Then there's a blank until I got picked up by the police on the waterfront at Vladivostok. No idea how I got there. They roughed me up a bit and in the process I must have got another bang on the head because suddenly I remembered who I was and that I wasn't a Japanese fisherman which was what I thought I was. So then of course the police passed me on to the local branch of the K. Very frustrating for them. A small frown had gathered between his eyes. Wasn't that rather generous of you? It seemed the least I could do. There was this Institute place in Leningrad.
They gave me V. Top brain specialists and everything. They didn't seem to hold it against me that I'd been working against them for most of my life. And other people came and talked to me very reasonably about the political situation and so forth. The need for East and West to work together for world peace. They made clear a lot of things that hadn't occurred to me before.
They quite convinced me. You've been making war against someone or other all your life. You're doing so at this moment. And for most of my adult life you've used me as a tool. Fortunately that's all over now. I suppose among other things you've forgotten is reading reports of our P. If the Russians are so keen on peace, what do they need the K. At the last estimate, that was about one hundred thousand men and women 'making war'--as you call it--against us and other countries.
This is the organization that was so charming to you in Leningrad. Did they happen to mention the murder of Horcher and Stutz in Munich last month? If you would demobilize all this"--Bond waved a hand--"they would be only too delighted to scrap the K. They were quite open about it all. Burgess is dead, but you could have chummed up with Maclean. You and your agents have taught me certain skills for use in the underground war. It was explained to me how these skills could be used in the cause of peace.
James Bond's hand moved nonchalantly to his right-hand coat pocket. His left hand felt for the button under the arm of the chair. James Bond had become tense. There was a whiteness round his lips. The blue-grey eyes still stared blankly, almost unseeingly at M. The words rang out harshly, as if forced out of him by some inner compulsion. This is for Number One on the list. The hand, snub-nosed with black metal, flashed out of the pocket, but, even as the poison hissed down the barrel of the bulb-butted pistol, the great sheet of armour-plate glass hurtled down from the baffled slit in the ceiling and, with a last sigh of hydraulics, braked to the floor.
The jet of viscous brown fluid splashed harmlessly into its centre and trickled slowly down, distorting the reflection of M. The Chief of Staff had burst into the room, followed by the Head of Security. They threw themselves on James Bond. Even as they seized his arms, his head fell forward on his chest and he would have slid from his chair to the ground if they hadn't supported him.
They hauled him to his feet. He was in a dead faint. The Head of Security sniffed. The pistol lay on the carpet where it had fallen. He kicked it away. He said to M. I'll have this cleaned up during the lunch hour. Miss Moneypenny stood with her clenched hand up to her mouth. She watched with horror as James Bond's supine body was hauled out and, the heels of its shoes leaving tracks on the carpet, taken into the Chief of Staff's room.
Get the duty M. Don't just stand there gawking! And not a word of this to anyone. Miss Moneypenny pulled herself back from the edge of hysterics. She said an automatic "Yes, sir," pulled the door shut, and reached for the interoffice telephone. Head of Security was on his knees beside Bond. He had loosened his tie and collar button and was feeling his pulse. Bond's face was white and bathed in sweat. His breathing was a desperate rattle, as if he had just run a race. He turned to the Chief of Staff.
He said briskly, "Well, that's that. My predecessor died in that chair. Then it was a simple bullet, but from much the same sort of a crazed officer. One can't legislate against the lunatic. But the Office of Works certainly did a good job with that gadget. Now then, Chief of Staff. This is of course to go no further. I'll explain things to Sir James this afternoon. Briefly, as you heard, the K. He was already a sick man. Amnesia of some kind. I'll tell you all I know later.
Have his things collected from the Ritz and his bill paid. And put something out to the Press Association. Something on these lines: Commander Bond's health has inevitably suffered from his experiences and he is convalescing under medical supervision. And add a D notice-to-editors: Bill Tanner had been writing furiously to keep up with M.
He looked up from his scratchpad, bewildered. After all, treason and attempted murder I mean, not even a court martial? Not responsible for his actions. If one can brainwash a man, presumably one can un-brainwash him. If anyone can, Sir James can. Put him back on half pay for the time being, in his old Section. And see he gets full back pay and allowances for the past year.
There's no reason why he shouldn't be a good agent again. Within limits, that is. After lunch, give me the file on Scaramanga. If we can get him fit again, that's the right-sized target for As a minimum, I'd say. Better for him to fall on the battlefield. If he brings it off, he'll have won his spurs back again and we can all forget the past. Anyway, that's my decision.
