James Bond: The Authorised Biography (25 page)

‘The island's being ruined fast, my friend. As for the British, we're right down the drain. Everyone with half a brain must know what's happening, everyone that is except the idiots in Government House – and no one cares.’

Gutteridge drained his glass, but now the drink was sobering him. His rheumy eyes were bright.

‘I care though. It's my job to care, and I won't let them get away with it. This business of the unions – I keep warning M.’

‘That's why I'm here,’ said Bond.

‘Listen,’ said Gutteridge. He grew suddenly conspiratorial, peering around the empty bar, then drew his cane armchair closer still to Bond. ‘There's a man called Gomez – he's directing the campaign. He's Cuban. Used to be a colonel in Batista's secret police. God knows how many men he killed – then he switched sides, trained for two years in Moscow, and now he's here. He works entirely by terror. Jamaicans have opposed him and been murdered. Horribly. Now all he has to do is threaten. No one will talk about him, so the police are powerless. But he already virtually controls the island through the unions. Soon there will be a blood-bath. Then …’ Gutteridge raised his hands then let them fall limply into his lap.

The man might be a drunk, but Bond found him convincing.

‘And what about the Goddess Kull?’ he asked.

Gutteridge smiled wanly.

‘Ah. You've been reading my reports. That's good. She is this man Gomez's creation. I've told you he is a clever devil. He knows the people of the Caribbean and has studied all their superstitions and their fears. He has been smart enough to link his reign of terror with the cult figure of Kull, the destroyer. The murders have apparently been done in her name, or by her followers. They have not been pretty.’

‘But who is Kull?’ asked Bond.

‘She appears in many local legends. One of her names is the Black Widow, after the spider of that name who kills her mate by having him make love to her. It's a recurring theme in countless primitive cultures and clearly draws on a universal male fear. Anthropologists have called it, I believe, the
vagina dentata
, the toothed vagina.’

Bond poured himself another drink, but Gutteridge, cold sober now, was obviously enjoying his pedantic role.

‘A fascinating subject.’

‘I suppose it is,’ said Bond.

‘Elwin has written of it at length among the Assamese and there have been familiar studies from South America and New Guinea. The origin lies in the primitive male dread of the dominating female. But it invariably takes the form of a Goddess whose devouring genitals destroy her victims in the act of love.’

‘You have been threatened too?’ said Bond.

Gutteridge nodded.

‘Several times. Gomez wants to keep me quiet, but I don't think he's too concerned with me. Just at the moment he has bigger fish to fry.’

‘Like what?’ said Bond.

‘Now that he's got the unions, he's turning to the employers, particularly the rich ones. During the last few days several have been threatened by the Goddess. Either they do exactly as they're told, or Kull will deal with them.’

‘But that's ridiculous,’ said Bond. ‘It's one thing to terrorize uneducated poor Jamaicans. It's quite another to try it with people who can defend themselves.’

‘You think so?’ said Gutteridge quietly. ‘I suggest that first thing tomorrow you call a man called Da Silva. Mention my name. He's one of the biggest merchants in Jamaica, and he's an educated man – Oxford, I think. Go and see him, and then ask him the same question.’

Da Silva was a small neat man with heavy spectacles. Bond put him in his early forties. He was of Portuguese descent. His people had come to Jamaica originally to trade but had settled in the eighteenth century; now they were part of the commercial aristocracy of the island. He was sharp, well informed and spoke with a faint American accent. When Bond rang him, he immediately suggested lunch, and picked him up from the hotel in a pale blue Chevrolet sedan. As they drove out from Kingston then forked right to take the panoramic road towards Blue Mountain, Bond could appreciate the splendour of the island – the heady lushness of the big plantations, the rich houses in the hills and the long blue vistas to the far horizon.

