The Complete Ian Fleming pt3

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FROM RUSSIA WITH LOVE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Not that it matters, but a great deal of the background to this story is accurate.

SMERSH, a contraction of Smiert Spionam – Death to Spies – exists and remains today the most secret department of the Soviet government.

At the beginning of 1956, when this book was written, the strength of SMERSH at home and abroad was about 40,000 and General Grubozaboyschikov was its chief. My description of his appearance is correct.

Today, the headquarters of SMERSH are where, in <a class="hlink1" href="#calibre_link-45">Chapter 4</a>, I have placed them – at No. 13 Svetenka Witsa, Moscow. The Conference Room is faithfully described and the Intelligence chiefs who meet round the table are real officials who are frequently summond to that room for purposes similar to those I have recounted.

I.F. March 1956

<a id="calibre_link-1660"></a>PART ONE

THE PLAN

<a id="calibre_link-1662"></a><a id="calibre_link-1663"></a>1 ROSELAND

The naked man who lay splayed out on his face beside the swimming pool might have been dead.

He might have been drowned and fished out of the pool and laid out on the grass to dry while the police or the next-of-kin were summoned. Even the little pile of objects in the grass beside his head might have been his personal effects, meticulously assembled in full view so that no one should think that something had been stolen by his rescuers.

To judge by the glittering pile, this had been, or was, a rich man. It contained the typical membership badges of the rich man’s club – a money clip, made of a Mexican fifty-dollar piece and holding a substantial wad of banknotes, a well-used gold Dunhill lighter, an oval gold cigarette case with the wavy ridges and discreet turquoise button that means Fabergé, and the sort of novel a rich <a id="calibre_link-1664"></a>man pulls out of the bookcase to take into the garden – The Little Nugget – an old P. G. Wodehouse. There was also a bulky gold wrist-watch on a well-used brown crocodile strap. It was a Girard-Perregaux model designed for people who like gadgets, and it had a sweep second-hand and two little windows in the face to tell the day of the month, and the month, and the phase of the moon. The story it now told was 2.30 on June 10th with the moon three-quarters full.

A blue and green dragon-fly flashed out from among the rose bushes at the end of the garden and hovered in mid-air a few inches above the base of the man’s spine. It had been attracted by the golden shimmer of the June sunshine on the ridge of fine blond hairs above the coccyx. A puff of breeze came off the sea. The tiny field of hairs bent gently. The dragon-fly darted nervously sideways and hung above the man’s left shoulder, looking down. The young grass below the man’s open mouth stirred. A large drop of sweat rolled down the side of the fleshy nose and dropped glittering into the grass. That was enough. The dragon-fly flashed away through the roses and over the jagged glass on top of the high garden wall. It might be good food, but it moved.

The garden in which the man lay was about an acre of well-kept lawn surrounded on three sides by thickly banked rose bushes from which came the steady murmur of bees. Behind the drowsy noise of the bees the sea <a id="calibre_link-1665"></a>boomed softly at the bottom of the cliff at the end of the garden.

There was no view of the sea from the garden – no view of anything except of the sky and the clouds above the twelve-foot wall. In fact you could only see out of the property from the two upstairs bedrooms of the villa that formed the fourth side of this very private enclosure. From them you could see a great expanse of blue water in front of you and, on either side, the upper windows of neighbouring villas and the tops of the trees in their gardens – Mediterranean-type evergreen oaks, stone pines, casuarinas and an occasional palm tree.

The villa was modern – a squat elongated box without ornament. On the garden side the flat pink-washed façade was pierced by four iron-framed windows and by a central glass door leading on to a small square of pale green glazed tiles. The tiles merged into the lawn. The other side of the villa, standing back a few yards from a dusty road, was almost identical. But on this side the four windows were barred, and the central door was of oak.

The villa had two medium-sized bedrooms on the upper floor and on the ground floor a sitting-room and a kitchen, part of which was walled off into a lavatory. There was no bathroom.

The drowsy luxurious silence of early afternoon was broken by the sound of a car coming down the road. <a id="calibre_link-1666"></a>It stopped in front of the villa. There was the tinny clang of a car door being slammed and the car drove on. The door bell rang twice. The naked man beside the swimming pool did not move, but, at the noise of the bell and of the departing car, his eyes had for an instant opened very wide. It was as if the eyelids had pricked up like an animal’s ears. The man immediately remembered where he was and the day of the week and the time of the day. The noises were identified. The eyelids with their fringe of short sandy eyelashes drooped drowsily back over the very pale blue, opaque, inward-looking eyes. The small cruel lips opened in a wide jaw-breaking yawn which brought saliva into the mouth. The man spat the saliva into the grass and waited.

A young woman carrying a small string bag and dressed in a white cotton shirt and a short, unalluring blue skirt came through the glass door and strode mannishly across the glazed tiles and the stretch of lawn towards the naked man. A few yards away from him, she dropped her string bag on the grass and sat down and took off her cheap and rather dusty shoes. Then she stood up and unbuttoned her shirt and took it off and put it, neatly folded, beside the string bag.

The girl had nothing on under the shirt. Her skin was pleasantly sunburned and her shoulders and fine breasts shone with health. When she bent her arms to undo the side-buttons of her skirt, small tufts of fair hair <a id="calibre_link-1667"></a>showed in her armpits. The impression of a healthy animal peasant girl was heightened by the chunky hips in faded blue stockinet bathing trunks and the thick short thighs and legs that were revealed when she had stripped.

The girl put the skirt neatly beside her shirt, opened the string bag, took out an old soda-water bottle containing some heavy colourless liquid and went over to the man and knelt on the grass beside him. She poured some of the liquid, a light olive oil, scented, as was everything in that part of the world, with roses, between his shoulder blades and, after flexing her fingers like a pianist, began massaging the sterno-mastoid and the trapezius muscles at the back of the man’s neck.

It was hard work. The man was immensely strong and the bulging muscles at the base of the neck hardly yielded to the girl’s thumbs even when the downward weight of her shoulders was behind them. By the time she was finished with the man she would be soaked in perspiration and so utterly exhausted that she would fall into the swimming pool and then lie down in the shade and sleep until the car came for her. But that wasn’t what she minded as her hands worked automatically on across the man’s back. It was her instinctive horror for the finest body she had ever seen.

None of this horror showed in the flat, impassive face of the masseuse, and the upward-slanting black eyes <a id="calibre_link-1668"></a>under the fringe of short coarse black hair were as empty as oil slicks, but inside her the animal whimpered and cringed and her pulse-rate, if it had occurred to her to take it, would have been high.

Once again, as so often over the past two years, she wondered why she loathed this splendid body, and once again she vaguely tried to analyse her revulsion. Perhaps this time she would get rid of feelings which she felt guiltily certain were much more unprofessional than the sexual desire some of her patients awoke in her.

To take the small things first: his hair. She looked down at the round, smallish head on the sinewy neck. It was covered with tight red-gold curls that should have reminded her pleasantly of the formalized hair in the pictures she had seen of classical statues. But the curls were somehow too tight, too thickly pressed against each other and against the skull. They set her teeth on edge like fingernails against pile carpet. And the golden curls came down so low into the back of the neck – almost (she thought in professional terms) to the fifth cervical vertebra. And there they stopped abruptly in a straight line of small stiff golden hairs.

The girl paused to give her hands a rest and sat back on her haunches. The beautiful upper half of her body was already shining with sweat. She wiped the back of her forearm across her forehead and reached for the bottle of oil. She poured about a tablespoonful on to <a id="calibre_link-1669"></a>the small furry plateau at the base of the man’s spine, flexed her fingers and bent forward again.

This embryo tail of golden down above the cleft of the buttocks – in a lover it would have been gay, exciting, but on this man it was somehow bestial. No, reptilian. But snakes had no hair. Well, she couldn’t help that. It seemed reptilian to her. She shifted her hands on down to the two mounds of the gluteal muscles. Now was the time when many of her patients, particularly the young ones on the football team, would start joking with her. Then, if she was not very careful, the suggestions would come. Sometimes she could silence these by digging sharply down towards the sciatic nerve. At other times, and particularly if she found the man attractive, there would be giggling arguments, a brief wrestling-match and a quick, delicious surrender.

