“If you want any more, just press the call button.” She pointed to the knob on the arm of his seat.

  “I will,” he said, and set about making his coffee marginally more drinkable.

  The rest of the flight was uneventful. They landed shortly before eight that evening, and Fleming went to pick up his second bag, and then made his way to the ticket desk for international flights.

  “Where to?” the clerk asked.

  “Kingston, Jamaica,” said Fleming.

  Hearing the accent the clerk smiled faintly. “Limey. Well, well.”

  Fleming knew it would serve no purpose to object to this. “Yes. English. I arrived from Jamaica at New Orleans,” he said, handing over his passport and visa. “The smallpox certificate is in the back.”

  “It’s smart of you Limeys to have that in the passport instead of separate, the way we do.” He checked his schedules. “The first flight out is on Monday morning at six-thirty. If that isn’t too early for you?”

  “I can be here,” said Fleming, a bit grimly.

  “We need you here an hour in advance. It’s required for all international flights.” He looked a bit mischievous. “That means getting here at five-thirty. You might want to get a room at a hotel near here.”

  “Can you recommend one?” Fleming asked.

  “Sorry. You might ask at the Information desk.” He waited a moment. “So, do you want the reservation?”

  “Yes. Of course.” He was becoming impatient with the clerk. “Ian Fleming. Do I need to spell it?”

  “I can read it off your passport,” the clerk said, writing the particulars down.

  Fleming held out his hand for his passport. “Which gate is the departure gate?”

  “It’s in the east wing. It’s marked INTERNATIONAL FLIGHTS. There’s a Customs shed right next to it. You can’t miss it.” He began to type up the ticket, his eyes on the keys. “Remember, you have to be here an hour before departure.”

  “I will.” Fleming waited for the clerk to hand him his ticket. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” said the clerk as if by rote. “That’ll be two hundred thirty-four dollars and sixty-nine cents.”

  Fleming thought his cash reserves were growing low, but he paid the amount without flinching. He had enough to last him another day, and that was reassuring. He took his bags and went out to the Information desk to explain his plight. As he walked, something about the clerk came to his mind: the man had not had a Southern or Texas accent—his inflections were the flat-vowel sounds of the Midwest. Fleming told himself that the man might have had any number of reasons for working in Texas, and that his accent meant little. He shrugged it off and asked about hotels in the area, deciding on the Lone Star, which was nearer to the airport than any other. He might have been less sanguine had he heard the telephone call the clerk placed to Baton Rouge twenty minutes later.

  “You’re the one looking for a Limey named Fleming? The one who sent all the mimeo sheets?” the clerk asked when the telephone was answered on the far end.

  “Yes,” said the French-accented voice.

  “Ian Fleming, going to Jamaica?” the clerk persisted.

  “That’s right,” said the man in Baton Rouge.

  “Well, he’s booked on the six-thirty Monday morning flight out of here—Houston, that is.” The clerk glanced over his shoulder. “He’ll be around here tomorrow. Probably near the airport, since he has to be here early on Monday. That means six or seven hotels.”

  “Did you recommend one to him?” the man in Baton Rouge asked.

  “It’s not allowed. I told him to check with the Information desk. It shouldn’t be too hard to figure out where he is.”

  “All right,” came the response.

  The clerk hesitated. “So what about the money? Your man said you’d pay a thousand bucks for delivering this guy to you.”

  “And I will, when I know where he is,” said the man in Baton Rouge.

  “He’s here, in Houston,” said the clerk testily.

  “Yes,” said the man, his voice becoming silky. “And when I know where in Houston, you’ll be paid. Not an instant before then.”

  “But you will pay,” said the clerk, far less confidently than he had before.

  “Oh, yes. I will pay. Make no doubt about it,” said the man. “The money will be given to you in person. My man will deliver it to you—the same one you spoke with before. You remember him, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the clerk, picturing the quiet stranger with the air of menace about him.

  “Then we’re settled, aren’t we? You’ll be paid.” The man didn’t wait for a response to break the connection.

