Raymond Benson - High Time To Kill

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 looked 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 l\2-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?”

“Not long. Three years, maybe.”

“I’ve never heard of them. Are they really dangerous?”

Bond handed the letter back to the Governor. “As a work-for-hire outfit, they have to be experts at anything from petty street crime to sophisticated and elaborate espionage schemes. They are reportedly responsible for the theft of military maps from the Pentagon in the United States. The maps disappeared from right under the noses of highly-trained security personnel. A well-protected Mafia don was murdered about a year ago in Sicily. The Union supposedly supplied the hit man for that job. They recently blackmailed a French politician for fifty million francs. The Deuxième got wind of it and passed the information on to us. One of the most recent reports that went through my office stated that the Union were beginning to specialize in military espionage and selling the fruits of their findings to other nations. Apparently they have no loyalty to any one nation. Their primary motive is greed, and they can be quite ruthless. If that letter was meant for you, then, yes, I would have to say that they are indeed quite dangerous.”

The Governor sat. He looked worried. “But who’s behind them? Where are they based?”