Devil May Care - Sebastian Faulks [50]
The man twitched and struggled, so Bond jabbed the tip of the knife into his flesh, where it drew blood. Reluctantly, the guard released his grip on the gun, and Bond pushed it away with his knee, a few feet across the metal walkway.
Rather than cut the man’s throat, Bond used the carotid takedown. Only eleven pounds of pressure to the carotid arteries are necessary to stop bloodflow to the brain and, once the flow has stopped,
the average person loses consciousness within ten seconds. As Bond squeezed hard on the man’s perspiring neck, he knew that if he left it at that, the thug would regain consciousness within fifteen seconds, but he would be weakened and disorientated
– and fifteen seconds was long enough for the hasty exit he was planning.
When he felt the heavy body go limp beneath him, Bond grabbed the gun and ran up the stairway to the upper level, where he scooped up the polythenewrapped package. As he made it to the door, he heard the recovering man call out from the gantry below. Bond had no time to think what might lie beyond the door as he ran to the opening and leapt through it.
.
11. Good Trouser
It took a moment for his eyes to become accustomed to his new surroundings. It was a boat-building yard with a single vessel under construction. There was a high screech of sheet-metal cutting over the sawing and hammering. Bond stood still for a moment. Then he began to make his way slowly along the gallery, at the end of which he could see wooden steps down to a platform where a door stood open, leading to the outdoor stairs – and freedom. He had got as far as the top of the steps when he heard the guard running back from the hangar and shouting from the connecting doorway. Bond turned and fired once, then ran down the steps and along the platform towards the door. He heard shots ring out and the whine of a bullet as it passed through the wooden wall above his head. He ran a zigzag pattern to the
door, side-stepping three low shots that ricocheted off the platform.
In front of him, in the doorway, was a second guard with his feet spread, preparing to shoot. Bond emptied two shots from the first guard’s gun into the man’s midriff and jumped over the slumped body to emerge into the evening sunlight.
There was a time in life to go forward – to attack –
but there was also a time, in Bond’s opinion, to get the hell out. Survival lay in knowing which was which. Even the Prophet’s famous journey, his hejira to the Holy City, Darius had told him, had been in truth a tactical withdrawal. So it was the Arabic word that Bond muttered to himself – ‘ Hejira’ – as, without looking back, he ran as fast as he could towards the road. He had gone only a hundred yards towards the town when he heard a clangorous hooting from a side-street. It was coming from a grey Cadillac, through whose driver’s window Bond could make out only an outsize moustache.
‘Get in, Mr James. You don’t go nowhere in your bathing trousers.’ Hamid flipped open the back door and Bond dived across the seat.
‘Go, Hamid! Go!’ he shouted.
Hamid needed no encouragement, as he left black streaks of rubber down the dockside road, screeched
back beside the neat little bazaar off Azadi Square, then whisked the car away up into the palm-lined millionaires’ rows behind the town.
When he was sure they were not being followed, Bond said, ‘All right. Slow down.’
Hamid looked disappointed, but did as he was told. Then he turned round, and his moustache twitched in amusement. ‘What you have?’ he said, pointing to the package.
‘I don’t know,’ said Bond. ‘I’m going to find out back in the hotel. You drop me off, then you’re going to buy me some new trousers and a shirt.’
‘You like American clothes?’
‘Yes,’ said Bond, cautiously. ‘Something plain, no checks or stripes. And tell me, Hamid, why were you waiting?’
Hamid shrugged. ‘I nothing else to do. I pull in, have a look round. It looks . . . not so good. I have bad feeling. I think you need