Da Silva's house lay at the far end of a drive of flowering casuarina. Almost despite himself Bond was impressed by so much luxury – the low white house, the shaded pool, the emerald lawns fragrant with hibiscus and bougainvillea. Da Silva suggested they should swim and afterwards, as they lay by the pool sipping iced daiquiris, he introduced Bond to his wife, a deep-bosomed, long-legged blonde from Maryland. For a while they chatted, about the current crop of tourists to the island, about New York and London and several friends they found they had in common. There was a faint pause in the conversation.

‘Tell me,’ said Bond. ‘Who is the Goddess Kull?’

It would have been hard to find two human beings more different than Gutteridge and Da Silva, but Bond realized that they had one thing in common – fear. Da Silva's wife looked anxiously at her husband, then rose and said, ‘I must be seeing to the lunch, darling. If you and Commander Bond would please excuse me.’ As she walked off Bond thought that, scared or not, Da Silva was a lucky man.

‘How much did Gutteridge tell you?’ said Da Silva. Bond repeated the gist of last night's conversation. Da Silva listened gravely and then nodded when he finished.

‘He's done his homework thoroughly, for once, and he's absolutely right. It's hard to know exactly who's involved, for nobody will talk. Men who have worked for me for years suddenly stop work without an explanation. One of my foremen was murdered just last month. I've done my best to fight against this evil and to carry on. Now I'm not sure.’

‘Why not?’ said Bond.

‘Because I've just received a summons to the Goddess Kull myself.’

There, amid so much luxury and peace, Bond was inclined to laugh. It was one thing to imagine simple Jamaican labourers being terrorized by this primeval cult. But for a sophisticated, wealthy man like Da Silva to be taking it so seriously was quite different. Bond told him so. Da Silva shrugged.

‘This is a funny island. And remember that I've lived here all my life. Things happen here that no outsider would believe, and recently we've been collecting all the backwash of the political upheavals on the mainland. We're living on a knife-edge.’

‘A gilded one,’ said Bond, looking across the lawns towards the house.

‘But just as dangerous.’

Over lunch Da Silva and his wife discussed the threat with Bond. She was emphatically in favour of leaving the island.

‘It's too risky staying. It'll be hard to give up the house, but at least we'll have our lives and we can start again in England or the States.’

Da Silva, on the other hand, obviously hated the idea of abandoning everything he owned.

‘It would be cowardice,’ he said.

‘Cowardice is sometimes sensible,’ replied his wife.

Bond asked about the form the threat had taken.

‘My invitation to the Goddess Kull? I'll show you,’ said Da Silva. From his desk he produced an envelope addressed to him and bearing a Kingston postmark. Bond opened it. Inside, on a page torn from an exercise-book, someone had scrawled in red ink:

Da Silva. Her Reverend Majesty and thrice-feared Goddess Kull desires you and calls you to her sacred bed on Friday the 18th at midnight. You will arrive alone at 307 Tarleton Street. Tell nobody and fail not. Kull is insatiable for those that she desires
.

There was no signature, but at the bottom of the page was printed the obscene symbol of the
vagina dentata
.

‘Charming,’ said Bond. ‘And where is Tarleton Street?’

‘In the middle of the Kingston red-light district. 307 is a night club known as “the Stud-Box”, but the whole area is a warren of bordellos, massage parlours and God knows what. You remember what Ian Fleming wrote about the stews of Kingston – they've been there for centuries and “provide for every known amorous permutation and constellation”. The police are wary of going near them.’

‘A good place to choose as the centre of a terrorist campaign,’ said Bond.

Friday was two days away, and Da Silva finally agreed to let Bond know what he decided. In return Bond promised to say nothing. That evening Bond had a call from Gutteridge who was sounding strangely sober. He had discovered something. He would rather not explain over the telephone, but he suggested Bond hired himself a car and drove over to his house first thing next morning. He lived in a beachside bungalow at Montego Bay – he could even offer Bond some breakfast and the swimming was the finest in the world.

So Bond rose early and drove along the switchback coast road with the early morning sun glittering on the unbelievably blue waters of the Caribbean. A faint breeze – what Fleming called the ‘Doctor's Wind’ – was carrying in the fresh scent of the ocean, and Bond felt Jamaica was the nearest place to paradise that he had ever seen. It was hard to think of fear and cults of darkness in a world like this.