With this man it was different, almost uncannily different. From the very first he had been like a lump of inanimate meat. In two years he had never said a word to her. When she had done his back and it was time for him to turn over, neither his eyes nor his body had once shown the smallest interest in her. When she tapped his shoulder, he would just roll over and gaze at the sky through half-closed lids and occasionally let out one of the long shuddering yawns that were the only sign that he had human reactions at all.

The girl shifted her position and slowly worked down <a id="calibre_link-1670"></a>the right leg towards the Achilles tendon. When she came to it, she looked back up the fine body. Was her revulsion only physical? Was it the reddish colour of the sunburn on the naturally milk-white skin, the sort of roast meat look? Was it the texture of the skin itself, the deep, widely spaced pores in the satiny surface? The thickly scattered orange freckles on the shoulders? Or was it the sexuality of the man? The indifference of these splendid, insolently bulging muscles? Or was it spiritual – an animal instinct telling her that inside this wonderful body there was an evil person?

The masseuse got to her feet and stood, twisting her head slowly from side to side and flexing her shoulders. She stretched her arms out sideways and then upwards and held them for a moment to get the blood down out of them. She went to her string bag and took out a hand-towel and wiped the perspiration off her face and body.

When she turned back to the man, he had already rolled over and now lay, his head resting on one open hand, gazing blankly at the sky. The disengaged arm was flung out on the grass, waiting for her. She walked over and knelt on the grass behind his head. She rubbed some oil into her palms, picked up the limp half-open hand and started kneading the short thick fingers.

The girl glanced nervously sideways at the red-brown face below the crown of tight golden curls. Superficially it was all right – handsome in a butcher’s-boyish way, <a id="calibre_link-1671"></a>with its full pink cheeks, upturned nose and rounded chin. But, looked at closer, there was something cruel about the thin-lipped rather pursed mouth, a pigginess about the wide nostrils in the upturned nose, and the blankness that veiled the very pale blue eyes communicated itself over the whole face and made it look drowned and morgue-like. It was, she reflected, as if someone had taken a china doll and painted its face to frighten.

The masseuse worked up the arm to the huge biceps. Where had the man got these fantastic muscles from? Was he a boxer? What did he do with his formidable body? Rumour said this was a police villa. The two men-servants were obviously guards of some sort, although they did the cooking and the housework. Regularly every month the man went away for a few days and she would be told not to come. And from time to time she would be told to stay away for a week, or two weeks, or a month. Once, after one of these absences, the man’s neck and the upper part of his body had been a mass of bruises. On another occasion the red corner of a half-healed wound had shown under a foot of surgical plaster down the ribs over his heart. She had never dared to ask about him at the hospital or in the town. When she had first been sent to the house, one of the men-servants had told her that if she spoke about what she saw she would go to prison. Back at the hospital, the Chief Superintendent, who had never recognized her existence before, had sent <a id="calibre_link-1672"></a>for her and had said the same thing. She would go to prison. The girl’s strong fingers gouged nervously into the big deltoid muscle on the point of the shoulder. She had always known it was a matter of State Security. Perhaps that was what revolted her about this splendid body. Perhaps it was just fear of the organization that had the body in custody. She squeezed her eyes shut at the thought of who he might be, of what he could order to be done to her. Quickly she opened them again. He might have noticed. But the eyes gazed blankly up at the sky.

Now – she reached for the oil – to do the face.

The girl’s thumbs had scarcely pressed into the sockets of the man’s closed eyes when the telephone in the house started ringing. The sound reached impatiently out into the quiet garden. At once the man was up on one knee like a runner waiting for the gun. But he didn’t move forward. The ringing stopped. There was the mutter of a voice. The girl could not hear what it was saying, but it sounded humble, noting instructions. The voice stopped and one of the men-servants showed briefly at the door, made a gesture of summons, and went back into the house. Half way through the gesture, the naked man was already running. She watched the brown back flash through the open glass door. Better not let him find her there when he came out again – doing nothing, perhaps <a id="calibre_link-1673"></a>listening. She got to her feet, took two steps to the concrete edge of the pool and dived gracefully in.

Although it would have explained her instincts about the man whose body she massaged, it was as well for the girl’s peace of mind that she did not know who he was.

His real name was Donovan Grant, or ‘Red’ Grant. But, for the past ten years, it had been Krassno Granitski, with the code-name of ‘Granit’.

He was the Chief Executioner of SMERSH, the murder apparat of the M.G.B., and at this moment he was receiving his instructions on the M.G.B. direct line with Moscow.

<a id="calibre_link-1675"></a>2 THE SLAUGHTERER

Grant put the telephone softly back on its cradle and sat looking at it.

The bullet-headed guard standing over him said, ‘You had better start moving.’

‘Did they give you any idea of the task?’ Grant spoke Russian excellently but with a thick accent. He could have passed for a national of any of the Soviet Baltic provinces. The voice was high and flat as if it was reciting something dull from a book.

‘No. Only that you are wanted in Moscow. The plane is on its way. It will be here in about an hour. Half an hour for refuelling and then three or four hours, depending on whether you come down at Kharkov. You will be in Moscow by midnight. You had better pack. I will order the car.’

Grant got nervously to his feet. ‘Yes. You are right. <a id="calibre_link-1676"></a>But they didn’t even say if it was an operation? One likes to know. It was a secure line. They could have given a hint. They generally do.’

‘This time they didn’t.’

Grant walked slowly out through the glass door on to the lawn. If he noticed the girl sitting on the far edge of the pool he made no sign. He bent and picked up his book, and the golden trophies of his profession, and walked back into the house and up the few stairs to his bedroom.

The room was bleak and furnished only with an iron bedstead, from which the rumpled sheets hung down on one side to the floor, a cane chair, an unpainted clothes cupboard and a cheap washstand with a tin basin. The floor was strewn with English and American magazines. Garish paper-backs and hard-cover thrillers were stacked against the wall below the window.

Grant bent down and pulled a battered Italian fibre suitcase from under the bed. He packed into it a selection of well-laundered cheap respectable clothes from the cupboard. Then he washed his body hurriedly with cold water, and the inevitably rose-scented soap, and dried himself on one of the sheets from the bed.

There was the noise of a car outside. Grant hastily dressed in clothes as drab and nondescript as those he had packed, put on his wrist-watch, pocketed his other belongings and picked up his suitcase and went down the stairs.

<a id="calibre_link-1677"></a>The front door was open. He could see his two guards talking to the driver of a battered ZIS saloon. ‘Bloody fools,’ he thought. (He still did most of his thinking in English.) ‘Probably telling him to see I get on the plane all right. Probably can’t imagine that a foreigner would want to live in their blasted country.’ The cold eyes sneered as Grant put down his suitcase on the doorstep and hunted among the bunch of coats that hung from pegs on the kitchen door. He found his ‘uniform’, the drab raincoat and black cloth cap of Soviet officialdom, put them on, picked up his suitcase and went out and climbed in beside the plain-clothes driver, roughly shouldering aside one of the guards as he did so.

The two men stood back, saying nothing, but looking at him with hard eyes. The driver took his foot off the clutch, and the car, already in gear, accelerated fast away down the dusty road.

The villa was on the south-eastern coast of the Crimea, about half way between Feodosiya and Yalta. It was one of many official holiday datchas along the favourite stretch of mountainous coastline that is part of the Russian Riviera. Red Grant knew that he was immensely privileged to be housed there instead of in some dreary villa on the outskirts of Moscow. As the car climbed up into the mountains, he thought that they certainly treated him as well as they knew how, even if their concern for his welfare had two faces.

<a id="calibre_link-1678"></a>The forty-mile drive to the airport at Simferopol took an hour. There were no other cars on the road and the occasional cart from the vineyards quickly pulled into the ditch at the sound of their horn. As everywhere in Russia, a car meant an official, and an official could only mean danger.

There were roses all the way, fields of them alternating with the vineyards, hedges of them along the road and, at the approach to the airport, a vast circular bed planted with red and white varieties to make a red star against a white background. Grant was sick of them and he longed to get to Moscow and away from their sweet stench.