  “Fine,” said the clerk, suddenly frightened. “Fine,” he repeated, and hung up as if to put distance between himself and the sinister voice in Baton Rouge.

  Chapter 27

  THE LONE STAR was the product of World War II, a two-story building of strictly utilitarian design. Though hardly more than five years old, it already had a look of dejection about it, from the austere front to its rooms that were duplicates of one another, furnished the same way: a double bed, a chest of drawers, two night-stands, a small table with two chairs, two night-stand lamps, and a floor lamp. Everything was beige or toast color, from carpet and draperies to bedspread and lamp-shades. Fleming had seen similar buildings during the war and it provided him with the same dreariness of spirit those buildings had inspired. At ten minutes before nine, he left one bag in the room, but carried the one with the secret compartment and files back to the lobby. He found the telephone booths and went into the nearest one, and dialed the long-distance operator, giving the number of the Pecos Vista. He deposited two dollars and ten cents, and waited while the phone rang on the other end of the line.

  “Pecos Vista,” said an unfamiliar voice.

  Somewhat taken aback, Fleming gathered his thoughts. “I am looking for Lemmuel Hotchkiss and was told I could reach him here. I thought he was expecting my call.”

  The man at the other end chuckled. “Just a minute,” and called out, “Hey, Grampa, it’s that English guy you told me about. Looking for Hotchkiss.”

  There was a scramble and then Bert came on the line. “Evenin’, Mister Fleming. Lemmuel asked me to get your number—said he’d call you back in an hour.”

  Fleming looked at the dial on the pay phone, then said, “I’m at the Lone Star hotel in Houston. The number in this booth is”—he read it off to Bert, repeating it carefully. “I’ll be here in an hour, if that’s what Agent Hotchkiss wants.”

  “Yep.” Bert read the number. “I’ll tell him you’ll be waiting.”

  “Thanks,” said Fleming, and hung up, listening to the clang of coins. He sat still for a few minutes, trying to decide what to make of Hotchkiss’s absence. It seemed ominous to him that the FBI agent wasn’t where he had agreed to be, but at the same time, he was aware that this could be his anxiety speaking: Hotchkiss might have any number of good reasons to be away from the hotel that in no way was tied to his inquiry. But the anxiety lingered as he rose from the telephone booth and made his way into the café—calling itself a coffee shop—just off the small lobby.

  There were a dozen men alone and one family of four occupying the booths and counters, taking up about half of the seating; the color-scheme was dark-red and maple-stained wood, making the room darker than necessary. Fleming chose a booth toward the rear of the room where he could watch everyone else without being conspicuous himself. He put his bag on the Naugahyde seat next to him and picked up a menu from the holder behind the juke-box selection unit. He read the various possibilities slowly, thinking that the quantities of beef being served as single portions here would suffice for a family of four in London. He noticed the lack of wines available and wondered what he could order from the bar.

  A waitress came up to this table, a woman in her late twenties with a boyish build and a fixed smile, almost pretty, in a leggy sort of way. “What can I get you?”

  “Can I order a drink?” Fleming asked, knowing there were still some odd laws in America, left over from the days of Prohibition.

  “Sure. Bar closes at midnight.” She held up a notepad.

  “I won’t be that long,” Fleming quipped.

  “What can I get you?” she repeated as automatically as she smiled. “We got Bourbon, Scotch, Gin, Brandy, ladies’ drinks, beer. Take your pick.”

  “Your best Scotch,” said Fleming. “No ice.”

  “One finger or two?” The waitress scribbled on her pad.

  “Two,” said Fleming.

  “Be right back,” said the waitress.

  Fleming put his elbows on the table, and braced his chin in his hands. He had to admit he was tired. Eager for a smoke, he dug out his Players and lit up, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly. The nap on the airplane hadn’t done much to restore him; if anything it had made him a bit groggy. Like it or not, he was certain that he would have to get a decent night’s sleep or be way off his game tomorrow, when he suspected he might need to be particularly alert. The Scotch should help the rest, he said, and waited for the waitress to return.

