From the air it looks lush and very beautiful: a green and pleasant land ringed by a shimmering sea. As their aircraft approached the rocky beaches, it seemed that the surf below was unmoving, as though sculpted onto a wonderful model, surrounded by an unreal emerald sea. Puerto Rico - Rich Port - is exactly what this island was for over four centuries: wealthy and powerful, the strategic gateway to the Caribbean, cooled by the gentle trade winds; guarded and nurtured by Spain, but also prey to pirates and acquisitive countries who coveted this staging point to the New World.

In the late twentieth century, it has again become rich, this time through tourism. Hardly a day pa.s.ses without a major cruise ship lying in the port at San Juan, and the new luxury hotels and casinos, which line the sh.o.r.e of San Jose Lagoon, entice holidaymakers and high rollers.

Yet, side by side with its opulence and natural wonders, this lovely island has a dark side. The problems of drugs, poverty, and violence lurk, often unhidden, particularly in the old city of San Juan.

As they made the final approach into Luis Munoz Marin International, Bond remarked that it looked as though they were landing on the huge strip of bridge that had only recently been completed across the lagoon. They seemed to be so low that they flew below the tops of high-rise buildings, and Flicka, usually oblivious to approach and landing dangers on commercial aircraft, closed her eyes and waited for the safe b.u.mp as the big jet's gear touched down on what even Bond considered a slightly narrow runway, a shade close to a long line of trees on their left side.

n.o.body asked to see pa.s.sports or any other doc.u.mentation, and the porter who took their luggage from the carousel for them seemed quite happy to summon a taxi, and even happier with his tip. The driver of the cab asked if a price of twenty dollars was okay by them. Bond nodded, and the meter was immediately switched off.

They drove alongside the lagoon, glimpsing the new hotels where cruise ship pa.s.sengers often stay in their hordes for one or two nights either before leaving or at the end of the cruise. These smart beehives, complete with large casinos and a mult.i.tude of restaurants, including fast-food joints imported from the United States, were often all visitors saw, except for a quick outing to Old San Juan and the two great forts, Castillo San Felipe del Morro - usually referred to simply as El Morro - and Castillo de San Cristobal. Fortifications which rank among the greatest still standing.

Their driver skirted the old town and finally deposited them in a small open square facing the San Juan Cathedral. Porters hurried down steps to their left, and after Bond paid for the cab, he turned to see the imposing entrance to the Gran Hotel El Convento. For two hundred and fifty years, El Convento was home to the island's Carmelite nuns. Now, centuries later, the building has emerged, beautifully refurbished, as a unique caravansary.

Once through the ancient doors, they found themselves greeted like royalty, and, unusually, shown straight upstairs to their beautiful airy room with a large canopied bed.

"You think there's the ghost of a nun here?" Flicka laughed. "I mean, we're probably usurping some old holy woman's cell."

"I don't think whoever lived here before would even recognize it. The Carmelites are a rather strict order. Wouldn't know how to work the TV anyway."

They had been told to go through the registration procedure once they had settled in, so Bond went down, completed the paperwork, and asked if any forwarded luggage had arrived for them.

The young woman at reception told him mat there were two special cases that would be delivered to the room directly.

He was on his way back when an instantly recognizable voice spoke from behind him.

"Just in time for a predinner drink, James, old buddy."

"Felix!" He turned and could hardly believe that his old friend, Felix Leiter, stood behind him, leaning on his walking stick, a broad smile on his leathery Texan face.

"Fancy meeting me here, James. You haven't changed, I see. Noticed you arrived with a gorgeous lady in tow."

"There's a surprise for you regarding the lady." He looked affectionately at his old friend, who for many years had served with the Central Intelligence Agency. That career had been cut short by an argument with a shark while he was working with Bond, though you would hardly know that he had lost both a leg and an arm. True, he walked with the aid of a stick, but the prosthetic leg and arm allowed him to live an almost normal life.

"You here on business?" Bond stepped close to his old friend.

"You never get to leave the business completely, James. You should know that. They just pulled on my leash and brought me back. When they told me it concerned you, I couldn't say no. Anyway, the hotel's good, and the food and drink are more than bearable."

"How's Cedar?" Cedar Leiter was Felix's daughter, who had followed in her father's footsteps. Much to her father's concern, she had even worked with Bond on a case some years ago.

"Cedar's as lovely as ever. Thinking of getting married, but I have my doubts."

"Why? She's a great girl."

"Can you see Cedar married to a young man who never had to do a day's work in his life because his daddy made a killing in oil, way back when the USA produced all the gas you needed and then some?"