They drove past the entrance to the Civil Airport and followed a high wall for about a mile to the military side of the aerodrome. At a tall wire gate the driver showed his pass to two tommy-gunned sentries and drove through on to the tarmac. Several planes stood about, big camouflaged military transports, small twin-engined trainers and two Navy helicopters. The driver stopped to ask a man in overalls where to find Grant’s plane. At once a metallic twanging came from the observant control tower and a loudspeaker barked at them: ‘To the left. Far down to the left. Number V-BO.’

The driver was obediently motoring on across the tarmac when the iron voice barked again. ‘Stop!’

As the driver jammed on his brakes, there sounded a <a id="calibre_link-1679"></a>deafening scream above their heads. Both men instinctively ducked as a flight of four MIG 17s came out of the setting sun and skimmed over them, their squat wind-brakes right down for the landing. The planes hit the huge runway one after the other, puffs of blue smoke spurting from their nose-tyres, and, with jets howling, taxied to the distant boundary line and turned to come back to the control tower and the hangars.

‘Proceed!’

A hundred yards further on they came to a plane with the recognition letters V-BO. It was a two-engined Ilyushin 12. A small aluminium ladder hung down from the cabin door and the car stopped beside it. One of the crew appeared at the door. He came down the ladder and carefully examined the driver’s pass and Grant’s identity papers and then waved the driver away and gestured Grant to follow him up the ladder. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase, but Grant carried it up the ladder as if it had been no heavier than a book. The crewman pulled the ladder up after him, banged the wide hatch shut and went forward to the cockpit.

There were twenty empty seats to choose from. Grant settled into the one nearest the hatch and fastened his seat-belt. A short crackle of talk with the control tower came through the open door to the cockpit, the two engines whined and coughed and fired and the plane turned quickly as if it had been a motor car, rolled out <a id="calibre_link-1680"></a>to the start of the north-south runway, and, without any further preliminaries, hurtled down it and up into the air.

Grant unbuckled his seat-belt, lit a gold-tipped Troika cigarette and settled back to reflect comfortably on his past career and to consider the immediate future.

Donovan Grant was the result of a midnight union between a German professional weight-lifter and a Southern Irish waitress. The union lasted for a quarter of an hour on the damp grass behind a circus tent outside Belfast. Afterwards the father gave the mother half-a-crown and the mother walked happily home to her bed in the kitchen of a café near the railway station. When the baby was expected, she went to live with an aunt in the small village of Aughmacloy that straddles the border, and there, six months later, she died of puerperal fever shortly after giving birth to a twelve-pound boy. Before she died, she said that the boy was to be called Donovan (the weight-lifter had styled himself ‘The Mighty O’Donovan’) and Grant, which was her own name.

The boy was reluctantly cared for by the aunt and grew up healthy and extremely strong, but very quiet. He had no friends. He refused to communicate with other children and when he wanted anything from them he took it with his fists. In the local school he continued to be feared and disliked, but he made a name for himself boxing and wrestling at local fairs where the bloodthirsty <a id="calibre_link-1681"></a>fury of his attack, combined with guile, gave him victory over much older and bigger boys.

It was through his fighting that he came to the notice of the Sinn-Feiners who used Aughmacloy as a principal pipeline for their comings and goings with the north, and also of the local smugglers who used the village for the same purpose. When he left school he became a strong-arm man for both these groups. They paid him well for his work but saw as little of him as they could.

It was about this time that his body began to feel strange and violent compulsions around the time of the full moon. When, in October of his sixteenth year, he first got ‘The Feelings’ as he called them to himself, he went out and strangled a cat. This made him ‘feel better’ for a whole month. In November, it was a big sheepdog, and, for Christmas, he slit the throat of a cow, at midnight in a neighbour’s shed. These actions made him ‘feel good’. He had enough sense to see that the village would soon start wondering about the mysterious deaths, so he bought a bicycle and on one night every month he rode off into the countryside. Often he had to go very far to find what he wanted and, after two months of having to satisfy himself with geese and chickens, he took a chance and cut the throat of a sleeping tramp.

There were so few people abroad at night that soon he took to the roads earlier, bicycling far and wide so that he came to distant villages in the dusk when solitary <a id="calibre_link-1682"></a>people were coming home from the fields and girls were going out to their trysts.

When he killed the occasional girl he did not ‘interfere’ with her in any way. That side of things, which he had heard talked about, was quite incomprehensible to him. It was only the wonderful act of killing that made him ‘feel better’. Nothing else.

By the end of his seventeenth year, ghastly rumours were spreading round the whole of Fermanagh, Tyrone and Armagh. When a woman was killed in broad daylight, strangled and thrust carelessly into a haystack, the rumours flared into panic. Groups of vigilantes were formed in the villages, police reinforcements were brought in with police dogs, and stories about the ‘Moon Killer’ brought journalists to the area. Several times Grant on his bicycle was stopped and questioned, but he had powerful protection in Aughmacloy and his story of training-spins to keep him fit for his boxing were always backed up, for he was now the pride of the village and contender for the North of Ireland light-heavyweight championship.

Again, before it was too late, instinct saved him from discovery and he left Aughmacloy and went to Belfast and put himself in the hands of a broken-down boxing promoter who wanted him to turn professional. Discipline in the sleazy gymnasium was strict. It was almost a prison and, when the blood first boiled again in Grant’s veins, <a id="calibre_link-1683"></a>there was nothing for it but to half kill one of his sparring partners. After twice having to be pulled off a man in the ring, it was only by winning the championship that he was saved from being thrown out by the promoter.

Grant won the championship in 1945, on his eighteenth birthday, then they took him for National Service and he became a driver in the Royal Corps of Signals. The training period in England sobered him, or at least made him more careful when he had ‘The Feelings’. Now, at the full moon, he took to drink instead. He would take a bottle of whisky into the woods round Aldershot and drink it all down as he watched his sensations, coldly, until unconsciousness came. Then, in the early hours of the morning, he would stagger back to camp, only half satisfied, but not dangerous any more. If a sentry caught him, it was only a day’s C.B., because his commanding officer wanted to keep him happy for the Army championships.

But Grant’s transport section was rushed to Berlin about the time of the Corridor trouble with the Russians and he missed the championships. In Berlin, the constant smell of danger intrigued him and made him even more careful and cunning. He still got dead drunk at the full moon, but all the rest of the time he was watching and plotting. He liked all he heard about the Russians, their brutality, their carelessness of human life, and their guile, and he decided to go over to them. <a id="calibre_link-1684"></a>But how? What could he bring them as a gift? What did they want?

It was the B.A.O.R. championships that finally told him to go over. By chance they took place on a night of the full moon. Grant, fighting for the Royal Corps, was warned for holding and hitting low and was disqualified in the third round for persistent foul fighting. The whole stadium hissed him as he left the ring – the loudest demonstration came from his own regiment – and the next morning the commanding officer sent for him and coldly said he was a disgrace to the Royal Corps and would be sent home with the next draft. His fellow drivers sent him to Coventry and, since no one would drive transport with him, he had to be transferred to the coveted motor cycle dispatch service.

The transfer could not have suited Grant better. He waited a few days and then, one evening when he had collected the day’s outgoing mail from the Military Intelligence Headquarters on the Reichskanzlerplatz, he made straight for the Russian Sector, waited with his engine running until the British control gate was opened to allow a taxi through, and then tore through the closing gate at forty and skidded to a stop beside the concrete pillbox of the Russian Frontier post.

They hauled him roughly into the guardroom. A wooden-faced officer behind a desk asked him what he wanted.

<a id="calibre_link-1685"></a>‘I want the Soviet Secret Service,’ said Grant flatly. ‘The Head of it.’

The officer stared coldly at him. He said something in Russian. The soldiers who had brought Grant in started to drag him out again. Grant easily shook them off. One of them lifted his tommy-gun.

Grant said, speaking patiently and distinctly, ‘I have a lot of secret papers. Outside. In the leather bags on the motor cycle.’ He had a brainwave. ‘You will get into bad trouble if they don’t get to your Secret Service.’

The officer said something to the soldiers and they stood back. ‘We have no Secret Service,’ he said in stilted English. ‘Sit down and complete this form.’

Grant sat down at the desk and filled in a long form which asked questions about anyone who wanted to visit the Eastern zone – name, address, nature of business and so forth. Meanwhile the officer spoke softly and briefly into a telephone.

