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HE DRANK. SO DID BOND.
Montagetext: Michael Laczynski und Wolfgang Thaler
Illustration: Michael Jung
Half an hour among the jabbering loudspeakers of Ciampino Airport, time to drink two excellent Americanos, and they were on their way again, flying steadily down towards the toe of Italy, and Bond’s mind went back to sifting the minutest details of the rendezvous that was drawing closer at three hundred miles an hour. Bond climbed out of the plane with a handful of pale, silent passengers and walked across to the transit lounge and up to the bar. He ordered a tumbler of Ouzo and drank it down and chased it with a mouthful of ice water. There was a strong bite under the sickly anisette taste and Bond felt the drink light a quick, small fire down his throat and in his stomach. He put down his glass and ordered another. So! That too! Should he transfer to another flight or spend the night in Miami? Bond had forgotten his drink. He picked it up and, tilting his head back, swallowed the bourbon to the last drop. The ice tinkled cheerfully against his teeth. That was it. That was an idea. He would spend the night in Miami and get drunk, stinking drunk so that he would have to be carried to bed by whatever tart he had picked up. The Hotel de la Gare was all he had expected – cheap, old-fashioned, solidly comfortable. ...