lackadaisical, the men contenting themselves with peering curiously through the open windows into the back of the taxi.
‘Good morning,’ Bond said. ‘How are you today?’
‘American cigarette?’ one soldier said, grinning. He was wearing a tin helmet, a red T-shirt and camouflage trousers.
‘English,’ Bond said and gave him the Morlands that remained in his cigarette case.
When they eventually reached the hotel entrance Bond paid his fare and pushed through the crowd of hawkers that surrounded him – offering thorn carvings, painted calabashes, beaded necklaces – and finally gained the cool lobby of the Excelsior Gateway, formerly the Prince Clarence Hotel, as an old painted sign on the wall informed him. Ceiling fans turned above his head and Bond gave his suitcase to a bellhop in a scarlet waistcoat with a scarlet fez on his head. He crossed the glossy teak floorboards towards the reception desk where he was checked in. There, an envelope was handed to him that contained a slip of paper with Ogilvy-Grant’s address and new contact telephone number at an industrial park. Bond folded the note up and tucked it in his pocket, looking around him as the receptionist busied himself writing down Bond’s details from his passport. Potted palms swayed in the breeze produced by the ceiling fans. Through glass doors Bond looked into a long dark bar where a barman in a white jacket was polishing glasses. On the other side of the lobby was the entrance to the dining room, where a sign requested ‘Gentlemen, please no shorts’. Another receptionist wearing a crisp white tunic with gold buttons arrived on duty and wished him a smiling ‘Good morning, Mr Bond.’ For a moment Bond savoured the illusion of time travel, when the Excelsior Gateway had been the Prince Clarence Hotel and Zanzarim had been Upper Zanza State and civil war, mass starvation and illimitable oil revenues were all in an unimaginable future.
·4·
CHRISTMAS
The bellhop in the scarlet fez took Bond to his small chalet in the hotel grounds at the rear of the main building. There were a dozen of these mini-bungalows linked to the hotel buildings by weed-badged concrete pathways, a remnant of the Excelsior Gateway’s colonial past. After independence an Olympic-sized swimming pool had been constructed, flanked by two five-storey modern annexes – ‘executive rooms with pool-view balconies’. Bond was glad to be in his shabby bungalow. He tipped the bellhop.
‘Water he close at noon, sar,’ the boy said. ‘But we have electric light twenty-four hours.’ He smiled. ‘We have gen’rator.’
Bond took his advice and had a cold shower while the water pressure was still there. He changed into a cotton khaki-drill suit, a white short-sleeved Aertex shirt and a navy-blue knitted tie. He slipped his feet into soft brown moccasins, thought about removing his socks but decided against it. He reloaded his cigarette case with some of the Morlands he’d brought with him in a 200-cigarette carton and, ready for action, headed out to the hotel entrance.
The doorman shooed away the hawkers and Bond gave him $10.
‘I need a taxi with a good driver for several hours,’ Bond said. ‘Twenty US dollars for the day – and if he’s good, I’ll give you another ten.’
‘Five seconds, sar,’ the doorman said and raced off.
Two minutes later a mustard yellow Toyota Corona lurched to a halt opposite Bond. A skinny young man, smart in a white shirt and white shorts, stepped out and saluted.
‘Hello, sar. I am your driver, Christmas.’
Bond shook Christmas’s hand and eased himself into the back of the Corona.
‘Where to, sar?’
‘Do you know where the military headquarters are?’
‘Zanza Force HQ. I know him. Ridgeway Barracks.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Ridgeway Barracks was a large four-storey pre-war building of faded cream stucco set in a park of mature casuarina pines. Christmas dropped him at the main entrance and Bond
‘Good morning,’ Bond said. ‘How are you today?’
‘American cigarette?’ one soldier said, grinning. He was wearing a tin helmet, a red T-shirt and camouflage trousers.
‘English,’ Bond said and gave him the Morlands that remained in his cigarette case.
When they eventually reached the hotel entrance Bond paid his fare and pushed through the crowd of hawkers that surrounded him – offering thorn carvings, painted calabashes, beaded necklaces – and finally gained the cool lobby of the Excelsior Gateway, formerly the Prince Clarence Hotel, as an old painted sign on the wall informed him. Ceiling fans turned above his head and Bond gave his suitcase to a bellhop in a scarlet waistcoat with a scarlet fez on his head. He crossed the glossy teak floorboards towards the reception desk where he was checked in. There, an envelope was handed to him that contained a slip of paper with Ogilvy-Grant’s address and new contact telephone number at an industrial park. Bond folded the note up and tucked it in his pocket, looking around him as the receptionist busied himself writing down Bond’s details from his passport. Potted palms swayed in the breeze produced by the ceiling fans. Through glass doors Bond looked into a long dark bar where a barman in a white jacket was polishing glasses. On the other side of the lobby was the entrance to the dining room, where a sign requested ‘Gentlemen, please no shorts’. Another receptionist wearing a crisp white tunic with gold buttons arrived on duty and wished him a smiling ‘Good morning, Mr Bond.’ For a moment Bond savoured the illusion of time travel, when the Excelsior Gateway had been the Prince Clarence Hotel and Zanzarim had been Upper Zanza State and civil war, mass starvation and illimitable oil revenues were all in an unimaginable future.
·4·
CHRISTMAS
The bellhop in the scarlet fez took Bond to his small chalet in the hotel grounds at the rear of the main building. There were a dozen of these mini-bungalows linked to the hotel buildings by weed-badged concrete pathways, a remnant of the Excelsior Gateway’s colonial past. After independence an Olympic-sized swimming pool had been constructed, flanked by two five-storey modern annexes – ‘executive rooms with pool-view balconies’. Bond was glad to be in his shabby bungalow. He tipped the bellhop.
‘Water he close at noon, sar,’ the boy said. ‘But we have electric light twenty-four hours.’ He smiled. ‘We have gen’rator.’
Bond took his advice and had a cold shower while the water pressure was still there. He changed into a cotton khaki-drill suit, a white short-sleeved Aertex shirt and a navy-blue knitted tie. He slipped his feet into soft brown moccasins, thought about removing his socks but decided against it. He reloaded his cigarette case with some of the Morlands he’d brought with him in a 200-cigarette carton and, ready for action, headed out to the hotel entrance.
The doorman shooed away the hawkers and Bond gave him $10.
‘I need a taxi with a good driver for several hours,’ Bond said. ‘Twenty US dollars for the day – and if he’s good, I’ll give you another ten.’
‘Five seconds, sar,’ the doorman said and raced off.
Two minutes later a mustard yellow Toyota Corona lurched to a halt opposite Bond. A skinny young man, smart in a white shirt and white shorts, stepped out and saluted.
‘Hello, sar. I am your driver, Christmas.’
Bond shook Christmas’s hand and eased himself into the back of the Corona.
‘Where to, sar?’
‘Do you know where the military headquarters are?’
‘Zanza Force HQ. I know him. Ridgeway Barracks.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Ridgeway Barracks was a large four-storey pre-war building of faded cream stucco set in a park of mature casuarina pines. Christmas dropped him at the main entrance and Bond
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