Flemming, Ian James Bond 07 Goldfinger By Ian Fleming

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makeshift huddle of concrete boxes that Bond knew so well. Already the well mannered
iron voices were reaching out to them. 'Pan American World Airways announces the
departure of its President Flight PA 100', 'Transworld Airways calling Captain Murphy.
Captain Murphy, please.' And the pear-shaped vowels and fluted diction of BOAC,
'BOAC announces the arrival of its Bermudan Flight BA 491. Passengers will be
disembarking at gate number neyne.'
Bond took his bag and said goodbye to Leiter. He said, 'Well, thanks for everything,
Felix. Write to me every day.'
Leiter gripped his hand hard. He said, 'Sure thing, kid. And take it easy. Tell that old
bastard M to send you back over soon. Next visit we'll take some time off from the
razzmatazz. Time you called in on my home state. Like to have you meet my oil-well.
'Bye now.'
Leiter got into his car and accelerated away from the arrival bay. Bond raised his
hand. The Studillac dry-skidded out on to the approach road. There was an answering
glint from Leiter's steel hook out of the window and he was gone.
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Bond sighed. He picked up his bag and walked in and over to the BOAC ticket
counter.
Bond didn't mind airports so long as he was alone in them. He had half an hour to
wait and he was quite content to wander through the milling crowds, have a bourbon
and soda at the restaurant and spend some time choosing something to read at the
bookstore. He bought Ben Hogan's Modern Fundamentals of Golf and the latest
Raymond Chandler and
"sauntered along to the Souvenir Shop to see if he could find an amusing gimmick to
take back to his secretary.
Now there was a man's voice on the BOAC announcing system. It called out a long
list of Monarch passengers who were required at the ticket counter. Ten minutes later
Bond was paying for one of the latest and most expensive ballpoint pens when he
heard his own name being called. 'Will Mr James Bond, passenger on BOAC Monarch
flight No 510 to Gander and London, please come to the BOAC ticket counter. Mr
James Bond, please.' It was obviously that infernal tax form to show how much he had
earned during his stay in America. On principle Bond never went to the Internal
Revenue Office in New York to get clearance and he had only once had to argue it out
at Idlewild. He went out of the shop and across to the BOAC counter. The official said
politely, 'May I see your health certificate, please, Mr Bond?'
Bond took the form out of his passport and handed it over.
The man looked at it carefully. He said, 'I'm very sorry, sir, but there's "been a typhoid
case at Gander and they're insisting that all transit passengers who haven't had their
shots in the last six months should be topped up. It's most annoying, sir, but Gander's
very touchy about these things. Too bad we couldn't have managed a direct flight, but
there's a strong head-wind.'
Bond hated inoculations. He said irritably, 'But look here, I'm stuffed with shots of one
kind or another. Been having them for twenty years for one damned thing or another!'
He looked round. The area near the BOAC departure gate seemed curiously deserted.
He said, 'What about the other passengers? Where are they?'
'They've all agreed, sir. Just having their shots now. It won't take a minute, sir, if you'll
come this way.'
'Oh well.' Bond shrugged his shoulders impatiently. He followed the man behind the
counter and through a door to the BOAC station manager's office. There was the usual
white-clothed doctor, a mask over the bottom of his face, the needle held ready. 'Last
one?' he asked of the BOAC official.
'Yes, Doctor.'
'Okay. Coat off and left sleeve up, please. Too bad they're so sensitive up at Gander.'
'Damned sight too bad,' said Bond. 'What are they afraid of? Spreading the black
death?'
There came the sharp smell of the alcohol and the jab of the needle.
'Thanks,' said Bond gruffly. He pulled down his sleeve and made to pick his coat up
from the back of the chair. His hand went down for it, missed it, went on down, down
towards the floor. His body dived after the hand, down, down, down&
All the lights were on in the plane. There seemed to be plenty of spare places. Why
did he have to get stuck with a passenger whose arm was hogging the central arm-rest.
Bond made to get up and change his seat. A wave of nausea swept over him. He
closed his eyes and waited. How extraordinary! He was never air-sick. He felt the cold
sweat on his face. Handkerchief. Wipe it off. He opened his eyes again and looked
down at his arms. The wrists were bound to the arms of his chair. What had happened?
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He had had his shot and then passed out or something. Had he got violent? What the
hell was all this about? He glanced to his right and then stared, aghast. Oddjob was
sitting there. Oddjob! Odd job in BO AC uniform!
Oddjob glanced incuriously at him and reached for the steward's bell. Bond heard the
pretty ding-dong back in the pantry. There was the rustle of a skirt beside him. He
looked up. It was Pussy Galore, trim and fresh in the blue uniform of a stewardess! She
said, 'Hi, Handsome.' She gave him the deep, searching look he remembered so well
from when? From centuries ago, in another life.
Bond said desperately, 'For Christ's sake, what's going on? Where did you come
from?'
The girl smiled cheerfully, 'Eating caviar and drinking champagne. You Britishers sure
live the life of Reilly when you get up twenty thousand feet. Not a sign of a Brussels
sprout and if there's tea I haven't got around to it yet. Now, you take it easy. Uncle [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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