By the time Grant had finished, two more soldiers, non-commissioned officers wearing drab green forage caps and with green badges of rank on their khaki uniforms, had come into the room. The frontier officer handed the form, without looking at it, to one of them and they took Grant out and put him and his motor cycle into the back of a closed van and locked the door on him. After a fast drive lasting a quarter of an hour the van stopped, and when Grant got out he found <a id="calibre_link-1686"></a>himself in the courtyard behind a large new building. He was taken into the building and up in a lift and left alone in a cell without windows. It contained nothing but one iron bench. After an hour, during which, he supposed, they went through the secret papers, he was led into a comfortable office in which an officer with three rows of decorations and the gold tabs of a full colonel was sitting behind a desk.

The desk was bare except for a bowl of roses.

Ten years later, Grant, looking out of the window of the plane at a wide cluster of lights twenty thousand feet below, which he guessed was Kharkov, grinned mirthlessly at his reflection in the Perspex window.

Roses. From that moment his life had been nothing but roses. Roses, roses, all the way.

<a id="calibre_link-1688"></a>3 POST-GRADUATE STUDIES

‘So you would like to work in the Soviet Union, Mister Grant?’

It was half an hour later and the M.G.B. colonel was bored with the interview. He thought that he had extracted from this rather unpleasant British soldier every military detail that could possibly be of interest. A few polite phrases to repay the man for the rich haul of secrets his dispatch bags had yielded, and then the man could go down to the cells and in due course be shipped off to Vorkuta or some other labour camp.

‘Yes, I would like to work for you.’

‘And what work could you do, Mister Grant? We have plenty of unskilled labour. We do not need truck-drivers and,’ the colonel smiled fleetingly, ‘if there is any boxing to be done we have plenty of men who can box. Two possible Olympic champions amongst them, incidentally.’

<a id="calibre_link-1689"></a>‘I am an expert at killing people. I do it very well. I like it.’

The colonel saw the red flame that flickered for an instant behind the very pale blue eyes under the sandy lashes. He thought, the man means it. He’s mad as well as unpleasant. He looked coldly at Grant, wondering if it was worth while wasting food on him at Vorkuta. Better perhaps have him shot. Or throw him back into the British Sector and let his own people worry about him.

‘You don’t believe me,’ said Grant impatiently. This was the wrong man, the wrong department. ‘Who does the rough stuff for you here?’ He was certain the Russians had some sort of a murder squad. Everybody said so. ‘Let me talk to them. I’ll kill somebody for them. Anybody they like. Now.’

The colonel looked at him sourly. Perhaps he had better report the matter. ‘Wait here.’ He got up and went out of the room, leaving the door open. A guard came and stood in the doorway and watched Grant’s back, his hand on his pistol.

The colonel went into the next room. It was empty. There were three telephones on the desk. He picked up the receiver of the M.G.B. direct line to Moscow. When the military operator answered he said, ‘SMERSH’. When SMERSH answered he asked for the Chief of Operations.

Ten minutes later he put the receiver back. What luck! <a id="calibre_link-1690"></a>A simple, constructive solution. Whichever way it went it would turn out well. If the Englishman succeeded, it would be splendid. If he failed, it would still cause a lot of trouble in the Western Sector – trouble for the British because Grant was their man, trouble with the Germans because the attempt would frighten a lot of their spies, trouble with the Americans because they were supplying most of the funds for the Baumgarten ring and would now think Baumgarten’s security was no good. Pleased with himself, the colonel walked back into his office and sat down again opposite Grant.

‘You mean what you say?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Have you a good memory?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the British Sector there is a German called Dr Baumgarten. He lives in Flat 5 at No. 22 Kurfürstendamm. Do you know where that is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tonight, with your motor cycle, you will be put back into the British Sector. Your number plates will be changed. Your people will be on the lookout for you. You will take an envelope to Dr Baumgarten. It will be marked to be delivered by hand. In your uniform, and with this envelope, you will have no difficulty. You will say that the message is so private that you must see Dr Baumgarten alone. Then you will kill him.’ The <a id="calibre_link-1691"></a>colonel paused. His eyebrows lifted. ‘Yes?’

‘Yes,’ said Grant stolidly. ‘And if I do, will you give me more of this work?’

‘It is possible,’ said the colonel indifferently. ‘First you must show what you can do. When you have completed your task and returned to the Soviet Sector, you may ask for Colonel Boris.’ He rang a bell and a man in plain clothes came in. The colonel gestured towards him. ‘This man will give you food. Later he will give you the envelope and a sharp knife of American manufacture. It is an excellent weapon. Good luck.’

The colonel reached and picked a rose out of the bowl and sniffed it luxuriously.

Grant got to his feet. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said warmly.

The colonel did not answer or look up from the rose. Grant followed the man in plain clothes out of the room.

The plane roared on across the Heartland of Russia. They had left behind them the blast furnaces flaming far away to the east around Stalino and, to the west, the silver thread of the Dnieper branching away at Dnepropetrovsk. The splash of light around Kharkov had marked the frontier of the Ukraine, and the smaller blaze of the phosphate town of Kursk had come and gone. Now Grant knew that the solid unbroken <a id="calibre_link-1692"></a>blackness below hid the great central Steppe where the billions of tons of Russia’s grain were whispering and ripening in the darkness. There would be no more oases of light until, in another hour, they would have covered the last three hundred miles to Moscow.

For by now Grant knew a lot about Russia. After the quick, neat, sensational murder of a vital West German spy, Grant had no sooner slipped back over the frontier and somehow fumbled his way to ‘Colonel Boris’ than he was put into plain clothes, with a flying helmet to cover his hair, hustled into an empty M.G.B. plane and flown straight to Moscow.

Then began a year of semi-prison which Grant had devoted to keeping fit and to learning Russian while people came and went around him – interrogators, stool-pigeons, doctors. Meanwhile, Soviet spies in England and Northern Ireland had painstakingly investigated his past.

At the end of the year Grant was given as clean a bill of political health as any foreigner can get in Russia. The spies had confirmed his story. The English and American stool-pigeons reported that he was totally uninterested in the politics or social customs of any country in the world, and the doctors and psychologists agreed that he was an advanced manic depressive whose periods coincided with the full moon. They added that Grant was also a narcissist and asexual and that his tolerance of <a id="calibre_link-1693"></a>pain was high. These peculiarities apart, his physical health was superb and, though his educational standards were hopelessly low, he was as naturally cunning as a fox. Everyone agreed that Grant was an exceedingly dangerous member of society and that he should be put away.

When the dossier came before the Head of Personnel of the M.G.B., he was about to write ‘Kill him’ in the margin when he had second thoughts.

A great deal of killing has to be done in the U.S.S.R., not because the average Russian is a cruel man, although some of their races are among the cruellest peoples in the world, but as an instrument of policy. People who act against the State are enemies of the State, and the State has no room for enemies. There is too much to do for precious time to be allotted to them, and, if they are a persistent nuisance, they get killed. In a country with a population of 200,000,000, you can kill many thousands a year without missing them. If, as happened in the two biggest purges, a million people have to be killed in one year, that is also not a grave loss. The serious problem is the shortage of executioners. Executioners have a short ‘life’. They get tired of the work. The soul sickens of it. After ten, twenty, a hundred death-rattles, the human being, however subhuman he may be, acquires, perhaps by a process of osmosis with death itself, a germ of death which enters <a id="calibre_link-1694"></a>his body and eats into him like a canker. Melancholy and drink take him, and a dreadful lassitude which brings a glaze to the eyes and slows up the movements and destroys accuracy. When the employer sees these signs he has no alternative but to execute the executioner and find another one.

The Head of Personnel of the M.G.B. was aware of the problem and of the constant search not only for the refined assassin, but also for the common butcher. And here at last was a man who appeared to be expert at both forms of killing, dedicated to his craft and indeed, if the doctors were to be believed, destined for it.

Head of Personnel wrote a short, pungent minute on Grant’s papers, marked them ‘SMERSH Otdyel II’ and tossed them into his OUT tray.

Department 2 of SMERSH, in charge of Operations and Executions, took over the body of Donovan Grant, changed his name to Granitsky and put him on their books.

