if.thunderball-第4部分

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the　car。
　
　A　man　had　climbed　unhurriedly　down　from　the　driving　seat。　He　said　calmly；　〃I　am　so　sorry。　Are　you　all　right？〃　Recognition　dawned　on　his　face。　He　said　silkily；　〃Why；　if　it　isn't　my　friend　Patricia。　How　are　you；　Pat？　All　ready　for　me？〃
　
　The　man　was　extremely　handsome…a　dark…bronzed　woman…killer　with　a　neat　mustache　above　the　sort　of　callous　mouth　women　kiss　in　their　dreams。　He　had　regular　features　that　suggested　Spanish　or　South　American　blood　and　bold；　hard　brown　eyes　that　turned　up　oddly；　or；　as　a　woman　would　put　it；　intriguingly；　at　the　corners。　He　was　an　athletic…looking　six　foot；　dressed　in　the　sort　of　casually　well…cut　beige　herring…bone　tweed　that　suggests　Anderson　and　Sheppard。　He　wore　a　white　silk　shirt　and　a　dark　red　polka…dot　tie；　and　the　soft　dark　brown　V…necked　sweater　looked　like　vicuna。　Bond　summed　him　up　as　a　good…looking　bastard　who　got　all　the　women　he　wanted　and　probably　lived　on　them…and　lived　well。
　
　The　girl　had　recovered　her　poise。　She　said　severely；　〃You　really　ought　to　be　more　careful；　Count　Lippe。　You　know　there　are　always　patients　and　staff　walking　down　this　drive。　If　it　hadn't　been　for　this　gentleman〃…she　smiled　at　Bond…〃you'd　have　run　me　over。　After　all；　there　is　a　big　sign　asking　drivers　to　take　care。〃
　
　〃I　am　so　sorry；　my　dear。　I　was　hurrying。　I　am　late　for　my　appointment　with　the　good　Mr。　Wain。　I　am　as　usual　in　need　of　decarbonization…this　time　after　two　weeks　in　Paris。〃　He　turned　to　Bond。　He　said　with　a　hint　of　condescension；　〃Thank　you；　my　dear　sir。　You　have　quick　reactions。　And　now；　if　you　will　forgive　me…〃　He　raised　a　hand；　got　back　into　the　Bentley；　and　purred　off　up　the　drive。
　
　The　girl　said；　〃Now　I　really　must　hurry。　I'm　terribly　late。〃　Together　they　turned　and　walked　after　the　Bentley。
　
　Bond　said；　examining　her；　〃Do　you　work　here？〃　She　said　that　she　did。　She　had　been　at　Shrublands　for　three　years。　She　liked　it。　And　how　long　was　he　staying？　The　small…talk　continued。
　
　She　was　an　athletic…looking　girl　whom　Bond　would　have　casually　associated　with　tennis；　or　skating；　or　show…jumping。　She　had　the　sort　of　firm；　pact　figure　that　always　attracted　him　and　a　fresh　open…air　type　of　prettiness　that　would　have　been　monplace　but　for　a　wide；　rather　passionate　mouth　and　a　hint　of　authority　that　would　be　a　challenge　to　men。　She　was　dressed　in　a　feminine　version　of　the　white　smock　worn　by　Mr。　Wain；　and　it　was　clear　from　the　undisguised　curves　of　her　breasts　and　hips　that　she　had　little　on　underneath　it。　Bond　asked　her　if　she　didn't　get　bored。　What　did　she　do　with　her　time　off？
　
　She　acknowledged　the　gambit　with　a　smile　and　a　quick　glance　of　appraisal。　〃I've　got　one　of　those　bubble　cars。　I　get　about　the　country　quite　a　lot。　And　there　are　wonderful　walks。　And　one's　always　seeing　new　people　here。　Some　of　them　are　very　interesting。　That　man　in　the　car；　Count　Lippe。　He　es　here　every　year。　He　tells　me　fascinating　things　about　the　Far　East…China　and　so　on。　He's　got　some　sort　of　a　business　in　a　place　called　Macao。　It's　near　Hong　Kong；　isn't　it？〃