There was a knock on the door and the duty Medical Officer came into the room. The Chief of Staff looked at the retreating back. He said, under his breath, "You coldhearted bastard! His not to reason why! And as usual he sat by himself in one of the window seats and barricaded himself behind The Times , occasionally turning a page to demonstrate that he was reading it, which, in fact, he wasn't.
But Porterfield commented to the headwaitress, Lily, a handsome, much-loved ornament of the club, that "there's something wrong with the old man today. Or maybe not exactly wrong, but there's something up with him. As headwaiter, and father confessor to many of the members, he knew a lot about all of them and liked to think he knew everything, so that, in the tradition of incomparable servants, he could anticipate their wishes and their moods.
Now, standing with Lily in a quiet moment behind the finest cold buffet on display at that date anywhere in the world, he explained himself. That Algerian red wine that the wine committee won't even allow on the wine list. They only have it in the club to please Sir Miles. Well, he explained to me once that in the navy they used to call it the Infuriator because if you drank too much of it, it seems that it used to put you into a rage.
Well now, in the ten years that I've had the pleasure of looking after Sir Miles, he's never ordered more than half a carafe of the stuff. Porterfield's benign, almost priestly countenance assumed an expression of theatrical solemnity as if he had read something really terrible in the tea leaves.
A bottle of Infuriator. But you mark my words, Lily"--he noticed a lifted hand down the long room and moved off--"there's something hit Sir Miles hard this morning and no mistake. As usual he paid, whatever the amount of the bill, with a five-pound note for the pleasure of receiving in change crisp new pound notes, new silver and gleaming copper pennies, for it is the custom at Blades to give its members only freshly minted money. Porterfield pulled back his table and M. It was two o'clock. He sat stiffly in the back, his bowler hat squarely set on the middle of his head, and gazed unseeing at the back of the chauffeur's head with hooded, brooding eyes.
For the hundredth time, since he had left his office that morning, he assured himself that his decision was right. If James Bond could be straightened out--and M. The past could be forgiven, but not forgotten--except with the passage of time. It would be most irksome for those in the know to have Bond moving about Headquarters as if nothing had happened. It would be doubly embarrassing for M. And James Bond, if aimed straight at a known target--M. Well, the target was there and it desperately demanded destruction.
Bond had accused M. Every officer in the Service was a tool for one secret purpose or another. The problem on hand could only be solved by a killing. James Bond would not possess the Double-O prefix if he had not high talents, frequently proved, as a gunman. In exchange for the happenings of that morning, in expiation of them, Bond must prove himself at his old skills.
If he succeeded, he would have regained his previous status. If he failed, well, it would be a death for which he would be honoured. Win or lose, the plan would solve a vast array of problems. He got out of the car and went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the corridor, smelling the smell of some unknown disinfectant more and more powerfully as he approached his office. Instead of using his key to the private entrance at the end of the corridor M. She was sitting in her usual place, typing away at the usual routine correspondence.
She got to her feet. He says your office is all right to use again but to keep the windows open for a while. So I've turned on the heating. Chief of Staff isn't back from lunch yet, but he told me to tell you that everything you wanted done is under way. Sir James is operating until four but will expect your call after that.
Here's the file you wanted, sir. Did he come round all right? Miss Moneypenny's face was expressionless. He was covered up. They took him down in the service lift to the garage. I haven't had any inquiries. Well, bring me in the signals, would you. There's been a lot of time wasted today on all these domestic excitements.
Miss Moneypenny brought in the signals and stood dutifully beside him while he went through them, occasionally dictating a comment or a query. She looked down at the bowed, iron-grey head with the bald patch polished for years by a succession of naval caps and wondered, as she had wondered so often over the past ten years, whether she loved or hated this man. One thing was certain. She respected him more than any man she had known or had read of. Now just give me a quarter of an hour, and then I'll see whoever wants me.
The call to Sir James has priority of course. Then he set a match to his pipe and settled back in his chair and read:. Free-lance assassin mainly under K. Has caused widespread damage, particularly to the S. Is widely feared and admired in said territory throughout which he appears, despite police precautions, to have complete freedom of access. Has thus become something of a local myth and is known in his "territory" as The Man with the Golden Gun--a reference to his main weapon which is a gold-plated, long-barrelled, single-action Colt.
He uses special bullets with a heavy, soft 24 ct. Himself loads and artifices this ammunition. Is responsible for the death of British Guiana , Trinidad , Jamaica , and and Havana , and for the maiming and subsequent retirement from the S. Hair reddish in a crew cut. Gaunt, sombre face with thin pencil moustache, brownish. Ears very flat to the head. Hands very large and powerful and immaculately manicured. In Voodoo and allied local cults this is considered a sign of invulnerability and great sexual prowess.