Montego Bay consists of several miles of pure white sand. Gutteridge had a former beachcomber's hut here, a tumbledown place of driftwood and ships’ timbers where he often stayed to escape the noise and rush of Kingston. Bond found him pottering about outside, looking quite different from the drunken ruin of the night before. Coffee was bubbling on the stove and Gutteridge produced a full Jamaican breakfast – mangoes and paw-paws and delicious yams.

‘It's like a nature cure,’ said Bond. Gutteridge grinned.

‘The island has its compensations,’ he replied.

Over more coffee Bond told him of his visit to Da Silva. When Bond suggested working with the police, Gutteridge shook his head.

‘Quite useless. If they make a raid on Tarleton Street, they'll find nothing. The Goddess and her friends will have vanished by the time the Law arrives. She's an elusive deity.’

‘What's your suggestion then?’ said Bond.

‘I'm not sure,’ said Gutteridge, ‘but you see that white house on the point? I've discovered who is living there. Look through this telescope.’

Hidden behind the canvas awning of the hut, Gutteridge had installed a powerful Nikon telescope with zoom attachment. Bond crouched to look through it. It took a while to adjust and at first all he could see was a stretch of terrace and a small stone jetty.

‘Move it to the right,’ said Gutteridge.

Bond did. A red-striped mattress moved into vision. There was a woman lying on it.

‘Try the zoom,’ said Gutteridge.

Bond swung the small milled lever and the woman's face grew towards him. It was a face that he was never to forget. She was a golden-skinned brunette with the almond eyes and full lips of a Eurasian. The nose was small and delicate. So was the chin. She was laughing and Bond realized that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was completely naked, and, as Bond watched, she rolled onto her belly. A fat man with a moustache had been sitting on a canvas chair beside her, smoking a cigar. Bond saw him rise and then start rubbing her with sun oil. She continued laughing, even when he slapped her bottom. Bond could see the sunlight glinting on his rimless spectacles – the face was large and white and round.

‘Who's the lucky man?’ said Bond.

‘That's Gomez,’ Gutteridge replied. ‘He's just moved in. I don't know who the girl is. I don't envy her. But our friend Gomez is clearly feeling very confident to take a place like this.’

Bond spent a long time at the telescope. It wasn't often that he had the chance of studying an enemy and he was interested to see that he had several visitors. One was a tall bearded negro with dark spectacles. He and Gomez talked intently for a long time – the girl, Bond was interested to see, took no notice. Nor did she respond to any of Gomez's other friends. They were an uncouth-looking lot. Bond put them down as small-time local criminals and strong-arm men; Gomez appeared to give them orders. From time to time a servant in a crisp white jacket appeared with drinks – for Gomez only. The girl lay silently reading a magazine. Then Gomez finished his cigar, rose from his chair and walked off towards the house. The girl still took no notice. Bond saw her yawn, turn on her back, then slowly oil her thighs, her belly and her splendid breasts. Then she appeared to go to sleep; Bond suddenly desired her.

It was illogical and dangerous – Bond knew that. But there was something in this splendid girl stronger than any logic. Bond carefully surveyed the house. The dark blue shutters were all drawn, the door was shut. There was no sign of life.

‘I think,’ said Bond to Gutteridge, ‘it's time to take a closer look at Señor Gomez's establishment.’

It was approaching midday and the sea lay heavy with the heat. Bond swam slowly, relishing the freshness of the water on his body. The terrace lay a mile or so away and he was careful to swim out and then approach it from the other side. He was quite close before he had a chance to see it clearly. When he did, he saw that the girl had gone. The red-striped mattress was where she had left it, but the terrace was deserted.

Bond paused, uncertain whether to risk going closer. Then, suddenly, one of the upstairs shutters opened. A man leaned out and started shouting and a few seconds later the doors onto the terrace were flung open too. Four or five men rushed out. Gomez was with them. They were shouting, and Gomez had a gun.