John Gardner - Seafire

He sighed. "I'm not even convinced that we do have the okay from them."

"What do you mean, James? You're getting paranoid about this."

"Give me a little time. If I'm not back by noon, make all the telephone calls you want. At least let me have a shot at the submarine. Perhaps you're right. Perhaps we should report to everyone and pray for the marines to arrive to put an end to this madness. But will you just give me a little time to set them up?"

She was very unhappy, but in the short time they had been together, Flicka von Grüsse had discovered that James Bond could be more than stubborn.

"Okay." She glared at him. "You have your moment of glory, James. Go and deal with the submarine, but if you're not back by nine, I'm going to alert London. Not a minute too soon, either. You've got until nine in the morning. Right?"

He gave her a bleak smile, signaling agreement to the compromise. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was just after nine now. "I've got less than twelve hours."

"Well, you'd better get cracking, James, because I'm not going to be responsible for any cock-up that leaves this harbor in flames and half the Caribbean polluted for all time. So get going."

He distributed the items he needed around the belt. Pistol, knife, the small high-powered flashlight, compact tool kit, and the five oblong boxes from the bottom of the second case. The boxes he had called his "little jewels." He slung the wet suit over one arm and went over to Flicka, who still looked angry. "Don't worry. Flick. I'll be back. This is just a safeguard. The minute I'm back we'll both call London and Washington. You're basically right, but I want to cover all the bases."

She clung to him as though saying goodbye for the last time. "Be careful, darling James. I want you around for the wedding, remember?"

"I'll be there, with a smile on my face and everything intact."

"I'm not so worried about the smile. Just make sure everything's in working order. I'd hate you to be encumbered with prosthetic body parts like Felix."

Minutes later he retrieved the car from El Convento's parking place and was heading out of San Juan, taking the most direct road across the island to Ponce.

Flicka pulled herself together once he had left the hotel. She even cursed herself. During the years she had spent with Swiss Intelligence and security services she had been known for her cool and decisive courage. Now that Bond was in her life she seemed to have lost some of that calm reserve, and she was not overjoyed by the lapse. She presumed that it had something to do with her body chemistry, for Fredericka von Grüsse had to admit she had never, in her entire life, loved a man with this kind of intensity.

Well, she thought as she began to undress, he really only has until nine in the morning. Then I'll make such a fuss that London and the Americans will have to send an entire battle group if necessary.

She went into the bathroom, pulled a shower cap over her hair, and surrendered to the soothing warm water. When she eventually turned off the shower, she reached from behind the curtain and grabbed a towel before stepping out.

She screamed when she saw them, Maurice Goodwin and the black girl called Beth. They stood just inside the bathroom door, and Beth held the Beretta that Flicka had left with her clothes on the bed.

"Honey, you're all alone here. Thought we'd keep you company." Beth was eyeing her unpleasantly. "It's okay," she continued. "Maurice has to go out, but I can keep you company until your friend comes back."

Flicka took in a lungful of air. "He isn't coming back." She kept her voice level.

"A likely tale. If I was a man, there's no way I'd leave a sweet piece like you on your own."

"Please yourself. But he's not coming back and there's an end to it."

"So where's he gone?" Goodwin eyed her lecherously. "I need to know, Fräulein von Grüsse, and I need to know fast. Beth here is clever at inflicting pain. She's made a kind of art form of it. So tell me now. Where's he gone?"

"Off the island. If you want to know, we've had what you might call a falling-out. He stormed out of the hotel and said he wouldn't be back."

"You tellin' the truth, honey?" Beth came toward her. Close up she was a little older than Flicka had thought. Late thirties. Her fingers were heavy with rings and her eyes looked red and sore, like someone with conjunctivitis, but they did not stop moving, flicking from side to side as though she had the extraordinary vision of a chameleon.

"You tellin' the truth, honey?" she repeated, and before Flicka had a chance to reply, Beth's right hand whipped back and slapped her full and hard on the cheek, the heavy rings scraping at her flesh and knocking her head sideways.

She fell against the wall, steadied herself, and tried not to show how much the blow had hurt her. "Talk to me, bitch." Beth's voice had a slightly slurred note, and it crossed Flicka's mind that the woman was on some kind of drug.

"I've told you -" Her words were cut off by another stinging, pain-drenched slap. This time harder, and followed by an even heavier backhander to her other cheek.

Taken by surprise, and stark naked from the shower, there was little she could do, but she had to fight back. Turning her body to present a smaller target, she launched herself toward the woman, one hand chopping at her assailant's neck. It was like hitting a solid punching bag and only seemed to enrage Beth even more, for out of nowhere a ringed hand caught her hard with two heavy blows to the breasts.

"Talk to me, bitch. Where's he gone?"

"I don't… Truly, I don't know."

"The truth, honey. The truth shall set you free, that's what's in the Good Book. Now, set yourself free." The hand rose again, and this time Flicka could hardly see from the pain that saturated her face. The backhander that followed almost made her black out, but she could still hear the voice, intimidating and relentless. "The truth, honey, just tell me the truth, then we can all have some real fun."

She heard her own voice from what seemed to be a long way off. "I've told you the truth. I don't -"

The pain again. Now it was as if she were living in her own private world of agony, though the voice of her conscience repeated to her again and again: Don't tell them anything. Keep James safe .

She felt for the corner of the wall with her feet and tried to push herself toward Beth, hands bunched into fists, striking out for the woman's throat. Before her hands got anywhere near their target, another blow sent her sprawling back onto the floor.

"Talk to me, bitch."

"I really don't know. Stop. I don't…"

She prayed for the darkness of unconsciousness or even death, and knew that at least one of her cheekbones was almost certainly broken. The hands of this black horror, reinforced by the heavy rings, were like pieces of steel. The hurt filling her life.

Again: "The truth shall set you free, honey. Where's he gone?"

Then one more time, to the left cheek and then the right. She felt blood wet on her cheek and running down her nose, while Beth's voice sounded distorted. "Tell me the truth, bitch." Crack. A whole avalanche of torment. A numbness as she cannoned off the wall, and voices coming from miles away, from the end of a long dark tunnel.

"You've done it again, Beth. She's out."

Flicka could hardly make out the words.

"Then I guess she tellin' the truth. You've seen this before, Mo -"

"Don't call me Mo. The name's Maurice."

"She don't know where he is, that's for sure."

"Then we'd better get her out of here. Take her to Max's place. You can work on her quietly there, just in case you're wrong."

"I'm seldom wrong, baby. You know that. She tellin' the truth, so why don' I just set her free here and now?"