The next two years were hard for Grant. He had to go back to school, and to a school that made him long for the chipped deal desks in the corrugated iron shed, full of the smell of little boys and the hum of drowsy blue-bottles, that had been his only conception of what a school was like. Now, in the Intelligence School for Foreigners outside Leningrad, squashed tightly among the ranks of Germans, Czechs, Poles, Balts, Chinese and <a id="calibre_link-1695"></a>Negroes, all with serious dedicated faces and pens that raced across their notebooks, he struggled with subjects that were pure double-dutch to him.

There were courses in ‘General Political Knowledge’, which included the history of Labour movements, of the Communist Party and the Industrial Forces of the world, and the teachings of Marx, Lenin and Stalin, all dotted with foreign names which he could barely spell. There were lessons on ‘The Class-enemy we are fighting’, with lectures on Capitalism and Fascism; weeks spent on ‘Tactics, Agitation and Propaganda’ and more weeks on the problems of minority peoples, Colonial races, the Negroes, the Jews. Every month ended with examinations during which Grant sat and wrote illiterate nonsense, interspersed with scraps of half-forgotten English history and mis-spelled Communist slogans, and inevitably had his papers torn up, on one occasion, in front of the whole class.

But he stuck it out, and when they came to ‘Technical Subjects’ he did better. He was quick to understand the rudiments of Codes and Ciphers, because he wanted to understand them. He was good at Communications, and immediately grasped the maze of contacts, cut-outs, couriers and post-boxes, and he got excellent marks for Fieldwork in which each student had to plan and operate dummy assignments in the suburbs and countryside around Leningrad. Finally, when it came to tests of <a id="calibre_link-1696"></a>Vigilance, Discretion, ‘Safety First’, Presence of Mind, Courage and Coolness, he got top marks out of the whole school.

At the end of the year, the report that went back to SMERSH concluded ‘Political value Nil. Operational value Excellent’ – which was just what Otdyel II wanted to hear.

The next year was spent, with only two other foreign students among several hundred Russians, at the School for Terror and Diversion at Kuchino, outside Moscow. Here Grant went triumphantly through courses in judo, boxing, athletics, photography and radio under the general supervision of the famous Colonel Arkady Fotoyev, father of the modern Soviet spy, and completed his small-arms instruction at the hands of Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolai Godlovsky, the Soviet Rifle Champion.

Twice during this year, without warning, an M.G.B. car came for him on the night of the full moon and took him to one of the Moscow jails. There, with a black hood over his head, he was allowed to carry out executions with various weapons – the rope, the axe, the submachine gun. Electro-cardiograms, blood-pressure and various other medical tests were applied to him before, during and after these occasions, but their purpose and findings were not revealed to him.

It was a good year and he felt, and rightly, that he was giving satisfaction.

<a id="calibre_link-1697"></a>In 1949 and ’50 Grant was allowed to go on minor operations with Mobile Groups or Avanposts, in the satellite countries. These were beatings-up and simple assassinations of Russian spies and intelligence workers suspected of treachery or other aberrations. Grant carried out these duties neatly, exactly and inconspicuously, and though he was carefully and constantly watched he never showed the smallest deviation from the standards required of him, and no weaknesses of character or technical skill. It might have been different if he had been required to kill when doing a solo task at the full-moon period, but his superiors, realizing that at that period he would be outside their control, or his own, chose safe dates for his operations. The moon period was reserved exclusively for butchery in the prisons, and from time to time this was arranged for him as a reward for a successful operation in cold blood.

In 1951 and ’52 Grant’s usefulness became more fully and more officially recognized. As a result of excellent work, notably in the Eastern Sector of Berlin, he was granted Soviet citizenship and increases in pay which by 1953 amounted to a handsome 5000 roubles a month. In 1953 he was given the rank of Major, with pension rights back-dated to the day of his first contact with ‘Colonel Boris’, and the villa in the Crimea was allotted to him. Two bodyguards were attached to him, partly to protect him and partly to guard against the outside <a id="calibre_link-1698"></a>chance of his ‘going private’, as defection is called in M.G.B. jargon, and, once a month, he was transported to the nearest jail and allowed as many executions as there were candidates available.

Naturally Grant had no friends. He was hated or feared or envied by everyone who came in contact with him. He did not even have any of those professional acquaintanceships that pass for friendship in the discreet and careful world of Soviet officialdom. But, if he noticed the fact, he didn’t care. The only individuals he was interested in were his victims. The rest of his life was inside him. And it was richly and excitingly populated with his thoughts.

Then, of course, he had SMERSH. No one in the Soviet Union who has SMERSH on his side need worry about friends, or indeed about anything whatever except keeping the black wings of SMERSH over his head.

Grant was still thinking vaguely of how he stood with his employers when the plane started to lose altitude as it picked up the radar beam of Tushino Airport just south of the red glow that was Moscow.

He was at the top of his tree, the chief executioner of SMERSH, and therefore of the whole of the Soviet Union. What could he aim for now? Further promotion? More money? More gold nicknacks? More important targets? Better techniques?

There really didn’t seem to be anything more to go <a id="calibre_link-1699"></a>for. Or was there perhaps some other man whom he had never heard of, in some other country, who would have to be set aside before absolute supremacy was his?

<a id="calibre_link-1700"></a>4 THE MOGULS OF DEATH

SMERSH is the official murder organization of the Soviet government. It operates both at home and abroad and, in 1955, it employed a total of 40,000 men and women. SMERSH is a contraction of ‘Smiert Spionam’, which means ‘Death to Spies’. It is a name used only among its staff and among Soviet officials. No sane member of the public would dream of allowing the word to pass his lips.

The headquarters of SMERSH is a very large and ugly modern building on the Sretenka Ulitsa. It is No. 13 on this wide, dull street, and pedestrians keep their eyes to the ground as they pass the two sentries with submachine guns who stand on either side of the broad steps leading up to the big iron double door. If they remember in time, or can do so inconspicuously, they cross the street and pass by on the other side.

<a id="calibre_link-1701"></a>The direction of SMERSH is carried out from the 2nd floor. The most important room on the 2nd floor is a very large light room painted in the pale olive green that is the common denominator of government offices all over the world. Opposite the sound-proofed door, two wide windows look over the courtyard at the back of the building. The floor is close-fitted with a colourful Caucasian carpet of the finest quality. Across the far left-hand corner of the room stands a massive oak desk. The top of the desk is covered with red velvet under a thick sheet of plate glass.

On the left side of the desk are IN and OUT baskets and on the right four telephones.

From the centre of the desk, to form a T with it, a conference table stretches diagonally out across the room. Eight straight-backed red leather chairs are drawn up to it. This table is also covered with red velvet, but without protective glass. Ash-trays are on the table, and two heavy carafes of water with glasses.

On the walls are four large pictures in gold frames. In 1955, these were a portrait of Stalin over the door, one of Lenin between the two windows and, facing each other on the other two walls, portraits of Bulganin and, where until January 13th, 1954, a portrait of Beria had hung, a portrait of Army General Ivan Aleksandrovitch Serov, Chief of the Committee of State Security.

On the left-hand wall, under the portrait of Bulganin, <a id="calibre_link-1702"></a>stands a large Televisor, or TV set, in a handsome polished oak cabinet. Concealed in this is a tape-recorder which can be switched on from the desk. The microphone for the recorder stretches under the whole area of the conference table and its leads are concealed in the legs of the table. Next to the Televisor is a small door leading into a personal lavatory and washroom and into a small projection room for showing secret films.

Under the portrait of General Serov is a bookcase containing, on the top shelves, the works of Marx, Engels, Lenin and Stalin, and more accessibly, books in all languages on espionage, counter-espionage, police methods and criminology. Next to the bookcase, against the wall, stands a long narrow table on which are a dozen large leather-bound albums with dates stamped in gold on the covers. These contain photographs of Soviet citizens and foreigners who have been assassinated by SMERSH.

About the time Grant was coming in to land at Tushino Airport, just before 11.30 at night, a tough-looking, thickset man of about fifty was standing at this table leafing through the volume for 1954.

