Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [47]
‘Give me one moment to change,’ said Bond, heading for the cloakroom. A minute later, they got back into the car and
drove slowly into the main dock area with Bond navigating from Poppy’s map and Hamid barking out the names of the streets. There were two or three large merchantmen at anchor, as well as fleets of commercial fishing-boats. The size of the docks was impressive, Bond thought. Though it was only a short distance from the beaches where the tourists bathed, they could have berthed a couple of destroyers in this forlorn area with its endless walkways, warehouses and construction yards.
‘ This is it,’ he said. ‘Down here. Now read out the names on the front of the buildings.’
Hamid went through a long list as they drove past, reciting from the Farsi script, till he came to ‘Isfahani Brothers Boat Building’.
‘Good girl, Poppy,’ said Bond, as he got out of the car. ‘Remember what we said, Hamid?’
‘Eight o’clock, Mr James.’
‘Before you call Mr Alizadeh, just check down this hollow stanchion here.’ Bond pointed to a rusting metal tube that had once presumably held a traffic signal. ‘Look in it and see if there’s a note.’
For the first time that day, the light of animation came into Hamid’s solemn face. His eyes sparkled and the great moustache lifted as he smiled. ‘Dead letter,’ he said.
‘More or less,’ said Bond, surprised by his own precautions. Some instinct was telling him to beware. He watched Hamid turn the car and disappear, then approached the building.
An external staircase ran up one side and seemed to be the only pedestrian entrance. Bond walked along the road, looking for a less obvious way into the plant. As he did so, he noticed that the main building was not all it seemed from the front of the dock. Attached to it, at a lower level, was a sort of annexe, about a third of an acre in extent, and this was not covered, like the rest, in shabby, creosoted wood but in what looked to Bond like new stainless steel. It extended about fifty yards into the sea, presumably offering a deeper dock than was available elsewhere.
His curiosity aroused, Bond went to the side of the building to see if he could find a way in. The shell appeared to have no break in it – no door, window or opening of any kind. The only entrance was via a closed gangway from the old wooden building. After walking up and down the dockside twice to make sure he was not being watched, Bond went behind a Fiat lorry and stripped down to his swimming trunks. He folded his clothes and – with some reluctance – the Walther PPK into a bundle then hid
it behind a rubbish skip. While changing in the hotel, he had attached a commando knife to his left leg, strapped just below the knee. Checking both ways, he hurried across to the edge of the dock and lowered himself feet first into the water. The surface was slick with rainbows of spilt fuel and gave off the sweet, choking smell of diesel. Bond emptied his lungs, duck-dived, and powered himself downward.
Opening his eyes, he could see the great metal legs that held the shell. There were about a dozen on each side, anchored in concrete blocks on the sea floor. What he had not anticipated was that the sides of the building had been continued right down to the same level. Someone had been very thorough, and very cautious. He swam along the edges of the wall base, looking for a way in. The natural undulations of the sea floor, particularly so close to the shore, must surely mean that there would be a gap. It was likely, he thought, that the building was open at the sea end, but it would take him too long to swim there without having to surface.
He had been underwater for nearly a minute, and although he was an experienced diver with outstanding lung function, he knew he couldn’t last much longer. Above him, the metal sides rose vertically, disappearing in the mist of seaweed and cloudy water.
With his hands, he could feel the rivets and joins, but they made a single, adamantine wall. Whoever had built this thing