Is an insatiable but indiscriminate womanizer who invariably has sexual intercourse shortly before a killing in the belief that it improves his "eye. A belief shared by many professional lawn tennis players, golfers, gun and rifle marksmen, and others. A relative of the Catalan family of circus managers of the same name with whom he spent his youth.
In was forced to flee the States as the result of a famous duel against his opposite number for the Detroit Purple Gang, a certain Ramon "The Rod" Rodriguez, which took place by moonlight on the third green of the Thunderbird golf course at Las Vegas. Scaramanga got two bullets into the heart of his opponent before the latter had fired a shot.
Travelled the whole Caribbean area investing fugitive funds for various Las Vegas interests and later, as his reputation for keen and successful dealing in real estate and plantations became consolidated, for Trujillo of the Dominican Republic and Batista of Cuba. In settled in Havana and, seeing the way the wind blew, while remaining ostensibly a Batista man, began working undercover for the Castro party, and after the revolution, obtained an influential post as foreign "enforcer" for the D.
In this capacity, on behalf, that is, of the Cuban secret police, he undertook the assassinations mentioned above. They are not necessary. The myth surrounding this man, the equivalent, let us say, of that surrounding the most famous film star, and the fact that he has no police record, have hitherto given him complete freedom of movement and indemnity from interference in "his" territory. In most of the islands and mainland republics which constitute this territory, he has groups of admirers e.
Moreover, as the ostensible purchaser, and usually the legal front, for the "hot money" properties mentioned above, he has legitimate access, frequently supported by his diplomatic status, to any part of his territory. Considerable but of unknown extent. Travels on various credit cards of the Diners' Club variety.
What had gone before was routine information which added nothing to his basic knowledge of the man. What followed would be of more interest. In between--again in M. I am interested in this man [wrote C. In the travelling circus of his father, Enrico Scaramanga, the boy had several roles. He was a most spectacular trick shot, he was a stand-in strong man in the acrobatic troop, often taking the place of the usual artiste as bottom man in the "human pyramid" act, and he was the mahout, in gorgeous turban, Indian robes, etc.
This elephant, by the name of Max, was a male, and it is a peculiarity of the male elephant, which I have learned with much interest and verified with eminent zoologists, that, at intervals during the year, they go "on heat" sexually. During these periods, a mucous deposit forms behind the animal's ears and this needs to be scraped off since otherwise it causes the elephant intense irritation. Max developed this symptom during a visit of the circus to Trieste, but, through an oversight, the condition was not noticed and given the necessary treatment.
The big top of the circus had been erected on the outskirts of the town adjacent to the coastal railway line and, on the night which was, in my opinion, to determine the future way of life of the young Scaramanga, Max went berserk, threw the youth, and, screaming horrifically, trampled his way through the auditorium, causing many casualties, and charged off across the fairground and onto the railway line, down which a frightening spectacle under the full moon which, as newspaper cuttings record, was shining on that night he galloped at full speed.
In due course they caught up with the unfortunate monster, which, his frenzy expired, stood peacefully facing back the way he had come. Not realizing that the elephant, if approached by his handler, could now be led peacefully back to his stall, the police opened rapid fire and bullets from their carbines and revolvers wounded the animal superficially in many places. Infuriated afresh, the miserable beast, now pursued by the police car from which the hail of fire continued, charged off again along the railway line. On arrival at the fairground, the elephant seemed to recognize his home, the big top, and, turning off the railway line, lumbered back through the fleeing spectators to the centre of the deserted arena, and there, weakened by loss of blood, pathetically continued with his interrupted act.
Trumpeting dreadfully in his agony, the mortally wounded Max endeavoured again and again to raise himself and stand upon one leg. Meanwhile the young Scaramanga, now armed with his pistols, tried to throw a lariat over the animal's head while calling out the "elephant talk" with which he usually controlled him. Max seems to have recognized the youth and--it must have been a truly pitiful sight--lowered his trunk to allow the youth to be hoisted to his usual seat behind the elephant's head. But at this moment the police burst into the sawdust ring, and their captain, approaching very close, emptied his revolver into the elephant's right eye at a range of a few feet, upon which Max fell dying to the ground.
Upon this, the young Scaramanga who, according to the press, had a deep devotion for his charge, drew one of his pistols and shot the policeman through the heart, and fled off into the crowd of bystanders pursued by the other policemen who could not fire because of the throng of people. He made good his escape, found his way south to Naples, and thence, as noted above, stowed away to America.