The Head of SMERSH, Colonel General Grubozaboyschikov, known in the building as ‘G.’, was dressed in a neat khaki tunic with a high collar, and dark blue cavalry trousers with two thin red stripes down <a id="calibre_link-1703"></a>the sides. The trousers ended in riding boots of soft, highly polished black leather. On the breast of the tunic were three rows of medal ribbons – two Orders of Lenin, Order of Suvorov, Order of Alexander Nevsky, Order of the Red Banner, two Orders of the Red Star, the Twenty Years Service medal and medals for the Defence of Moscow and the Capture of Berlin. At the tail of these came the rose-pink and grey ribbon of the British C.B.E., and the claret and white ribbon of the American Medal for Merit. Above the ribbons hung the gold star of a Hero of the Soviet Union.

Above the high collar of the tunic the face was narrow and sharp. There were flabby pouches under the eyes, which were round and brown and protruded like polished marbles below thick black brows. The skull was shaven clean and the tight white skin glittered in the light of the central chandelier. The mouth was broad and grim above a deeply cleft chin. It was a hard, unyielding face of formidable authority.

One of the telephones on the desk buzzed softly. The man walked with tight and precise steps to his tall chair behind the desk. He sat down and picked up the receiver of the telephone marked in white with the letters V.Ch. These letters are short for Vysokochastoty, or High Frequency. Only some fifty supreme officials are connected to the V.Ch. switchboard, and all are Ministers of State or Heads of selected Departments. It is served <a id="calibre_link-1704"></a>by a small exchange in the Kremlin operated by professional security officers. Even they cannot overhear conversations on it, but every word spoken over its lines is automatically recorded.

‘Yes?’

‘Serov speaking. What action has been taken since the meeting of the Praesidium this morning?’

‘I have a meeting here in a few minutes’ time, Comrade General – RUMID, GRU and of course M.G.B. After that, if action is agreed, I shall have a meeting with my Head of Operations and Head of Plans. In case liquidation is decided upon, I have taken the precaution of bringing the necessary operative to Moscow. This time I shall myself supervise the preparations. We do not want another Khoklov affair.’

‘The devil knows we don’t. Telephone me after the first meeting. I wish to report to the Praesidium tomorrow morning.’

‘Certainly, Comrade General.’

General G. put back the receiver and pressed a bell under his desk. At the same time he switched on the wire-recorder. His A.D.C., an M.G.B. captain, came in.

‘Have they arrived?’

‘Yes, Comrade General.’

‘Bring them in.’

In a few minutes six men, five of them in uniform, filed in through the door and, with hardly a glance at <a id="calibre_link-1705"></a>the man behind the desk, took their places at the conference table. They were three senior officers, heads of their departments, and each was accompanied by an A.D.C. In the Soviet Union, no man goes alone to a conference. For his own protection, and for the reassurance of his department, he invariably takes a witness so that his department can have independent versions of what went on at the conference and, above all, of what was said on its behalf. This is important in case there is a subsequent investigation. No notes are taken at the conference and decisions are passed back to departments by word of mouth.

On the far side of the table sat Lieutenant-General Slavin, head of the GRU, the intelligence department of the General Staff of the Army, with a full colonel beside him. At the end of the table sat Lieutenant-General Vozdvishensky of RUMID, the Intelligence Department of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, with a middle-aged man in plain clothes. With his back to the door, sat Colonel of State Security Nikitin, Head of Intelligence for the M.G.B., the Soviet Secret Service, with a major at his side.

‘Good evening, Comrades.’

A polite, careful murmur came from the three senior officers. Each one knew, and thought he was the only one to know, that the room was wired for sound, and each one, without telling his A.D.C., had decided to utter <a id="calibre_link-1706"></a>the bare minimum of words consonant with good discipline and the needs of the State.

‘Let us smoke.’ General G. took out a packet of Moskwa-Volga cigarettes and lit one with an American Zippo lighter. There was a clicking of lighters round the table. General G. pinched the long cardboard tube of his cigarette so that it was almost flat and put it between his teeth on the right side of his mouth. He stretched his lips back from his teeth and started talking in short clipped sentences that came out with something of a hiss from between the teeth and the uptilted cigarette.

‘Comrades, we meet under instructions from Comrade General Serov. General Serov, on behalf of the Praesidium, has ordered me to make known to you certain matters of State Policy. We are then to confer and recommend a course of action which will be in line with this Policy and assist it. We have to reach our decision quickly. But our decision will be of supreme importance to the State. It will therefore have to be a correct decision.’

General G. paused to allow the significance of his words time to sink in. One by one, he slowly examined the faces of the three senior officers at the table. Their eyes looked stolidly back at him. Inside, these extremely important men were perturbed. They were about to look through the furnace door. They were about to learn a <a id="calibre_link-1707"></a>State secret, the knowledge of which might one day have most dangerous consequences for them. Sitting in the quiet room, they felt bathed in the dreadful incandescence that shines out from the centre of all power in the Soviet Union – the High Praesidium.

The final ash fell off the end of General G.’s cigarette on to his tunic. He brushed it off and threw the cardboard butt into the basket for secret waste beside his desk. He lit another cigarette and spoke through it.

‘Our recommendation concerns a conspicuous act of terrorism to be carried out in enemy territory within three months.’

Six pairs of expressionless eyes stared at the head of SMERSH, waiting.

‘Comrades,’ General G. leant back in his chair and his voice became expository, ‘the foreign policy of the U.S.S.R. has entered a new phase. Formerly, it was a “Hard” policy – a policy [he allowed himself the joke of Stalin’s name] of steel. This policy, effective as it was, built up tensions in the West, notably in America, which were becoming dangerous. The Americans are unpredictable people. They are hysterical. The reports of our Intelligence began to indicate that we were pushing America to the brink of an undeclared atomic attack on the U.S.S.R. You have read these reports and you know what I say is true. We do not want such a war. If there is to be a war, it is we who will choose the <a id="calibre_link-1708"></a>time. Certain powerful Americans, notably the Pentagon Group led by Admiral Radford, were helped in their firebrand schemes by the very successes of our “Hard” policy. So it was decided that the time had come to change our methods, while maintaining our aims. A new policy was created – the “Hard-Soft” policy. Geneva was the beginning of this policy. We were “soft”. China threatens Quemoy and Matsu. We are “hard”. We open our frontiers to a lot of newspaper men and actors and artists although we know many of them to be spies. Our leaders laugh and make jokes at receptions in Moscow. In the middle of the jokes we drop the biggest test bomb of all time. Comrades Bulganin and Khrushchev and Comrade General Serov [General G. carefully included the names for the ears of the tape-recorder] visit India and the East and blackguard the English. When they get back, they have friendly discussions with the British Ambassador about their forthcoming goodwill visit to London. And so it goes on – the stick and then the carrot, the smile and then the frown. And the West is confused. Tensions are relaxed before they have time to harden. The reactions of our enemies are clumsy, their strategy disorganized. Meanwhile the common people laugh at our jokes, cheer our football teams and slobber with delight when we release a few prisoners of war whom we wish to feed no longer!’

<a id="calibre_link-1709"></a>There were smiles of pleasure and pride round the table. What a brilliant policy! What fools we are making of them in the West!

‘At the same time,’ continued General G., himself smiling thinly at the pleasure he had caused, ‘we continue to forge everywhere stealthily ahead – revolution in Morocco, arms to Egypt, friendship with Yugoslavia, trouble in Cyprus, riots in Turkey, strikes in England, great political gains in France – there is no front in the world on which we are not quietly advancing.’

General G. saw the eyes shining greedily round the table. The men were softened up. Now it was time to be hard. Now it was time for them to feel the new policy on themselves. The Intelligence services would also have to pull their weight in this great game that was being played on their behalf. Smoothly General G. leaned forward. He planted his right elbow on the desk and raised his fist in the air.

‘But Comrades,’ his voice was soft, ‘where has there been failure in carrying out the State Policy of the U.S.S.R.? Who has all along been soft when we wished to be hard? Who has suffered defeats while victory was going to all other departments of the State? Who, with its stupid blunders, has made the Soviet Union look foolish and weak throughout the world? WHO?’

The voice had risen almost to a scream. General G. <a id="calibre_link-1710"></a>thought how well he was delivering the denunciation demanded by the Praesidium. How splendid it would sound when the tape was played back to Serov!

He glared down the conference table at the pale, expectant faces. General G.’s fist crashed forward on to the desk.