　
　〃Yes；　that's　right。〃　So　those　turned…up　eyes　were　a　dash　of　Chinaman。　It　would　be　interesting　to　know　his　background。　Probably　Portuguese　blood　if　he　came　from　Macao。
　
　They　had　reached　the　entrance。　Inside　the　warm　hall　the　girl　said；　〃Well；　I　must　run。　Thank　you　again。〃　She　gave　him　a　smile　that；　for　the　benefit　of　the　watching　receptionist；　was　entirely　neutral。　〃I　hope　you　enjoy　your　stay。〃　She　hurried　off　toward　the　treatment　rooms。　Bond　followed；　his　eyes　on　the　taut　swell　of　her　hips。　He　glanced　at　his　watch　and　also　went　down　the　stairs　and　into　a　spotlessly　white　basement　that　smelled　faintly　of　olive　oil　and　an　Aerosol　disinfectant。
　
　Beyond　a　door　marked　〃　Gentlemen's　Treatment　〃　he　was　taken　in　hand　by　an　indiarubbery　masseur　in　trousers　and　singlet。　Bond　undressed　and　with　a　towel　round　his　waist　followed　the　man　down　a　long　room　divided　into　partments　by　plastic　curtains。　In　the　first　partment；　side　by　side；　two　elderly　men　lay；　the　perspiration　pouring　down　their　strawberry　faces；　in　electric　blanket…baths。　In　the　next　were　two　massage　tables。　On　one；　the　pale；　dimpled　body　of　a　youngish　but　very　fat　man　wobbled　obscenely　beneath　the　pummeling　of　his　masseur。　Bond；　his　mind　recoiling　from　it　all；　took　off　his　towel　and　lay　down　on　his　face　and　surrendered　himself　to　the　toughest　deep　massage　he　had　ever　experienced。
　
　Vaguely；　against　the　jangling　of　his　nerves　and　the　aching　of　muscles　and　tendons；　he　heard　the　fat　man　heave　himself　off　his　table　and；　moments　later；　another　patient　take　his　place。　He　heard　the　man's　masseur　say；　〃I'm　afraid　we'll　have　to　have　the　wristwatch　off；　sir。〃　The　urbane；　silky　voice　that　Bond　at　once　recognized　said　with　authority；　〃Nonsense；　my　dear　fellow。　I　e　here　every　year　and　I've　been　allowed　to　keep　it　on　before。　I'd　rather　keep　it　on；　if　you　don't　mind。〃
　
　〃Sorry；　sir。〃　The　masseur's　voice　was　politely　firm。　〃You　must　have　had　someone　else　doing　the　treatment。　It　interferes　with　the　flow　of　blood　when　I　e　to　treat　the　arm　and　hand。　If　you　don't　mind；　sir。〃
　
　There　was　a　moment's　silence。　Bond　could　almost　feel　Count　Lippe　controlling　his　temper。　The　words；　when　they　came；　were　spat　out　with　what　seemed　to　Bond　ludicrous　violence。　〃Take　it　off　then。〃　The　〃Damn　you〃　didn't　have　to　be　uttered。　It　hung　in　the　air　at　the　end　of　the　sentence。
　
　〃Thank　you；　sir。〃　There　was　a　brief　pause　and　then　the　massage　began。
　
　The　small　incident　seemed　odd　to　Bond。　Obviously　one　had　to　take　off　one's　wristwatch　for　a　massage。　Why　had　the　man　wanted　to　keep　it　on？　It　seemed　very　childish。
　
　〃Turn　over；　please；　sir。〃
　
　Bond　obeyed。　Now　his　face　was　free　to　move。　He　glanced　casually　to　his　right。　Count　Lippe's　face　was　turned　away　from　him。　His　left　arm　hung　down　toward　the　floor。　Where　the　sunburn　ended；　there　was　a　bracelet　of　almost　white　flesh　at　the　wrist。　In　the　middle　of　the　circle　where　the　watch　had　been　there　was　a　sign　tattooed　on　the　skin。　It　looked　like　a　small　zigzag　crossed　by　two　vertical　strokes。　So　Count　Lippe　had　not　wanted　this　sign　to　be　seen！　It　would　be　amusing　to　ring　up　Records　and　see　if　they　had　a　line　on　what　sort　of　people　wore　this　little　secret　recognition　sign　under　their　wristwatches。