Now, I see in this dreadful experience a possible reason for the transformation of Scaramanga into the most vicious gunman of recent years. In him was, I believe, born on that day a cold-blooded desire to avenge himself on all humanity. That the elephant had run amok and trampled many innocent people, that the man truly responsible was his handler, and that the police were only doing their duty, would be, psychopathologically, either forgotten or deliberately suppressed by a youth of hot-blooded stock whose subconscious had been so deeply lacerated. At all events, Scaramanga's subsequent career requires some explanation, and I trust I am not being fanciful in putting forward my own prognosis from the known facts.
He turned back to the file. I have comment [wrote C. It is a Freudian thesis, with which I am inclined to agree, that the pistol, whether in the hands of an amateur or of a professional gunman, has significance for the owner as a symbol of virility--an extension of the male organ--and that excessive interests in guns e. The partiality of Scaramanga for a particularly showy variation of weapon and his use of silver and gold bullets clearly point, I think, to his being a slave to this fetish--and, if I am right, I have doubts about his alleged sexual prowess, for the lack of which his gun fetish would be either a substitute or a compensation.
I have also noted, from a "profile" of this man in Time magazine, one fact which supports my thesis that Scaramanga may be sexually abnormal. In listing his accomplishments, Time notes, but does not comment upon, the fact that this man cannot whistle. Now it may only be myth, and it is certainly not medical science, but there is a popular theory that a man who cannot whistle has homosexual tendencies.
At this point, the reader may care to experiment and, from his self-knowledge, help to prove or disprove this item of folklore! Unconsciously his mouth pursed and a clear note was emitted. He uttered an impatient "tchah! So I would not be surprised to learn that Scaramanga is not the Casanova of popular fancy. Passing to the wider implications of gunmanship, we enter the realms of the Adlerian power urge as compensation for the inferiority complex, and here I will quote some well-turned phrases of a certain Mr.
Its function is simple; as Oliver Winchester said, with nineteenth-century complacency, 'A gun is a machine for throwing balls. And since strength resides in the gun, the man who wields it may be less than strong without being disadvantaged. The flashing sword, the couched lance, the bent longbow performed to the limit of the man who held it. The gun's power is inherent and needs only to be released. A steady eye and an accurate aim are enough. Wherever the muzzle points, the bullet goes, bearing the gunner's wish or intention swiftly to the target Perhaps more than any other implement, the gun has shaped the course of nations and the destiny of men.
In the Freudian thesis, "his arm's length" would become the length of the masculine organ. But we need not linger over these esoterica. The support for my premise is well expressed in Mr. Peterson's sinewy prose and--though I would substitute the printing press for the gun in his concluding paragraph--his points are well taken.
The subject, Scaramanga, is, in my opinion, a paranoiac in subconscious revolt against the father figure i. He has other qualities which are self-evident from the earlier testimony. In conclusion, and having regard to the damage he has already wrought upon the personnel of the S. Then he reached for his pen and, in green ink, scrawled the word Action?
Then he sat very still for another five minutes and wondered if he had signed James Bond's death warrant. There are few less prepossessing places to spend a hot afternoon than Kingston International Airport in Jamaica.
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All the money has been spent on lengthening the runway out into the harbour to take the big jets, and little was left over for the comfort of transit passengers. James Bond had come in an hour before on a B. He had taken off his coat and tie and now sat on a hard bench gloomily surveying the contents of the In-Bond shop with its expensive scents, liquor, and piles of overdecorated native ware. He had had luncheon on the plane, it was the wrong time for a drink, and it was too hot and too far to take a taxi into Kingston even had he wanted to.
He wiped his already soaking handkerchief over his face and neck and cursed softly and fluently. A cleaner ambled in and, with the exquisite languor of such people throughout the Caribbean, proceeded to sweep very small bits of rubbish hither and thither, occasionally dipping a boneless hand into a bucket to sprinkle water over the dusty cement floor.
Through the slatted jalousies a small breeze, reeking of the mangrove swamps, briefly stirred the dead air and then was gone. There were only two other passengers in the "lounge," Cubans perhaps, with jippa-jappa luggage. A man and a woman. They sat close together against the opposite wall and stared fixedly at James Bond, adding minutely to the oppression of the atmosphere. Bond got up and went over to the shop. He bought a Daily Gleaner and returned to his place.
Because of its inconsequence and occasionally bizarre choice of news the Gleaner was a favourite paper of Bond's. Almost the whole of that day's front page was taken up with new ganja laws to prevent the consumption, sale, and cultivation of this local version of marijuana. The fact that de Gaulle had just sensationally announced his recognition of Red China was boxed well down the page.