‘The whole Intelligence apparat of the Soviet Union, Comrades.’ The voice was now a furious bellow. ‘It is we who are the sluggards, the saboteurs, the traitors! It is we who are failing the Soviet Union in its great and glorious struggle! We!’ His arm swept round the room. ‘All of us!’ The voice came back to normal, became more reasonable. ‘Comrades, look at the record. Sookin Sin [he allowed himself the peasant obscenity], son-of-a-bitch, look at the record! First we lose Gouzenko and the whole of the Canadian apparat and the scientist Fuchs, then the American apparat is cleaned up, then we lose men like Tokaev, then comes the scandalous Khoklov affair which did great damage to our country, then Petrov and his wife in Australia – a bungled business if ever there was one! The list is endless – defeat after defeat, and the devil knows I have not mentioned the half of it.’

General G. paused. He continued in his softest voice. ‘Comrades, I have to tell you that unless tonight we make a recommendation for a great Intelligence victory, and unless we act correctly on that recommendation, if it is approved, there will be trouble.’

<a id="calibre_link-1711"></a>General G. sought for a final phrase to convey the threat without defining it. He found it. ‘There will be,’ he paused and looked, with artificial mildness, down the table, ‘displeasure.’

<a id="calibre_link-1713"></a>5 KONSPIRATSIA

The moujiks had received the knout. General G. gave them a few minutes to lick their wounds and recover from the shock of the official lashing that had been meted out.

No one said a word for the defence. No one spoke up for his department or mentioned the countless victories of Soviet Intelligence that could be set against the few mistakes. And no one questioned the right of the Head of SMERSH, who shared the guilt with them, to deliver this terrible denunciation. The Word had gone out from the Throne, and General G. had been chosen as the mouthpiece for the Word. It was a great compliment to General G. that he had been thus chosen, a sign of grace, a sign of coming preferment, and everyone present made a careful note of the fact that, in the Intelligence hierarchy, General G., with SMERSH behind him, had come to the top of the pile.

<a id="calibre_link-1714"></a>At the end of the table, the representative of the Foreign Ministry, Lieutenant-General Vozdvishensky of RUMID, watched the smoke curl up from the tip of his long Kazbek cigarette and remembered how Molotov had privately told him, when Beria was dead, that General G. would go far. There had been no great foresight in this prophecy, reflected Vozdvishensky. Beria had disliked G. and had constantly hindered his advancement, side-tracking him away from the main ladder of power into one of the minor departments of the then Ministry of State Security, which, on the death of Stalin, Beria had quickly abolished as a Ministry. Until 1952, G. had been deputy to one of the heads of this Ministry. When the post was abolished, he devoted his energies to plotting the downfall of Beria, working under the secret orders of the formidable General Serov, whose record put him out of even Beria’s reach.

Serov, a Hero of the Soviet Union and a veteran of the famous predecessors of the M.G.B. – the Cheka, the Ogpu, the N.K.V.D. and the M.V.D. – was in every respect a bigger man than Beria. He had been directly behind the mass executions of the 1930s when a million died, he had been metteur en scène of most of the great Moscow show trials, he had organized the bloody genocide in the Central Caucasus in February 1944, and it was he who had inspired the mass deportations from the Baltic States and the kidnapping of the German atom and other <a id="calibre_link-1715"></a>scientists who had given Russia her great technical leap forward after the war.

And Beria and all his court had gone to the gallows, while General G. had been given SMERSH as his reward. As for Army General Ivan Serov, he, with Bulganin and Khrushchev, now ruled Russia. One day, he might even stand on the peak, alone. But, guessed General Vozdvishensky, glancing up the table at the gleaming billiard-ball skull, probably with General G. not far behind him.

The skull lifted and the hard bulging brown eyes looked straight down the table into the eyes of General Vozdvishensky. General Vozdvishensky managed to look back calmly and even with a hint of appraisal.

That is a deep one, thought General G. Let us put the spotlight on him and see how he shows up on the sound-track.

‘Comrades,’ gold flashed from both corners of his mouth as he stretched his lips in a chairman’s smile, ‘let us not be too dismayed. Even the highest tree has an axe waiting at its foot. We have never thought that our departments were so successful as to be beyond criticism. What I have been instructed to say to you will not have come as a surprise to any of us. So let us take up the challenge with a good heart and get down to business.’

Round the table there was no answering smile to these <a id="calibre_link-1716"></a>platitudes. General G. had not expected that there would be. He lit a cigarette and continued.

‘I said that we have at once to recommend an act of terrorism in the intelligence field, and one of our departments – no doubt my own – will be called upon to carry out this act.’

An inaudible sigh of relief went round the table. So at least SMERSH would be the responsible department! That was something.

‘But the choice of a target will not be an easy matter, and our collective responsibility for the correct choice will be a heavy one.’

Soft-hard, hard-soft. The ball was now back with the conference.

‘It is not just a question of blowing up a building or shooting a prime minister. Such bourgeois horseplay is not contemplated. Our operation must be delicate, refined and aimed at the heart of the Intelligence apparat of the West. It must do grave damage to the enemy apparat – hidden damage which the public will hear perhaps nothing of, but which will be the secret talk of government circles. But it must also cause a public scandal so devastating that the world will lick its lips and sneer at the shame and stupidity of our enemies. Naturally Governments will know that it is a Soviet konspiratsia. That is good. It will be a piece of “hard” policy. And the agents and spies of the West will know <a id="calibre_link-1717"></a>it, too, and they will marvel at our cleverness and they will tremble. Traitors and possible defectors will change their minds. Our own operatives will be stimulated. They will be encouraged to greater efforts by our display of strength and genius. But of course we shall deny any knowledge of the deed, whatever it may be, and it is desirable that the common people of the Soviet Union should remain in complete ignorance of our complicity.’

General G. paused and looked down the table at the representative of RUMID, who again held his gaze impassively.

‘And now to choose the organization at which we will strike, and then to decide on the specific target within that organization. Comrade Lieutenant-General Vozdvishensky, since you observe the foreign intelligence scene from a neutral standpoint [this was a jibe at the notorious jealousies that exist between the military intelligence of the GRU and the Secret Service of the M.G.B.], perhaps you would survey the field for us. We wish to have your opinion of the relative importance of the Western Intelligence Services. We will then choose the one which is the most dangerous and which we would most wish to damage.’

General G. sat back in his tall chair. He rested his elbows on the arms and supported his chin on the interlaced fingers of his joined hands, like a teacher preparing to listen to a long construe.

<a id="calibre_link-1718"></a>General Vozdvishensky was not dismayed by his task. He had been in intelligence, mostly abroad, for thirty years. He had served as a ‘doorman’ at the Soviet Embassy in London under Litvinoff. He had worked with the Tass Agency in New York and had then gone back to London, to Amtorg, the Soviet Trade Organization. For five years he had been Military Attaché under the brilliant Madame Kollontai in the Stockholm Embassy. He had helped train Sorge, the Soviet master spy, before Sorge went to Tokyo. During the war, he had been for a while Resident Director in Switzerland, or ‘Schmidtland’, as it had been known in the spy-jargon, and there he had helped sow the seeds of the sensationally successful but tragically misused ‘Lucy’ network. He had even gone several times into Germany as a courier to the ‘Rote Kapelle’, and had narrowly escaped being cleaned up with it. And after the war, on transfer to the Foreign Ministry, he had been on the inside of the Burgess and Maclean operation and on countless other plots to penetrate the Foreign Ministries of the West. He was a professional spy to his finger-tips and he was perfectly prepared to put on record his opinions of the rivals with whom he had been crossing swords all his life.

The A.D.C. at his side was less comfortable. He was nervous at RUMID being pinned down in this way, and without a full departmental briefing. He scoured his brain clear and sharpened his ears to catch every word.

<a id="calibre_link-1719"></a>‘In this matter,’ said General Vozdvishensky carefully, ‘one must not confuse the man with his office. Every country has good spies and it is not always the biggest countries that have the most or the best. But Secret Services are expensive, and small countries cannot afford the co-ordinated effort which produces good intelligence – the forgery departments, the radio network, the record department, the digestive apparatus that evaluates and compares the reports of the agents. There are individual agents serving Norway, Holland, Belgium and even Portugal who could be a great nuisance to us if these countries knew the value of their reports or made good use of them. But they do not. Instead of passing their information on to the larger powers, they prefer to sit on it and feel important. So we need not worry with these smaller countries,’ he paused, ‘until we come to Sweden. There they have been spying on us for centuries. They have always had better information on the Baltic than even Finland or Germany. They are dangerous. I would like to put a stop to their activities.’

