4. RECEPTION COMMITTEE

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      THE SIXTY-EIGHT tons deadweight of the Super-Constellation hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.

      Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of smallholdings showed on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. ‘Xaymaca’ the Arawak Indians had called it – ‘The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.

      The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north–south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.

      The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.

      Bond’s passport described him as ‘Import and Export Merchant’.

      ‘What company, sir?’

      ‘Universal Export.’

      ‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’

      ‘Pleasure.’

      ‘I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’ The negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.

      ‘Thank you.’

      Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years before.

      ‘Quarrel!’

      From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ‘How you, cap’n?’ he called delightedly.

      ‘I’m fine,’ said Bond. ‘Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?’

      ‘Sure, cap’n.’

      The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew Quarrel, chalked Bond’s bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and looked into the dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of Morgan’s time. ‘You haven’t changed, Quarrel,’ he said affectionately. ‘How’s the turtle fishing?’

      ‘Not so bad, cap’n, an’ not so good. Much de same as always.’ He looked critically at Bond. ‘Yo been sick, or somepun?’

      Bond was surprised. ‘As a matter of fact I have. But I’ve been fit for weeks. What made you say that?’

      Quarrel was embarrassed. ‘Sorry, cap’n,’ he said, thinking he might have offended Bond. ‘Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las’ time.’

      ‘Oh well,’ said Bond. ‘It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of your training. I’m not as fit as I ought to be.’

      ‘Sho ting, cap’n.’

      They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and flash of a press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic charm, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the Daily Gleaner.’ She glanced down at a list in her hand. ‘Mister Bond, isn’t it? And how long will you be with us, Mister Bond?’

      Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. ‘In transit,’ he said shortly. ‘I think you’ll find there were more interesting people on the plane.’

      ‘Oh no, I’m sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what hotel will you be staying at?’

      Damn, thought Bond. He said ‘Myrtle Bank’ and moved on.

      ‘Thank you, Mister Bond,’ said the tinkling voice. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy …’

      They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said, ‘Ever seen that girl at the airport before?’

      Quarrel reflected. ‘Reck’n not, cap’n. But de Gleaner have plenty camera gals.’

      Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture should be wanted by the Press. It was five years since his last adventures on the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the papers.

      They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply at it and then at the number plate. Strangways’s car. What the hell? ‘Where did you get this, Quarrel?’

      ‘A.D.C. tell me fe to take him, cap’n. Him say hit de only spare car dey have. Why, cap’n? Him no good?’

      ‘Oh, it’s all right, Quarrel,’ said Bond resignedly. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

      Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might have guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it would certainly put the finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone happened to be interested.

      They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat and enjoyed the beauty of it all – the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented air, the ceiling of stars, the necklace of yellow lights shimmering across the harbour – but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing what he shouldn’t have done.

      What he had done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to the Governor. In it he had first asked that the A.D.C. should get Quarrel over from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten pounds a week. Quarrel had been with Bond on his last adventure in Jamaica. He was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman’s qualities of the Cayman Islander, and he was a passport into the lower strata of coloured life which would otherwise be closed to Bond. Everybody loved him and he was a splendid companion. Bond knew that Quarrel was vital if he was to get anywhere on the Strangways case – whether it was a case or just a scandal. Then Bond had asked for a single room and shower at the Blue Hills Hotel, for the loan of a car and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at the airport. Most of this had been wrong. In particular Bond should have taken a taxi to his hotel and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would have seen the car and had a chance to change it.

      As