Bond read the whole paper--"Country Newsbits" and all--with the minute care bred of desperation. Today will bring a pleasant surprise and the fulfilment of a dear wish. But you must earn your good fortune by watching closely for the golden opportunity when it presents itself and then seizing it with both hands. He would be unlikely to get on the scent of Scaramanga on his first evening in Havana. It was not even certain that Scaramanga was there. This was a last resort. For six weeks, Bond had been chasing his man round the Caribbean and Central America.
He had missed him by a day in Trinidad and by only a matter of hours in Caracas. Now he had rather reluctantly taken the decision to try and ferret him out on his home ground, a particularly inimical home ground, with which Bond was barely familiar. At least he had fortified himself in British Guiana with a diplomatic passport, and he was now "Courier" Bond with splendidly engraved instructions from Her Majesty to pick up the Jamaican diplomatic bag in Havana and return with it.
He had even borrowed the famous Silver Greyhound, the British Courier's emblem for three hundred years. If he could do his job and then get a few hundred yards' start, this would at least give him sanctuary in the British Embassy. Then it would be up to the F. If he could find his man. If he could carry out his instructions. If he could get away from the scene of the shooting. Bond turned to the advertisements on the back page. At once an item caught his eye.
The Man with the Golden Gun
It was so typically "old" Jamaica. This is what he read:. Containing the substantial residence and all that parcel of land by measurement on the Northern Boundary three chains and five perches, on the Southern Boundary five chains and one perch, on the Eastern Boundary two chains exactly, and on the Western Boundary four chains and two perches be the same in each case and more or less and butting Northerly on No.
James Bond was delighted. He had had many assignments in Jamaica and many adventures on the island. The splendid address and all the stuff about chains and perches and the old-fashioned abracadabra at the end of the advertisement brought back all the authentic smell of one of the oldest and most romantic of former British possessions.
For all her new-found "independence" he would bet his bottom dollar that the statue of Queen Victoria in the centre of Kingston had not been destroyed or removed to a museum, as similar relics of an historic infancy had been in the resurgent African states. He looked at his watch.
The Gleaner had consumed a whole hour for him. He picked up his coat and briefcase. Not much longer to go! In the last analysis, life wasn't all that dismal. One must forget the bad and remember the good. What were a couple of hours of heat and boredom in this island compared with memories of Beau Desert and Honeychile Wilder and his survival against the mad Dr. James Bond smiled to himself as the dusty pictures clicked across his brain. How long ago it all was! What had happened to her? The last he had heard, she had had two children by the Philadelphia doctor she had married.
He wandered off into the grandly named "Concourse," where the booths of many airlines stood empty and promotion folders and little company flags on their counters gathered the dust blown in with the mangrove breeze. There was the customary central display stand holding messages for incoming and outgoing passengers. As usual, Bond wondered whether there would be something for him. In all his life there never had been. Automatically he ran his eye over the scattered envelopes, held, under tape, beneath each parent letter.
He ran a bored eye over the other envelopes. He looked around him, languidly, casually. The Cuban couple was out of sight. Nobody else was looking. He reached out a quick hand, wrapped in his handkerchief, and pocketed the buff envelope that said, "Scaramanga. BOAC passenger from Lima. He locked the door and sat down. The envelope was not sealed. It contained a B. There was no signature. Bond uttered a short bark of laughter and triumph. At last the three red stars of a jackpot had clicked into line.
What was it his Gleaner horoscope had said? Well, he would go nap on this clue from outer space--"seize it with both hands" as the Gleaner had instructed. He read the message again and carefully put it back in the envelope. His damp handkerchief had left marks on the buff envelope. In this heat they would dry out in a matter of minutes. He went out and sauntered over to the stand. There was no one in sight. He slipped the message back into its place under "S" and walked over to the Aeronaves de Mexico booth and cancelled his reservation.
He then went to the BOAC counter and looked through the timetable. He was going to need help. He remembered the name of Head of Station J. He went over to the telephone booth and got through to the High Commissioner's Office. He asked for Commander Ross. After a moment a girl's voice came on the line.
There was something vaguely familiar in the lilt of the voice. Bond said, "Could I speak to Commander Ross? This is a friend from London. The girl's voice became suddenly alert. Is there anything I can do? I heard you were back, but I thought you were ill or something. But where are you talking from? Large-scale survey map of that area, a hundred pounds in Jamaican money.
Then be an angel and ring up Alexander's the auctioneers and find out anything you can about a property that's advertised in today's Gleaner. Say you're a prospective buyer. You'll see the details. Then I want you to come out to Morgan's Harbour, where I'm going in a minute, be staying the night there, and we'll have dinner and swop secrets until the dawn steals over the Blue Mountains. Now I'll get on with all this. See you about seven. Gasping for air, James Bond pushed his way out of the little sweatbox. He ran his handkerchief over his face and neck. Mary Goodnight, his darling secretary from the old days in the Double-O Section!
