a face over there I kinda recognize, James. You ever seen him before?"

There were only three other people in the bar. Two men and a woman, sitting together, very relaxed and in deep conversation.

"The one with the beard?"

"That's the guy. I've seen him somewhere, or maybe just his photograph."

"'America's Most Wanted'?"

"Don't be a fool. I'm talking big-time names here. That guy's famous for something."

"I vaguely know the face, but can't put a name to him. Nothing for us to worry about."

In spite of the last remark, Bond quickly gave the trio a thorough once-over. The bearded man was short and stocky, probably in his late forties, with a fine weather-beaten face. The woman could be any age between eighteen and thirty-five, as she had one of those faces with a scrubbed look, dark hair that hung lank around her shoulders, so that it regularly had to be pushed back with a thin hand. The final member of the party was clean-shaven, earnest-looking, with his hair beginning to recede. He had the manner of an academic, the shoulders slightly stooped, his eyes bright behind a pair of wire-framed glasses.

Felix was in top form and kept the three of them going with a fund of stories, all of which were supposed to be true, most of them having happened to him personally. Bond had forgotten what a good raconteur and companion his old friend could be, and they relaxed over dinner, which, as was his way, Felix ordered for them. Tonight he obviously realized that they would not want anything heavy after the long journey, so they ate simply – smoked salmon and Salade Niçoise, followed by an unforgettable chocolate mousse.

It was Leiter who suggested they return to the bar for coffee and what he called "a little firewater to make us sleep."

The trio was still there, and he caught the bearded man's eye as they walked in. Immediately, Felix being Felix, addressed him. "I'm only an old Texas cowhand, but I seen you somewhere, sir. You're kinda famous for something and darned if I can put my finger on what exactly."

The bearded man's face broke into a wide, almost youthful grin. "You must have been reading some very rare magazines, sir. I'm only known in my field. The name's Rex Rexinus."

"I'm Felix Leiter, and you're a marine biologist, right?"

"Absolutely right."

"See," Felix turned to his friends, "I told you this guy was famous. You wrote a book about deep-ocean fish."

"If you've worked your way through that, then you're very well read, and I doubt if you're really an old cowhand."

"Maybe I stretched the point with that. I been in and out of all kinds of business. But it's been great meeting you, Dr. Rexinus."

"Please, join us." Rexinus stood and was already pulling up chairs.

"Well, you've got to meet my friends here. This is…"

"James Busby, and this is my wife, Vic."

"Yeah." Felix was putting on his most outrageous drawl. "James and Vic."

"And my friends." Rexinus leaned over and shook hands. "This is Vesta Motley, and my other friend here is Professor Afton Fritz."

"Not Professor Fritz, the biochemist?"

"You're a walking encyclopedia, Mr. Leiter. Yes, I'm a biochemist, as, indeed, is Ms. Motley – among other things." Fritz had a slightly high-pitched voice that somehow did not go with his face, while Vesta Motley's "How do you do?" was very English.

They ordered drinks and there were a few moments of small talk until Felix, still playing the Texan abroad, asked, "What in heaven's name brings a couple of biochemists and a marine biologist of renown to San Juan?"

"Good question, Felix." Rexinus put his head back and laughed. "We thought we were onto something good. About a year ago the three of us had an idea which we felt would benefit the world, but we didn't have the money to carry through our research."

"Ain't that always the way?"

"Usually, yes. But suddenly we found a benefactor, though now we're at a loss what to do. We have the most magnificent floating laboratory out there in the harbor, and we've found that all three of us were wrong." He punctuated this with another laugh. "You see we were only half right in our theory, which is about as good as being completely wrong. Now we're in even deeper water because the very generous and rich man who backed the entire venture has gone and got himself killed in a car accident, and we can't get a peep out of his company offices in London."

"And who's the filthy-rich benefactor?" Bond stirred in his chair.

"Man called Tarn." Rexinus grunted. "Sir Max Tarn. You may have heard of him."

"Vaguely," said Flicka a shade too quickly.

"I mean, I'm sorry for the fellow, getting killed, but it makes life easier for us in some ways."

"Why would that be?" Bond asked stiffly, as though just getting over a shot of Novocain.

"Well." It was Vesta Motley who answered him. "Sir Max is one of these people who demand results. He gave us a year, and – just before his death – he cabled us to say he would be coming here to San Juan to see a demonstration of the thing we cannot demonstrate."