storage compartment, he had discovered a set of tools, including a soft mallet and chisel. Starting the engine again, he taxied out into deep water, cut the motor and climbed down on to the floats. It took fifteen minutes to rip metal from the starboard float and the airplane was already taking in water and listing badly when he got to the second float which he treated in the same way. He was in the water now, with the plane gently sinking. To make certain, he punctured the fuselage in four different places, then kicked himself away lying on his back to watch the Beaver guzzle water and slowly go down. Tomorrow it might well be seen from the air, but by then he hoped to be far away.
He swam back to the island, using a lazy, but fast crawl, his nerve ends tingling, for these were waters where sharks came inshore. Luck held, and, soaking wet, he once more checked the cases on the pier and made his way up to the deserted house.
Using the torch he found the main door, dealt with the lock and went inside. In a couple of minutes he had found the telephone and was punching out a local, Key West, number. After four rings a languid voice answered.
‘David, it’s James. James Bond.’
‘Oh, how nice of you to call, James. Where are you?’
‘On your island, I’ve just broken into your house.’
‘My, how ingenious of you. Shall I send the local cops?’
‘I rather think it would be better if you didn’t know about it.’
‘About what?’
‘Me breaking into your house.’
‘What break-in?’ David replied with no hint of humour in his voice. ‘Now, what can I do for you? I suppose it’s some woman. Usually is.’
‘I need to be brought in, and deposited at the Casa Marina.’
‘Really? I thought you always stayed at the Pier House.’
‘So does the husband,’ Bond lied.
‘Oh, then the Casa would be better. I’ll get Steve to pop over and pick you up.’ Steve was also an old friend. A tall, fine-looking young man, and an excellent sailor.
‘Will he make it through the channel?’
‘Steve can take a boat anywhere. He knows the channel like the back of his proverbial hand. Anything else?’
‘If he could pick up a couple of cases of mine from the Pier House . . .’
‘Of course, James. Lovely to talk to you, we really must have lunch when you’ve finished deceiving husbands. Bye.’
And so it was. Steve already had the two cases, collected from the Pier House, aboard the light speedboat. ‘What in heaven’s name have you got in these – gold bars?’ he asked, picking up the cases of money.
‘Almost,’ Bond had smiled in the darkness.
The journey, from Ballast Key to Garrison Bight, had taken twice as long as usual, with Steve peering into the darkness, using a small floodlight to follow the twisting narrow channel, marked with red flags. But they eventually made it. There was a small bar at Garrison Bight, but it was frequented by fishermen who could not have cared what was being brought in from Ballast Key. Half an hour later, Bond was settled into the renovated Casa Marina Hotel, with its huge airy lobby, the smooth polished floorboards, great whirling fans and strange pedigree – for it had been originally built by the legendary Henry Flagler who constructed the Overseas Railroad and chose one of the most beautiful locations for the hotel, set between County and South Beaches, shaded by palms and backed by elegant lawns. The Casa Marina, like the Overseas Railroad, had not been one of Flagler’s successes. Between the wars it began to fail, and during Big Two was used by the Navy before returning to private ownership, apart from being taken over by the military during the Cuba crisis, after which it fell into disrepair, to be renovated again in 1977.
Now this pleasant hotel was a haven of peace for Bond. What was better, nobody knew he was there. He had only partially unpacked, making certain the money was secure in the two big cases, and taking a look in the special secret
He swam back to the island, using a lazy, but fast crawl, his nerve ends tingling, for these were waters where sharks came inshore. Luck held, and, soaking wet, he once more checked the cases on the pier and made his way up to the deserted house.
Using the torch he found the main door, dealt with the lock and went inside. In a couple of minutes he had found the telephone and was punching out a local, Key West, number. After four rings a languid voice answered.
‘David, it’s James. James Bond.’
‘Oh, how nice of you to call, James. Where are you?’
‘On your island, I’ve just broken into your house.’
‘My, how ingenious of you. Shall I send the local cops?’
‘I rather think it would be better if you didn’t know about it.’
‘About what?’
‘Me breaking into your house.’
‘What break-in?’ David replied with no hint of humour in his voice. ‘Now, what can I do for you? I suppose it’s some woman. Usually is.’
‘I need to be brought in, and deposited at the Casa Marina.’
‘Really? I thought you always stayed at the Pier House.’
‘So does the husband,’ Bond lied.
‘Oh, then the Casa would be better. I’ll get Steve to pop over and pick you up.’ Steve was also an old friend. A tall, fine-looking young man, and an excellent sailor.
‘Will he make it through the channel?’
‘Steve can take a boat anywhere. He knows the channel like the back of his proverbial hand. Anything else?’
‘If he could pick up a couple of cases of mine from the Pier House . . .’
‘Of course, James. Lovely to talk to you, we really must have lunch when you’ve finished deceiving husbands. Bye.’
And so it was. Steve already had the two cases, collected from the Pier House, aboard the light speedboat. ‘What in heaven’s name have you got in these – gold bars?’ he asked, picking up the cases of money.
‘Almost,’ Bond had smiled in the darkness.
The journey, from Ballast Key to Garrison Bight, had taken twice as long as usual, with Steve peering into the darkness, using a small floodlight to follow the twisting narrow channel, marked with red flags. But they eventually made it. There was a small bar at Garrison Bight, but it was frequented by fishermen who could not have cared what was being brought in from Ballast Key. Half an hour later, Bond was settled into the renovated Casa Marina Hotel, with its huge airy lobby, the smooth polished floorboards, great whirling fans and strange pedigree – for it had been originally built by the legendary Henry Flagler who constructed the Overseas Railroad and chose one of the most beautiful locations for the hotel, set between County and South Beaches, shaded by palms and backed by elegant lawns. The Casa Marina, like the Overseas Railroad, had not been one of Flagler’s successes. Between the wars it began to fail, and during Big Two was used by the Navy before returning to private ownership, apart from being taken over by the military during the Cuba crisis, after which it fell into disrepair, to be renovated again in 1977.
Now this pleasant hotel was a haven of peace for Bond. What was better, nobody knew he was there. He had only partially unpacked, making certain the money was secure in the two big cases, and taking a look in the special secret
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