At Headquarters they had said she was abroad. He hadn't asked any questions. Perhaps she had opted for a change when he had gone missing. Anyway, what a break! Now he'd got an ally, someone he knew. He got his bag from the Aeronaves de Mexico booth and went out and hailed a taxi and said "Morgan's Harbour" and sat back and let the air from the open windows begin to dry him.
The romantic little hotel is on the site of Port Royal at the tip of the Palisadoes. The proprietor, an Englishman who had once been in Intelligence himself and who guessed what Bond's job was, was glad to see him. He showed Bond to a comfortable air-conditioned room with a view of the pool and the wide mirror of Kingston Harbour.
He said, "What is it this time? They're the popular targets these days. Broiled with melted butter. And a pot of that ridiculously expensive foie gras of yours. James Bond awoke at six. At first he didn't know where he was. He lay and remembered. Sir James Molony had said that his memory would be sluggish for a while. Twenty-four bashes at his brain from the black box in thirty days. After it was over, Sir James had confessed that, if he had been practising in America, he wouldn't have been allowed to administer more than eighteen.
At first, Bond had been terrified at the sight of the box and of the two cathodes that would be cupped to each temple. He had heard that people undergoing shock treatment had to be strapped down, that their jerking, twitching bodies, impelled by the volts, often hurtled off the operating table.
But that, it seemed, was old hat. Now there was the longed-for needle with the pentathol, and Sir James said there was no movement of the body when the current flashed through except a slight twitching of the eyelids. And the results had been miraculous. After the pleasant, quiet-spoken analyst had explained to him what had been done to him in Russia, and after he had passed through the mental agony of knowing what he had nearly done to M. And then had come his physical rehabilitation and the inexplicable amount of gun practice he had had to do at the Maidstone police range.
And then the day arrived when the Chief of Staff had come down and spent the day briefing Bond on his new assignment.
The reason for the gun practice became clear. And the scribble of green ink wishing him luck--signed "M. Two days later he was ready to enjoy the excitement of the ride to London Airport on his way across the world. Bond took another shower and dressed in shirt, slacks, and sandals and wandered over to the little bar on the waterfront and ordered a double Walker's deluxe bourbon on the rocks and watched the pelicans diving for their dinner.
This had been worrying him since he had been given his orders. It was all very fine to be told to "eliminate" the man, but James Bond had never liked killing in cold blood and to provoke a draw against a man who was possibly the fastest gun in the world was suicide. Well, he would just have to see which way the cards fell. The first thing to do was to clean up his cover. The diplomatic passport he would leave with Goodnight. He would now be "Mark Hazard" of the "Transworld Consortium," the splendidly vague title which could cover almost any kind of human activity.
His business would have to be with the West Indian Sugar Company because that was the only business, apart from Kaiser Bauxite, that existed in the comparatively deserted western districts of Jamaica. And, at Negril, there was also the project for developing one of the most spectacular beaches in the world, beginning with the building of the Thunderbird Hotel. He could be a rich man looking around for a building site. If his hunch and the childish predictions of his horoscope were right, and he came up with Scaramanga at the romantic Love Lane address, it would be a question of playing it by ear.
The prairie fire of the sunset raged briefly in the west and the molten sea cooled off into moonlit gunmetal. A naked arm smelling of Chanel Number 5 snaked round his neck and warm lips kissed the corner of his mouth. As he reached up to hold the arm where it was, a breathless voice said, "Oh, James!
I just had to! It's so wonderful to have you back. Bond put his hand under the soft chin and lifted up her mouth and kissed her full on the half-open lips. He said, "Why didn't we ever think of doing that before, Goodnight? Three years with only that door between us! What must we have been thinking of? She stood away from him.
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The golden bell of hair fell back to embrace her neck. Still only the faintest trace of makeup, but now the face was golden with sunburn from which the wide-apart blue eyes, now ablaze with the moon, shone out with that challenging directness that had disconcerted him when they had argued over some office problem. Still the same glint of health over the good bones and the broad uninhibited smile from the full lips that, in repose, were so exciting.
But now the clothes were different. Instead of the severe shirt and skirt of the days at Headquarters, she was wearing a single string of pearls and a one-piece short-skirted frock in the colour of a pink gin with a lot of bitters in it--the orangey-pink of the inside of a conch shell. It was all tight against the bosom and the hips. She smiled at his scrutiny. This is standard uniform for a tropical Station. But I can't remember which. I'll just have to swallow the whole string. Can I have a daiquiri please instead?
