‘Excuse me, sir.’ The Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force was a modern young soldier of thirty-five. His military record was good enough for him to be unimpressed by relics from the Edwardian era of Colonial Governors, whom he collectively referred to as ‘feather-hatted fuddy-duddies’. ‘I think we can assume that Commander Bond is unlikely to communicate with anyone except his Department. And if I may say so, sir, I submit that we should take steps to clear up Crab Key without waiting for approval from London. I can provide a platoon ready to embark by this evening. H.M.S.
‘I agree with the Brigadier, sir.’ The voice of the Police Superintendent was edgy. Quick action might save him from a reprimand, but it would have to be quick. ‘And in any case I shall have to proceed immediately against the various Jamaicans who appear to be implicated. I’ll have to get the divers working at Mona. If this case is to be cleaned up we can’t afford to wait for London. As Mister – er – Commander Bond says, most of these negro gangsters will probably be in Cuba by now. Have to get in touch with my opposite number in Havana and catch up with them before they take to the hills or go underground. I think we ought to move at once, sir.’
There was silence in the cool shadowy room where the meeting was being held. On the ceiling above the massive mahogany conference table there was an unexpected dapple of sunlight. Bond guessed that it shone up through the slats of the jalousies from a fountain or a lily pond in the garden outside the tall windows. Far away there was the sound of tennis balls being knocked about. Distantly a young girl’s voice called, ‘Smooth. Your serve, Gladys.’ The Governor’s children? Secretaries? From one end of the room King George VI, from the other end the Queen, looked down the table with grace and good humour.
‘What do you think, Colonial Secretary?’ The Governor’s voice was hustled.
Bond listened to the first few words. He gathered that Pleydell-Smith agreed with the other two. He stopped listening. His mind drifted into a world of tennis courts and lily ponds and kings and queens, of London, of people being photographed with pigeons on their heads in Trafalgar Square, of the forsythia that would soon be blazing on the bypass roundabouts, of May, the treasured housekeeper in his flat off the King’s Road, getting up to brew herself a cup of tea (here it was eleven o’clock. It would be four o’clock in London), of the first tube trains beginning to run, shaking the ground beneath his cool, dark bedroom. Of the douce weather of England: the soft airs, the heat waves, the cold spells – ‘The only country where you can take a walk every day of the year’ – Chesterfield’s Letters? And then Bond thought of Crab Key, of the hot ugly wind beginning to blow, of the stink of the marsh gas from the mangrove swamps, the jagged grey, dead coral in whose holes the black crabs were now squatting, the black and red eyes moving swiftly on their stalks as a shadow – a cloud, a bird – broke their small horizons. Down in the bird colony the brown and white and pink birds would be stalking in the shallows, or fighting or nesting, while up on the guanera the cormorants would be streaming back from their breakfast to deposit their milligramme of rent to the landlord who would no longer be collecting. And where would the landlord be? The men from the S.S.
The Colonial Secretary was mentioning Bond’s name. Bond pulled himself together.
‘… survived is quite extraordinary. I do think, sir, that we should show our gratitude to Commander Bond and to his Service by accepting his recommendations. It does seem, sir, that he has done at least three-quarters of the job. Surely the least we can do is look after the other quarter.’
