HE
DRANK. SO DID BOND.
Montagetext: Michael Laczynski und Wolfgang Thaler
Illustration: Michael Jung
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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.
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