Bond gave the order. My manners are slipping. It's so tremendous finding you here. And I've never seen you in your working clothes before. Now then, tell me the news. How long have you been here? Have you managed to cope with all that junk I gave you? She sipped it carefully. Bond remembered that she rarely drank and didn't smoke. He ordered another for himself and felt vaguely guilty that this was his third double and that she wouldn't know it and when it came wouldn't recognize it as a double. He lit a cigarette. Nowadays he was trying to keep to twenty and failing by about five. He stabbed the cigarette out.
He was getting near to his target, and the rigid training rules that had been drilled into him at The Park must from now on be observed meticulously. The champagne wouldn't count. He was amused by the conscience this girl had awakened in him. He was also surprised and impressed. Mary Goodnight knew that the last question was the one he would want answered first. She reached into a plain straw handbag on a gold metal chain and handed him a thick envelope. She said, "Mostly in used singles. Shall I debit you direct or put it in as expenses? We've had a lot to do with him, so he'll be friendly.
He was in Naval Intelligence during the war, sort of commando job, so he knows the score. Does a good job--Frome produces about a quarter of Jamaica's sugar output--but Hurricane Flora and the tremendous rains we've been having here have delayed the crop. Besides that, he's having a lot of trouble with cane burning and other small sabotage--mostly with thermite bombs brought in from Cuba. Jamaica's sugar is competition for Castro, you see. And with Flora and all the rains, the Cuban crop is going to be only about three million tons this year, compared with a Batista level of about seven--and very late because the rains have played havoc with the sucrose content.
She smiled her wide smile. Just reading the Gleaner. I don't understand it all, but apparently, because of the damaged crops and increased world consumption, there's a tremendous chess game going on all over the world in sugar--in what they call sugar futures, that's sort of buying the stuff forward for delivery dates later in the year.
Washington's trying to keep the price down, to upset Cuba's economy, and Castro's out to keep the world price up so that he can bargain with Russia. So it's worth Castro's trouble to do as much damage as possible to rival sugar crops. He's only got his sugar to sell and he wants food badly. This wheat the Americans are selling to Russia.
A lot of that will find its way back to Cuba, in exchange for sugar, to feed the Cuban sugar croppers. I don't think Castro can hold out much longer. The missile business in Cuba must have cost Russia about a billion pounds. And now they're having to pour money into Cuba, money and goods, to keep the place on its feet. I can't help thinking they'll pull out soon and leave Castro to go the way Batista went.
It's a fiercely Catholic country, and Hurricane Flora was considered as the final judgment from heaven. It sat over the island and simply whipped it, day after day, for five days. No hurricane in history has ever behaved like that. The churchgoers don't miss an omen like that. It was a straight indictment of the regime. Bond said with admiration, "Goodnight, you're a treasure. You've certainly been doing your homework. The direct blue eyes looked straight into his, dodging the compliment.
It's built into the Station. At least we think it is. Well, it's his old Sunbeam Alpine. The Station bought it, and now I use it. It's a bit aged, but it's still pretty fast and it won't let you down. It's rather bashed about, so it won't be conspicuous. The tank's full, and I've put the survey map in the glove compartment. Now, last question and then we'll go and have dinner and tell each other our life stories. But, by the way, what's happened to your chief, Ross? Mary Goodnight looked worried. He went off last week on some job to Trinidad. It was to try and locate a man called Scaramanga.
He's a local gunman of some sort. I don't know much about him. Apparently Headquarters wants him traced for some reason. I just do the donkey work. Well, Commander Ross was due back two days ago and he hasn't turned up. I've had to send off a Red Warning, but I've been told to give him another week. I'd rather have his Number Two. What about this three-and-a-half Love Lane?
The Man with the Golden Gun Summary & Study Guide
Did you get anywhere? That was a fine question to get me mixed up with. Alexander's was non-committal, and I finally had to go to the Special Branch. I shan't be able to show my face there for weeks. Heaven knows what they must think of you. That place is a, is a, er"--she wrinkled her nose--"it's a famous disorderly house in Sav' La Mar.
Bond laughed out loud at her discomfiture. He teased her with malicious but gentle sadism. The south coast of Jamaica is not as beautiful as the north, and it is a long hundred-and-twenty-mile hack over very mixed road surfaces from Kingston to Savannah La Mar. Mary Goodnight had insisted on coming along, "to navigate and help with the punctures.
