[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

someone like yourself. We were all very impressed at how you and your wife
handled the team who tried it on during the cruise  Caribbean Prince, I'm
Page 21
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
talking about."
"Yes. Yes, of course you are."
The elevator carried them to a large lobby that had a set of double doors with
"Senate Suite" picked out in gold on a dark plate to the left. Connie opened
the door and gestured for Bond to go in, following hard on his back and
announcing, "Mr. Busby, Sir Max."
Close up, Tarn looked as smooth as they came: well-shaved cheeks, almost pink
over a good layer of tan. He was better looking than in his photographs. Calm
deep-brown eyes, the nose a shade too long for symmetry, and the almost
polished iron-gray hair swept back with slight wings over the small ears. His
movements were controlled, and his manner charming in a way guaranteed to put
anyone off his guard.
"Come in, Mr. Busby. Do come in. Thank you for your note. Most kind. I had
planned to get in touch with you anyway. The least I could do was personally
thank you for what you did during that earlier incident on Caribbean Prince."
His handshake was like touching a snake: dry, smooth, and dangerous. The
experience made the short hairs tingle on the back of Bond's neck.
"Now, how about a drink, or tea, or whatever you fancy. This, incidentally,"
he moved his right hand a fraction of an inch toward the paunchy short man who
stood by the window, "this is Maurice Goodwin. He's the right side of my brain
as far as travel and the staff go."
"We spoke, Mr. Busby." Goodwin did not attempt to cross the room for a
handshake. He simply nodded, a shade aloof, while his boss clasped Bond's hand
in a grip as tight as a hangman's noose.
"A little tea, if that's not  "
"Tea it is. Excellent choice. Connie, tea for Mr. Busby. You prefer what,
China, Indian . . . ?"
"Just as it comes. Preferably Indian."
"Man after my own heart. My wife adores Lapsang Souchong, but I prefer a good
old dish of Darjeeling myself." He had a tendency to draw words out.
Sooooochong and Darjeeeeling.
"Now, sit down. Make yourself comfortable. You were very kind about my staff
and the awful Caribbean Prince episode. Terrible business. Haven't got to the
bottom of it yet, but we will."
"I'm sure you will, Sir Max."
"Doubtless you heard about what happened to the holdup merchants who were
still alive after your bit of gunplay?"
"No."
"Ah, thought you would have heard by now. We very carefully got them off the
ship after the explosion, then handed them over to the police in Miami.
Unhappily, while they were in the holding cells, mixed up with some very
unsavory prisoners, someone took a dislike to them. Used a makeshift knife.
All killed during a disturbance. Police cannot determine who did them, but
they were certainly done."
"I would say that was a happy ending." Bond again felt the nape of his neck
tingle.
"Yes." He did not take his eyes from Bond's. For a second it was like being
locked into a staring competition. "Yes. Well. Yes, you have something to tell
me? Your note hinted at . . . Well, I don't know what your note hinted at.
Home Office. Foreign Office. Something about my affairs, which cover the
entire globe, Mr. Busby. What was it about?" While outwardly Tarn seemed
charming, Bond got the impression that the charm was less than skin deep.
Beneath the surface lay something malignant: an undertow of bleak, unbalanced
evil mixed with the undeniable charisma. This was the kind of man who could
bring down countries, charm the worst elements of society, and make black
appear to be white and vice versa. Deep down, Bond surmised that Sir Max Tarn
could be a very dangerous enemy. His charisma was that of a rabble-rouser. If
the man chose politics as a profession, he would be able to hold certain
segments of society in the palm of his hand.
"I think it would be best if we talked in complete privacy, Sir Max."
Page 22
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
"Oh, you do?" from Goodwin, still beside the window that looked out of the
front of the hotel. "You prefer privacy, eh? Those bloody British Telecom
people're still working down there. Have been since we arrived. You anything
to do with them, Mr. Busby? Anything to do with people listening to other
people's conversations on the old blower?"
Bond gave Tarn a quick quizzical look.
"It's quite safe to talk in front of Goodwin, Mr. Busby. Ah, here's Connie
with the tea."
They did not speak while Conrad poured the tea, making it all a little
civilized ceremony. When he had finished, Tarn pleasantly told him to wait
outside, adding somewhat archly, "Mr. Busby prefers privacy. Don't be
offended, Connie, I don't suppose it's personal."
When the bodyguard had withdrawn, it was Goodwin who spoke again. "Well, Mr.
B., got an answer for me?"
"I didn't quite get the question . . . Mr. G."
"We are circled about with people who watch. People who follow every movement.
People who'd like to listen in to our telephone conversations  though they
can't because we tend to bypass the switchboard."
Bond opened his mouth, but Goodwin had not finished. "We've been quite
interested in the little armies of fairy folk dogging our footsteps. You
anything to do with that, Mr. B?"
"I can tell you about it."
"Ah," from Max Tarn. "Then please, before you tell, why would you tell?" The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]