  “Made up your mind yet?” she asked as she set a squat glass down in front of him.

  “I’ll have the Porterhouse steak, rare, with sautéed mushrooms, a salad with French dressing, and an order of potato wedges. Coffee at the end of dinner, if you would.” He had decided that was the most reasonable meal he could get from what was offered.

  “Porterhouse, rare, ’shrooms, salad with French, and wedges. Coffee afterward,” she repeated, to be sure she had it right. “Should be about fifteen minutes.”

  “That’s fine,” said Fleming.

  “Good. Some guys, y‘know, can’t wait for a meal. They eat’n’run, eat’n’run.” She kept her meaningless smile in place as she went off to place his order, leaving Fleming to sip his Scotch and mull over the events of the last few days. Sitting alone in the corner of the room, he wanted to review all his material but didn’t feel safe taking out such papers in so public a place as this coffee shop. He even hesitated to make notes, for fear they might be seen by the wrong people.

  The waitress appeared again. “Want a refill?” She pointed to the empty Scotch glass.

  Fleming looked at it. “If you would, please,” he said after a brief consideration.

  She took the glass and hurried away, returning with another two fingers of Scotch in a squat, wide-mouthed glass.

  A man sitting at the bar glanced Fleming’s way once, but other than that, he appeared to be attracting very little attention. He took another look around the room, satisfied himself that he was ignored, and went back to pondering as he finished his cigarette.

  Once again Fleming was lost in thought, and was startled out of it by the waitress bringing his meal. He thanked her and set to eating, missing Cesar’s cooking more than he wanted to admit, though the steak was excellent. He ate steadily, keeping an eye on his watch in anticipation of his call from Hotchkiss. He finished with twenty minutes to spare, so he ordered coffee and asked for the check.

  “Everything okay?” the waitress asked. “I seen you looking at your watch.”

  “Fine. Just trying to adjust to the time change,” said Fleming less than truthfully.

  “Oh, yeah. Lots of people have trouble with that,” she said, and went to get the bill.

  Fleming paid and left a generous fifteen per-cent tip—more than good service required, but not enough to be conspicuous. Taking his bag, he went out into the lobby and back to the telephone booths, and was relieved to see that the one he sought was empty, although one of the others was occupied. He slid into it and closed the door and occupied himself with looking through the telephone book chained underneath the little writing shelf.

  At the sound of the ring, he nearly dropped the telephone book, and reached for the telephone as if to silence it instead of answering it. “Fleming here.”

  “It’s Hotchkiss,” said the FBI agent.

  “I thought it might be,” said Fleming, his voice betraying nothing of his alarm.

  “Is there any way for you to get a secure line?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “No,” said Fleming, wary and excited by this request. “Not without a great deal of inconvenience, and taking a risk of making myself noticeable. I’m not sure I’d be given one, in any case.”

  “Damn,” Hotchkiss said.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Fleming, keeping his voice level.

  “Well, I’ll do the best I can, and hope no one’s listening. If the operator is eavesdropping, she better get off now, or risk having her name in FBI files.” There was a faint click on the line. “Much better,” Hotchkiss approved, then continued more seriously, “this is touchy stuff, Fleming. I could get into real trouble doing this. So could you, for that matter.” He paused. “It looks like you might have found something hot, Fleming.”

  “Hot?” Fleming repeated.

  “Real hot. The names you asked me to check out?” He coughed delicately.

  “Yes,” said Fleming. “JC and GK, and anyone associated with them. SWP and anyone else I should consider important.”

  “Yeah. Well, I can’t find out very much about the last guy. All I know is he did some vetting on some of the English and English-like at the lab, and watch-dogged most of them. You follow me?”

  “Certainly,” said Fleming brusquely. “You’re not the least obscure.”