"She'd know how to spend his money."

"Sure she would, but I have a feeling that she'd soon find him dull as dirt. The guy has all this money and he's never been any further than New York City - and he thinks that den of iniquity is 'cool and awesome.' Those were his exact words, and he's over forty years old."

Bond leaned closer, and his lips hardly moved. "You know everything?"

"About Apocalypse? Sure, I know most of what you know. I've even been across the island to look at the little country place he has here. I'll take you over for a look-see tomorrow."

"So we're working together again, eh?"

"I am your guide, philosopher, and friend, James. Now, off you go and bring your lady down to the Campana Bar. Still like your martinis shaken, not stirred? And with the same ingredients?"

"Yes indeed, even though the author of a book called Drinkmanship says that the mix is all wrong."

Leiter's laugh followed Bond as he took long strides in the direction of the cloistered arches and their room, where a porter was just delivering a pair of heavy aluminum cases.

"What have we got in those?" Flicka had already unpacked and showered. She sat at the elegant little dressing table putting on her warpaint, as she liked to call it. "They look like camera cases."

"A shade more lethal." He dialed in the prearranged codes on the locks of the cases and found the note in the first one he opened. Ann Reilly had done her best regarding the larger item for which he had asked.

Some of our friends, she had written, will see to it that you get the thing if you really need it.

As he went through the weapons, ammunition, and the like, held within the cases by egg-crate foam rubber, he told Flicka about Felix Leiter.

"You mean I get to meet him at last?" She had heard much about his old friend.

"You certainly do get to meet him." He lifted the foam rubber from the bottom of the second case to reveal five boxes about six inches long and two across. "She did it," he muttered. "Little jewels." He wondered how on earth Q'ute had managed to smuggle explosives onto the island.

"Where?"

"Not your kind of jewels, darling. This kind will blow people to kingdom come. By the way, what are you wearing tonight?"

"A skirt."

"There you go, then. Your favorite Beretta and a thigh holster."

"Oh, your favorite, James." She took the holster and strapped it on, reminding him of the first flash of her thighs that he had ever seen - when she had suddenly drawn a pistol from that same type of holster in Switzerland.

While she finished dressing, he took a quick shower, changed into slacks, comfortable moccasins, and a white shirt, over which he put on a lightweight blazer - mainly to hide the bulge made by the ASP.

Finally, after numerous changes in her small items of jewelry - and a lot of "What do you think, James? This one, or this?" - they went down to join Felix in the Campana Bar, where he already had a couple of martinis lined up.

"Just so you don't get too far behind." He gave Flicka a warm embrace, saying he had a kind of droit du seigneur where Bond's girlfriends were concerned.

"I'm afraid not with Flicka, Felix." He went on and broke the news to the American.

"You're kidding me? You, James?" Then, looking at Flicka, "Tell me he's kidding me."

"'Fraid not, Felix. It's the real thing this time, but for heaven's sake don't tell anyone. They'd whiz me out of here like a speeding bullet."

Felix said he was the most trustworthy man this side of George Washington, but this news, of course, called for champagne, which he ordered immediately. Under cover of the small ceremony by the waiters, he leaned over and spoke quietly to Bond. "There's a face over there I kinda recognize, James. You ever seen him before?"

There were only three other people in the bar. Two men and a woman, sitting together, very relaxed and in deep conversation.

"The one with the beard?"

"That's the guy. I've seen him somewhere, or maybe just his photograph."

"'America's Most Wanted'?"

"Don't be a fool. I'm talking big-time names here. That guy's famous for something."

"I vaguely know the face, but can't put a name to him. Nothing for us to worry about."

In spite of the last remark, Bond quickly gave the trio a thorough once-over. The bearded man was short and stocky, probably in his late forties, with a fine weather-beaten face. The woman could be any age between eighteen and thirty-five, as she had one of those faces with a scrubbed look, dark hair that hung lank around her shoulders, so that it regularly had to be pushed back with a thin hand. The final member of the party was clean-shaven, earnest-looking, with his hair beginning to recede. He had the manner of an academic, the shoulders slightly stooped, his eyes bright behind a pair of wire-framed gla.s.ses.

Felix was in top form and kept the three of them going with a fund of stories, all of which were supposed to be true, most of them having happened to him personally. Bond had forgotten what a good raconteur and companion his old friend could be, and they relaxed over dinner, which, as was his way, Felix ordered for them. Tonight he obviously realized that they would not want anything heavy after the long journey, so they ate simply - smoked salmon and Salade Nicoise, followed by an unforgettable chocolate mousse.

