feet, trying to make up his mind what to do. He was there, in a seaplane full of money – there must have been hundreds and thousands of dollars in those blue packets – with no registered flight plan and, by now, Sanchez’s men, the Drug Enforcement Agency, and quite probably the IRS looking for him. He turned the aircraft out to sea. What he needed was some landing place away from shipping or aircraft lanes, and just far enough away from Wavekrest so that they would not come looking. He also needed time: time to pack away the cash, and time to get back into Key West undetected.
Bond allowed the Beaver to lose height in order to get under any radar that might be operating in the area. He slowed his speed and began to think. The DEA people combed the waters around Key West for smugglers so he could not just fly in and say, ‘Look what I’ve got. A heap of money from a drugs operation.’ That would never work because he had already destroyed the evidence.
One thing was sure, whatever he did now, the journey of the manta was definitely nearly over.
The Beaver flew on as Bond cudgelled his brains to think of some way back in without alerting anybody. About twenty minutes later, he smiled, looked at the compass and turned the plane on to a new heading. There was only one way, and he would need a lot of luck.
7
FINAL CONTACT
The Television Newscast came via CNNTV direct from Isthmus City. Lights twinkled in the background, as the attractive lady commentator stood in front of the sumptuous casino. Every few seconds, limos discharged suave men and svelte women who walked into the casino as though they owned it.
James Bond, in his hotel room, was particularly interested. He had turned the TV on while he ate dinner provided by room service, and the CNNTV commentator had immediately caught his attention with her opening lines.
‘Isthmus City is aglitter tonight.’ She looked confidently at the camera. ‘And very much aglitter as Franz Sanchez arrives at this luminous party which some people are saying is being held to celebrate his recent escape from custody in the United States . . .’
At that moment Bond had stopped eating, the fresh salmon on his fork hovering between plate and mouth. He saw all the glitter, and he also saw Sanchez in close-up for the first time. He had descended from a limo with Lupe on his arm and surrounded by a whole phalanx of bodyguards.
The commentator approached him, and Sanchez smiled, relaxed and looking very much at ease.
‘Senor Sanchez,’ the commentator began, as her name – Anna Rack – came up at the bottom of the screen. ‘Senor Sanchez. Recently a leading American newspaper described you as a drug lord . . .’
Sanchez turned directly towards the camera, the smile had gone from his face as he interrupted the unhappy Ms Rack. ‘I know nothing about drugs. The United States should look elsewhere and not blame me for its drug problems. I am a businessman who runs this gambling casino. I love the American people. They’re welcome here. Most welcome, and they should come, after all we have better odds than the US. Only one zero on the roulette wheel . . .’ As he spoke, so a limo, flying official state flags, arrived behind him. The limo was surrounded by a motorcycle escort of military police.
‘Look as if they came straight from Ruritania,’ Bond muttered to himself.
‘You will excuse me,’ Sanchez smiled once more. ‘I have to greet my guests.’ He turned away abruptly to embrace the stout man who climbed from the official limo. The military police seemed to surge forward making the camera back off. Off screen there was a little squeal from Ms Rack. A moment later, she was back on camera, composed once more.
‘Well, as you see, Franz Sanchez is escorting his guest of honour, President Hector Lopez of Isthmus, into his casino’s gala evening. This is Anna Rack for CNN News, live from Isthmus City.’
Bond sighed. Well, he’s
Bond allowed the Beaver to lose height in order to get under any radar that might be operating in the area. He slowed his speed and began to think. The DEA people combed the waters around Key West for smugglers so he could not just fly in and say, ‘Look what I’ve got. A heap of money from a drugs operation.’ That would never work because he had already destroyed the evidence.
One thing was sure, whatever he did now, the journey of the manta was definitely nearly over.
The Beaver flew on as Bond cudgelled his brains to think of some way back in without alerting anybody. About twenty minutes later, he smiled, looked at the compass and turned the plane on to a new heading. There was only one way, and he would need a lot of luck.
7
FINAL CONTACT
The Television Newscast came via CNNTV direct from Isthmus City. Lights twinkled in the background, as the attractive lady commentator stood in front of the sumptuous casino. Every few seconds, limos discharged suave men and svelte women who walked into the casino as though they owned it.
James Bond, in his hotel room, was particularly interested. He had turned the TV on while he ate dinner provided by room service, and the CNNTV commentator had immediately caught his attention with her opening lines.
‘Isthmus City is aglitter tonight.’ She looked confidently at the camera. ‘And very much aglitter as Franz Sanchez arrives at this luminous party which some people are saying is being held to celebrate his recent escape from custody in the United States . . .’
At that moment Bond had stopped eating, the fresh salmon on his fork hovering between plate and mouth. He saw all the glitter, and he also saw Sanchez in close-up for the first time. He had descended from a limo with Lupe on his arm and surrounded by a whole phalanx of bodyguards.
The commentator approached him, and Sanchez smiled, relaxed and looking very much at ease.
‘Senor Sanchez,’ the commentator began, as her name – Anna Rack – came up at the bottom of the screen. ‘Senor Sanchez. Recently a leading American newspaper described you as a drug lord . . .’
Sanchez turned directly towards the camera, the smile had gone from his face as he interrupted the unhappy Ms Rack. ‘I know nothing about drugs. The United States should look elsewhere and not blame me for its drug problems. I am a businessman who runs this gambling casino. I love the American people. They’re welcome here. Most welcome, and they should come, after all we have better odds than the US. Only one zero on the roulette wheel . . .’ As he spoke, so a limo, flying official state flags, arrived behind him. The limo was surrounded by a motorcycle escort of military police.
‘Look as if they came straight from Ruritania,’ Bond muttered to himself.
‘You will excuse me,’ Sanchez smiled once more. ‘I have to greet my guests.’ He turned away abruptly to embrace the stout man who climbed from the official limo. The military police seemed to surge forward making the camera back off. Off screen there was a little squeal from Ms Rack. A moment later, she was back on camera, composed once more.
‘Well, as you see, Franz Sanchez is escorting his guest of honour, President Hector Lopez of Isthmus, into his casino’s gala evening. This is Anna Rack for CNN News, live from Isthmus City.’
Bond sighed. Well, he’s
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