　
　3。　The　Rack
　
　At　the　end　of　the　hour's　treatment　Bond　felt　as　if　his　body　had　been　eviscerated　and　then　run　through　a　wringer。　He　put　on　his　clothes　and；　cursing　M；　climbed　weakly　back　up　the　stairs　into　what；　by　parison　with　the　world　of　nakedness　and　indignities　in　the　basement；　were　civilized　surroundings。　At　the　entrance　to　the　main　lounge　were　two　telephone　booths。　The　switchboard　put　him　through　to　the　only　Headquarters　number　he　was　allowed　to　call　on　an　outside　line。　He　knew　that　all　such　outside　calls　were　monitored。　As　he　asked　for　Records；　he　recognized　the　hollowness　on　the　line　that　meant　the　line　was　bugged。　He　gave　him　number　to　Head　of　Records　and　put　his　question；　adding　that　the　subject　was　an　Oriental　probably　of　Portuguese　extraction。　After　ten　minutes　Head　of　Records　came　back　to　him。
　
　〃It's　a　Tong　sign。〃　His　voice　sounded　interested。　〃The　Red　Lightning　Tong。　Unusual　to　find　anyone　but　a　full…blooded　Chinaman　being　a　member。　It's　not　the　usual　semi…religious　organization。　This　is　entirely　criminal。　Station　H　had　dealings　with　it　once。　They're　represented　in　Hong　Kong；　but　their　headquarters　are　across　the　bay　in　Macao。　Station　H　paid　big　money　to　get　a　courier　service　running　into　Peking。　Worked　like　a　dream；　so　they　gave　the　line　a　trial　with　some　heavy　stuff。　It　bounced；　badly。　Lost　a　couple　of　H's　top　men。　It　was　a　double…cross。　Turned　out　that　Redland　had　some　sort　of　a　deal　with　these　people。　Hell　of　a　mess。　Since　then　they've　cropped　up　from　time　to　time　in　drugs；　gold　smuggling　to　India；　and　top…bracket　white　slavery。　They're　big　people。　We'd　be　interested　if　you've　got　any　kind　of　a　line。〃
　
　Bond　said；　〃Thanks；　Records。　No；　I've　got　nothing　definite。　First　time　I've　heard　of　these　Red　Lightning　people。　Let　you　know　if　anything　develops。　So　long。〃
　
　Bond　thoughtfully　put　back　the　receiver。　How　interesting！　Now　what　the　hell　could　this　man　be　doing　at　Shrublands？　Bond　walked　out　of　the　booth。　A　movement　in　the　next　booth　caught　his　eye。　Count　Lippe；　his　back　to　Bond；　had　just　picked　up　the　receiver。　How　long　had　he　been　in　there？　Had　he　heard　Bond's　inquiry？　Or　his　ment？　Bond　had　the　crawling　sensation　at　the　pit　of　his　stomach　he　knew　so　well…the　signal　that　he　had　probably　made　a　dangerous　and　silly　mistake。　He　glanced　at　his　watch。　It　was　seven…thirty。　He　walked　through　the　lounge　to　the　sun　parlor　where　〃dinner〃　was　being　served。　He　gave　his　name　to　the　elderly　woman　with　a　wardress　face　behind　a　long　counter。　She　consulted　a　list　and　ladled　hot　vegetable　soup　into　a　plastic　mug。　Bond　took　the　mug。　He　said　anxiously；　〃Is　that　all？〃
　
　The　woman　didn't　smile。　She　said　severely；　〃You're　lucky。　You　Wouldn't　be　getting　as　much　on　Starvation。　And　you　may　have　soup　every　day　at　midday　and　two　cups　of　tea　at　four　o'clock。〃
　
　Bond　gave　her　a　bitter　smile。　He　took　the　horrible　mug　over　to　one　of　the　little　café　tables　near　the　windows　overlooking　the　dark　lawn　and　sat　down　and　si