Raymond Benson: High Time To Kill

“Oh, bad luck!” Marquis said with glee. Bond eventually took a bogey on the hole, while the others made par. Marquis and Harding maintained their lead.

While walking up the seventh fairway together, Tanner said to Bond, “Nice try.”

“Bollocks,” Bond said. “You know, I think it’s taken me all these years to realize how intensely I dislike that man.”

“Try not to let it affect your game, James,” Tanner advised. “I agree with you, he’s as obnoxious as hell.”

“I can’t hate him too much, though.”

“Why not?”

Bond thought a moment before answering. “He’s made of the same stuff as me,” he said. “Roland Marquis, his personality faults notwithstanding, is good at what he does. You have to admit that he’s a bloody fine player, and he’s one hell of an athlete. His accomplishments in the RAF and in the mountains are impressive. He could just use some lessons in humility.”

“I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man as well,” Tanner mused.

“That’s right. England’s most eligible bachelor.”

“Besides you.”

Bond disregarded the quip. “He flaunts his dates with supermodels, actresses, very wealthy widows, and divorcees. He’s the sort of celebrity that bores me to tears.”

“I’ll bet you were rivals over a girl when you were younger,” Tanner said perceptively.

“As a matter of fact, we were,” Bond admitted. “He stole her right from under my nose. He engineered the entire seduction to get the better of me.”

“What was her name?” Tanner said, smiling.

Bond looked at him and said with a straight face, “Felicity Mountjoy.”

The chief of staff pursed his lips and nodded, as if that explained everything.

Bond got lucky on the ninth hole and made a birdie, while the other three all made par. Bond was one under par on the front nine and Tanner was two over. Marquis, however, was two under par and his partner was two over. The Stableford score was Marquis and Harding thirty-six, Bond and Tanner thirty-five.

They sat outside in back of the clubhouse to have a drink before playing the back nine. Bond ordered vodka, on the rocks, and set his gun-metal cigarette case on the table beside the glass. Tanner had a Guinness. The sound of bagpipes and drums was coming faintly over the trees from outside the chapel on the estate grounds.

“The Gurkhas are here,” Tanner observed.

The Pipes and Drums marching band of the Royal Gurkha Rifles often played at Stoke Poges, for the Gurkha Memorial Garden was located near the course. Elite fighting men recruited from Nepal to serve with the British army since 1815, Gurkhas are considered to be among the fiercest and bravest soldiers on the planet.

“We’re not far from Church Crookham.” Bond said, referring to the regiment’s home base.

Marquis and Harding joined them, each earning a pint.

“Vodka, Bond?” Marquis pointed. “That’s right, I remember now. You’re a vodka man. You like martinis.” He pronounced the word with exaggerated erudition. “Vodka will dull your sense’s, my boy.”

“Not at all,” Bond said. “I find it sharpens them.” He opened the gunmetal case and removed one of the specially made cigarettes with the three distinctive gold bands.

“What kind of cigarettes are those?” Marquis asked.

“I have them custom made,” Bond explained. Morland’s and H. Simmons had gone out of business, so he now ordered his cigarettes directly from a company called Tor Importers, which specialized in Turkish and Balkan tobacco. His was a blend with low tar that he liked.

Marquis chuckled, “Well, let’s try one then!”

Bond offered the case to him, and then the other men. Harding took one, but Tanner refused.

Marquis lit the cigarette and inhaled. He rolled the smoke around inside his mouth as if he were tasting wine. He exhaled and said, “Can’t say I care for it much, Bond.”

“It’s probably too strong for your taste,” Bond replied.

Marquis smiled and shook his head. “You always have a comeback, don’t you, Bond?”

Bond ignored him and finished his drink, then put out the cigarette. He glanced up at the sky and said, “Those clouds don’t look friendly. We had better get started.”

The sun had completely vanished. Thunder rumbled lightly in the distance.

As Bond predicted, it started to rain on the thirteenth hole, but it wasn’t heavy, and they continued to play. Apart from Marquis’s birdie on the eleventh, everyone had made par on the first three holes of the back nine. With Marquis and Harding still in the lead, the game had become a contest of machismo between Bond and Marquis. The tension between them was palpable; it even made Tanner and Harding uncomfortable. The rain didn’t help matters. Everyone but Marquis was in a foul mood when they approached the fourteenth tee.

The score remained constant after the fourteenth and fifteenth holes. Bond had to do something to better theirs. Hole sixteen had recently been redesigned. It was a par 4 at 320 yards. The old green had been tree-lined on both sides and protected by a bunker in front and a greenside bunker to the left. Now the green was farther back, closer to the small pond, so that an overshot would be a disaster. It was another opportunity for Bond to try his backspin. His tee-off sent the ball 210 yards straight down the fairway, where it landed in an excellent position. Marquis performed an equally impressive shot, dropping a mere six feet away from Bond’s ball. Tanner and Harding did well enough, both driving their balls 175 yards onto the fairway. Bond approached the ball with the Lyconite wedge once again. If he could make this shot, he would narrow the gap between the scores.

The rain had subsided, so now the grass was wet and heavy. It made the task even more difficult.

“That little backspin might work for you this time, Bond,” Marquis said. He perceived that Bond was about to try it again and simply wanted to rattle his nerves.

Bond paid no attention and concentrated on the ball. He shook his shoulders, rotated his head, and felt his neck crack, then took his stance over the ball. He was ready.

Tanner watched, biting his lower lip. Harding, who hadn’t said more than twenty-five words all day, nervously chewed on a scoring pencil. Marquis stood with casual indifference, expecting Bond to muck it up.

Bond swung, snapped the ball into the air, and watched as it fell neatly on the back of the green. Would it roll off, away from the hole and into the pond? He held his breath.

The ball, propelled by a perfect backspin, rolled toward the hole and stopped an inch from the pin. If it weren’t for the moisture on the green, the ball would have dropped in the cup.

Tanner and Harding both cheered. Marquis didn’t say a word. His feathers ruffled, he knocked his ball straight into the bunker on the side of the green.

As they approached the eighteenth tee, the score was 70 to 69 in favor of Marquis and Harding. It was a par 4 at 406 yards. With a magnificent view of the mansion, the hole was uphill with bunkers on the right at 184 yards and out of bounds on the left from the tee. What made the hole extra difficult was the second shot, which had to go over a hollow just short of the green. The green was slightly ele-vated and bunkered on both sides, and it sloped from left to right.

Bond knocked the ball to a position nearly 180 yards from the green. Marquis made an identical shot, knocking his ball into Bond’s and causing it to roll a few feet forward.

“Thanks, that’s where I really wanted to be,” Bond said.

“As the song goes, Bond, ‘anything you can do, I can do better,’ “ Marquis said. He had meant to hit Bond’s ball just to prove something. All four men made par on the hole. After Harding sank the last putt of the game, Tanner sighed heavily and looked at Bond. They had lost the game with the score at 74 to 73. Now they had to come up with five hundred pounds.