  “Good,” said Hotchkiss, seeming not to mind Fleming’s tone. “Anyway, JC and GK worked for a time with a third man, a Canadian called Maxwell Preussin. So far as I can find out, he’s taken off for the north woods since the War ended. At least that’s what the RCMP told me. They have nothing current on him. So far as I can tell, no one has.”

  “Can you spell the name for me?” Fleming asked, and wrote it on a page in the telephone book when Hotchkiss did. “A mathematician? Breaking codes?”

  “Nope. A geophysicist, top-notch, according to the Canadians. Working on assessing the potential damage of atomic bombs. Apparently he monitored a lot of the early tests, and kept at it until two years ago, then he suddenly pulled out. Some of the Mounties think he’s trying to find someplace safe from the Bomb,” said Hotchkiss. “WP did some kind of coordination for them, more than the rest he was looking after, at least for about six months. Your government insisted that they have one of yours keep an eye on them, so WP was the guy given the job. Seems Churchill didn’t trust Hoover, or Donovan, or any of them.”

  “I see,” said Fleming, more perplexed than before.

  “I’m glad you do,” said Hotchkiss. “I wish I did.”

  “Anything more?” Fleming held his pencil, prepared to make more notes.

  “Well, JC has left his old work and is apparently employed by some kind of important French industrialist. The man’s a mystery.”

  “Who is that?” Fleming asked. “And in what capacity is C employed—do you know?”

  “A guy named Soleilsur. French father, African mother, or so they say. Rich as all get out, with fingers in a lot of pies. He’s got everything from power plants and oil wells to calculating machines.” He paused. “I don’t know what C does for him.”

  The name all but screamed in Fleming’s mind. “Soleilsur?”

  “Means sun-south, or so my boss tells me, if that’s important,” said Hotchkiss. “I don’t know what more I can give you on him, except that he has a couple of houses in this country, a place in Paris, another in Nice, and something in Morocco, but his official residence is on a private island. Our files are pretty skimpy. But he’s foreign, which makes him CIG territory.”

  Fleming knew the animosity between the CIG and FBI was intense, so he didn’t pursue the matter. “I’ll see what MI5 have on him.”

  “I bet you won’t find much. Men that rich are good at covering their tracks.”

  “Only if they have something to hide,” said Fleming. “As the Nazis found out when Churchill sent his men after them.” He coughed once. “Not that that has anything to do with the present situation.”

  “You hope,” said Hotchkiss.

  “Bet on it,” said Fleming, gathering his thoughts once again. “Is that it, or have you something more?”

  “Not just now,” said Hotchkiss. “I might get additional material for you before you leave. When are you taking off?”

  “Early on Monday,” said Fleming.

  “Then a word of advice,” said Hotchkiss.

  “What is it?” Fleming asked, hearing something sharp in Hotchkiss’s tone. “Is something wrong?”

  “I don’t know. But you don’t want to take the chance. Change hotels tomorrow morning, and spend the day at the airport. If someone is on your trail, make it hard for him.” He paused. “When you call me again before you leave, call from the airport. You can call at any hour. Bert’ll wake me up.”

  “I will,” said Fleming, aware how prudent these precautions were. “Thank you, Hotchkiss.”

  “You’re welcome.” He made a sound between a laugh and a cough. “So long as I can call on you sometime.”

  “Of course. Anytime you like,” said Fleming, and prepared to ring off. “Is that it?”

  “For the moment,” Hotchkiss said. “Watch your back, Fleming.” With that, he broke the connection, leaving Fleming alone with the telephone book open to Heating Supplies with notes scrawled in the margins. He carefully tore the page from the book, folded it up, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  As he got out of the telephone booth, he saw that the one on the right of it was still occupied. For a second he felt a twinge of concern, and wondered if he should check on the man, but changed his mind, not wanting to give anyone reason to notice him. Bag in hand, he went back into the lobby, and considered having a nightcap at the bar, but changed his mind and went off to his room; he had a great deal to do, and he needed his mind keen for the work ahead.