Spanish Town, May Pen, Alligator Pond, Black River, Whitehouse Inn, where they had luncheon--the miles unrolled under the fierce sun until, late in the afternoon, a stretch of good straight road brought them among the spruce little villas, each with its patch of brownish lawn, its bougainvillaea, and its single bed of canna lilies and crotons, which make up the "smart" suburbs of the modest little coastal township that is, in the vernacular, Sav' La Mar.
Except for the old quarter on the waterfront, it is not a typically Jamaican town, or a very attractive one. The villas, built for the senior staff of the Frome sugar estates, are drably respectable, and the small straight streets smack of a most un-Jamaican bout of town planning around the s. Bond stopped at the first garage, took in petrol, and put Mary Goodnight into a hired car for the return trip.
He had told her nothing of his assignment, and she had asked no questions when Bond told her vaguely that it was "something to do with Cuba. He identified Love Lane, a narrow street of brokendown shops and houses that meandered back into the town from the jetty. He circled the area to get the neighbouring geography clear in his mind and parked the car in a deserted area near the spit of sand on which fishing canoes were drawn up on raised stilts. He locked the car and sauntered back and into Love Lane.
There were a few people about, poor people of the fisherman class. Bond bought a packet of Royal Blend at a small general store that smelled of spices. Big house on de right. He slit open the packet with his thumbnail and lit a cigarette to help the picture of an idle tourist examining a corner of old Jamaica. There was only one big house on the right. He took some time lighting the cigarette while he examined it. It must once have had importance, perhaps as the private house of a merchant. It was of two storeys with balconies running all the way round and it was wooden built with silvering shingles, but the gingerbread tracery beneath the eaves was broken in many places and there was hardly a scrap of paint left on the jalousies that closed off all the upstairs windows and most of those below.
- The Man with the Golden Gun Summary & Study Guide Description.
- The Man with the Golden Gun Summary & Study Guide;
- by Ian Fleming.
The patch of "yard" bordering the street was inhabited by a clutch of vulturine-necked chickens that pecked at nothing and three skeletal Jamaican black-and-tan mongrels. They gazed lazily across the street at Bond and scratched and bit at invisible flies. But in the background, there was one very beautiful lignum vitae tree in full blue blossom.
Bond guessed that it was as old as the house--perhaps fifty years. It certainly owned the property by right of strength and adornment. In its delicious black shade a girl in a rocking chair sat reading a magazine. At the range of about thirty yards she looked tidy and pretty. Bond strolled up the opposite side of the street until a corner of the house hid the girl. Then he stopped and examined the house more closely. Of the two broad windows that bracketed the door, the left-hand one was shuttered, but the right-hand one was a single broad sheet of rather dusty glass through which tables and chairs and a serving counter could be seen.
Bond walked across the street and up the steps and parted the bead curtain that hung over the entrance. He walked over to the counter and was inspecting its contents--a plate of dry-looking ginger cakes, a pile of packeted banana crisps, and some jars--when he heard quick steps outside. The girl from the garden came in.
The beads clashed softly behind her. Start your free trial. Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet! Keep track of everything you watch; tell your friends. Full Cast and Crew. James Bond is led to believe that he is targeted by the world's most expensive assassin while he attempts to recover sensitive solar cell technology that is being sold to the highest bidder.
Richard Maibaum screenplay , Tom Mankiewicz screenplay. Action stuff of the 70s. Share this Rating Title: The Man with the Golden Gun 6.
James Bond Declassified: File #9 – Moore is less in the silly ‘Man With The Golden Gun’
Use the HTML below. You must be a registered user to use the IMDb rating plugin. User Polls Saddest movie endings Most memorable Bond theme song? Learn more More Like This. Live and Let Die The Spy Who Loved Me For Your Eyes Only Roger Moore, Carole Bouquet, Topol. Diamonds Are Forever GP Action Adventure Thriller. Sean Connery, Jill St. You Only Live Twice A View to a Kill On Her Majesty's Secret Service The Living Daylights Licence to Kill Edit Cast Cast overview, first billed only: James Bond Christopher Lee Francisco Scaramanga Britt Ekland Mary Goodnight Maud Adams Nick Nack Clifton James Hai Fat Soon-Tek Oh Colthorpe Yao Lin Chen Edit Storyline Scaramanga is a hit-man who charges a million dollars per job.
He never misses his target, and now his target is Mono 3 Channel Stereo London premiere print. Edit Did You Know? Goofs When Goodnight accidentally backs into the Master Override switch, the label on the switch is misspelled as "Master Overide".
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Quotes [ first lines ] Francisco Scaramanga: Right away, Monsieur Scaramanga. Bond's entrance into Hai Fat's home. Bond's encounter with the two sumo wrestlers. Bond's arrival and escape from Hai Fat's karate school.