It was Leiter who suggested they return to the bar for coffee and what he called "a little firewater to make us sleep."

The trio was still there, and he caught the bearded man's eye as they walked in. Immediately, Felix being Felix, addressed him. "I'm only an old Texas cowhand, but I seen you somewhere, sir. You're kinda famous for something and darned if I can put my finger on what exactly."

The bearded man's face broke into a wide, almost youthful grin. "You must have been reading some very rare magazines, sir. I'm only known in my field. The name's Rex Rexinus."

"I'm Felix Leiter, and you're a marine biologist, right?"

"Absolutely right."

"See," Felix turned to his friends, "I told you this guy was famous. You wrote a book about deep-ocean fish."

"If you've worked your way through that, then you're very well read, and I doubt if you're really an old cowhand."

"Maybe I stretched the point with that. I been in and out of all kinds of business. But it's been great meeting you, Dr. Rexinus."

"Please, join us." Rexinus stood and was already pulling up chairs.

"Well, you've got to meet my friends here. This is . . ."

"James Busby, and this is my wife, Vic."

"Yeah." Felix was putting on his most outrageous drawl. "James and Vic."

"And my friends." Rexinus leaned over and shook hands. "This is Vesta Motley, and my other friend here is Professor Afton Fritz."

"Not Professor Fritz, the biochemist?"

"You're a walking encyclopedia, Mr. Leiter. Yes, I'm a biochemist, as, indeed, is Ms. Motley - among other things." Fritz had a slightly high-pitched voice that somehow did not go with his face, while Vesta Motley's "How do you do?" was very English.

They ordered drinks and there were a few moments of small talk until Felix, still playing the Texan abroad, asked, "What in heaven's name brings a couple of biochemists and a marine biologist of renown to San Juan?"

"Good question, Felix." Rexinus put his head back and laughed. "We thought we were onto something good. About a year ago the three of us had an idea which we felt would benefit the world, but we didn't have the money to carry through our research."

"Ain't that always the way?"

"Usually, yes. But suddenly we found a benefactor, though now we're at a loss what to do. We have the most magnificent floating laboratory out there in the harbor, and we've found that all three of us were wrong." He punctuated this with another laugh. "You see we were only half right in our theory, which is about as good as being completely wrong. Now we're in even deeper water because the very generous and rich man who backed the entire venture has gone and got himself killed in a car accident, and we can't get a peep out of his company offices in London."

"And who's the filthy-rich benefactor?" Bond stirred in his chair.

"Man called Tarn." Rexinus grunted. "Sir Max Tarn. You may have heard of him."

"Vaguely," said Flicka a shade too quickly.

"I mean, I'm sorry for the fellow, getting killed, but it makes life easier for us in some ways."

"Why would that be?" Bond asked stiffly, as though just getting over a shot of Novocain.

"Well." It was Vesta Motley who answered him. "Sir Max is one of these people who demand results. He gave us a year, and - just before his death - he cabled us to say he would be coming here to San Juan to see a demonstration of the thing we cannot demonstrate."

"A hard taskmaster," Leiter muttered.

"Oh, the hardest," Ms. Motley replied, with wise nods from her two colleagues. "But you'll have to come aboard and see our laboratory, Mare Nostrum. It's an incredible ship. Quite the last word."

Last word is probably right, Bond considered. Aloud, he said, "We'd love to. How about tomorrow night?"

20 - Things Ancient and Modern

"An old Texas cowhand," Bond all but sneered. "Old Texas cowhand, my backside."

"Don't be horrible to Felix, now, James. He did get us a lot of information," Flicka chided.

It was late afternoon, and the day had provided more information, none of it comforting. Now they stood on the topmost platform of El Morro, looking out across the harbor.

The banter between Bond and his old friend had begun early that morning when they left the hotel to drive across the island to the town of Ponce. Felix, it appeared, had thought of everything, including hiring the car which he could drive with the advanced prosthetics he now used, but Bond took over with both Flicka and Felix as navigators. Not that there was much navigation to do, for the roads were straightforward, taking them across the breadth of the island from the Atlantic to the Caribbean sides, touching the coastal towns of Salinas and Santa Isabel.

"You're quite a well-read little devil for an American," Bond began.

"It's all the time I've had lying in hospital beds and hippety-hopping around."

"Yes, but to recognize a couple of obscure scientists was quite a feat."

"Not really. I already knew who they were."

"You did?"

"I've been here for a couple of days, and those three are almost permanent fixtures in the hotel bar. A word here and a word there: you know how we glean information, James. At least you used to know."

"Fraud," Bond muttered.