General G. interrupted. ‘Comrade, they are always having spy scandals in Sweden. One more scandal would not make the world look up. Please continue.’

‘Italy can be dismissed,’ went on General Vozdvishensky, without appearing to notice the interruption. ‘They are clever and active, but they do us no harm. They are only interested in their own backyard, <a id="calibre_link-1720"></a>the Mediterranean. The same can be said of Spain, except that their counter-intelligence is a great hindrance to the Party. We have lost many good men to these Fascists. But to mount an operation against them would probably cost us more men. And little would be achieved. They are not yet ripe for revolution. In France, while we have penetrated most of their Services, the Deuxième Bureau is still clever and dangerous. There is a man called Mathis at the head of it. A Mendès-France appointment. He would be a tempting target and it would be easy to operate in France.’

‘France is looking after herself,’ commented General G.

‘England is another matter altogether. I think we all have respect for her Intelligence Service,’ General Vozdvishensky looked round the table. There were grudging nods from everyone present, including General G. ‘Their Security Service is excellent. England, being an island, has great security advantages and their so-called M.I.5. employs men with good education and good brains. Their Secret Service is still better. They have notable successes. In certain types of operation, we are constantly finding that they have been there before us. Their agents are good. They pay them little money – only a thousand or two thousand roubles a month – but they serve with devotion. Yet these agents have no special privileges in England, no relief from taxation and no special shops such as we have, from which they can buy cheap goods. <a id="calibre_link-1721"></a>Their social standing abroad is not high, and their wives have to pass as the wives of secretaries. They are rarely awarded a decoration until they retire. And yet these men and women continue to do this dangerous work. It is curious. It is perhaps the Public School and University tradition. The love of adventure. But still it is odd that they play this game so well, for they are not natural conspirators.’ General Vozdvishensky felt that his remarks might be taken as too laudatory. He hastily qualified them. ‘Of course, most of their strength lies in the myth – in the myth of Scotland Yard, of Sherlock Holmes, of the Secret Service. We certainly have nothing to fear from these gentlemen. But this myth is a hindrance which it would be good to set aside.’

‘And the Americans?’ General G. wanted to put a stop to Vozdvishensky’s attempts to qualify his praise of British Intelligence. One day that bit about the Public School and University tradition would sound well in court. Next, hoped General G., he will be saying that the Pentagon is stronger than the Kremlin.

‘The Americans have the biggest and richest service among our enemies. Technically, in such matters as radio and weapons and equipment, they are the best. But they have no understanding for the work. They get enthusiastic about some Balkan spy who says he has a secret army in the Ukraine. They load him with money with which to buy boots for this army. Of course he goes at <a id="calibre_link-1722"></a>once to Paris and spends the money on women. Americans try to do everything with money. Good spies will not work for money alone – only bad ones, of which the Americans have several divisions.’

‘They have successes, Comrade,’ said General G. silkily. ‘Perhaps you underestimate them.’

General Vozdvishensky shrugged. ‘They must have successes, Comrade General. You cannot sow a million seeds without reaping one potato. Personally I do not think the Americans need engage the attention of this conference.’ The head of RUMID sat back in his chair and stolidly took out his cigarette case.

‘A very interesting exposition,’ said General G. coldly. ‘Comrade General Slavin?’

General Slavin of the GRU had no intention of committing himself on behalf of the General Staff of the Army. ‘I have listened with interest to the words of Comrade General Vozdvishensky. I have nothing to add.’

Colonel of State Security Nikitin of M.G.B. felt it would do no great harm to show up the GRU as being too stupid to have any ideas at all, and at the same time to make a modest recommendation that would probably tally with the inner thoughts of those present – and that was certainly on the tip of General G.’s tongue. Colonel Nikitin also knew that, given the proposition that had been posed by the Praesidium, the Soviet Secret Service would back him up.

<a id="calibre_link-1723"></a>‘I recommend the English Secret Service as the object of terrorist action,’ he said decisively. ‘The devil knows my department hardly finds them a worthy adversary, but they are the best of an indifferent lot.’

General G. was annoyed by the authority in the man’s voice, and by having his thunder stolen, for he also had intended to sum up in favour of an operation against the British. He tapped his lighter softly on the desk to reimpose his chairmanship. ‘Is it agreed then, Comrades? An act of terrorism against the British Secret Service?’

There were careful, slow nods all round the table.

‘I agree. And now for the target within that organization. I remember Comrade General Vozdvishensky saying something about a myth upon which much of the alleged strength of this Secret Service depends. How can we help to destroy the myth and thus strike at the very motive force of this organization? Where does this myth reside? We cannot destroy all its personnel at one blow. Does it reside in the Head? Who is the Head of the British Secret Service?’

Colonel Nikitin’s aide whispered in his ear. Colonel Nikitin decided that this was a question he could and perhaps should answer.

‘He is an Admiral. He is known by the letter M. We have a zapiska on him, but it contains little. He does not drink very much. He is too old for women. The public does not know of his existence. It would be difficult to <a id="calibre_link-1724"></a>create a scandal round his death. And he would not be easy to kill. He rarely goes abroad. To shoot him in a London street would not be very refined.’

‘There is much in what you say, Comrade,’ said General G. ‘But we are here to find a target who will fulfil our requirements. Have they no one who is a hero to the organization? Someone who is admired and whose ignominious destruction would cause dismay? Myths are built on heroic deeds and heroic people. Have they no such men?’

There was silence round the table while everyone searched his memory. So many names to remember, so many dossiers, so many operations going on every day all over the world. Who was there in the British Secret Service? Who was that man who …?

It was Colonel Nikitin of the M.G.B. who broke the embarrassed silence.

He said hesitantly, ‘There is a man called Bond.’

<a id="calibre_link-1726"></a>6 DEATH WARRANT

‘Y*b**nna mat!’ The gross obscenity was a favourite with General G. His hand slapped down on the desk. ‘Comrade, there certainly is “a man called Bond” as you put it.’ His voice was sarcastic. ‘James Bond. [He pronounced it ‘Shems’.] And nobody, myself included, could think of this spy’s name! We are indeed forgetful. No wonder the Intelligence apparat is under criticism.’

General Vozdvishensky felt he should defend himself and his department. ‘There are countless enemies of the Soviet Union, Comrade General,’ he protested. ‘If I want their names, I send to the Central Index for them. Certainly I know the name of this Bond. He has been a great trouble to us at different times. But today my mind is full of other names – names of people who are causing us trouble today, this week. I am interested in football, <a id="calibre_link-1727"></a>but I cannot remember the name of every foreigner who has scored a goal against the Dynamos.’

‘You are pleased to joke, Comrade,’ said General G. to underline this out-of-place comment. ‘This is a serious matter. I for one admit my fault in not remembering the name of this notorious agent. Comrade Colonel Nikitin will no doubt refresh our memories further, but I recall that this Bond has at least twice frustrated the operations of SMERSH. That is,’ he added, ‘before I assumed control of the department. There was this affair in France, at that Casino town. The man Le Chiffre. An excellent leader of the Party in France. He foolishly got into some money troubles. But he would have got out of them if this Bond had not interfered. I recall that the Department had to act quickly and liquidate the Frenchman. The executioner should have dealt with the Englishman at the same time, but he did not. Then there was this Negro of ours in Harlem. A great man – one of the greatest foreign agents we have ever employed, and with a vast network behind him. There was some business about a treasure in the Caribbean. I forget the details. This Englishman was sent out by the Secret Service and smashed the whole organization and killed our man. It was a great reverse. Once again my predecessor should have proceeded ruthlessly against this English spy.’

Colonel Nikitin broke in. ‘We had a similar experience <a id="calibre_link-1728"></a>in the case of the German, Drax, and the rocket. You will recall the matter, Comrade General. A most important konspiratsia. The General Staff were deeply involved. It was a matter of High Policy which could have borne decisive fruit. But again it was this Bond who frustrated the operation. The German was killed. There were grave consequences for the State. There followed a period of serious embarrassment which was only solved with difficulty.’

General Slavin of GRU felt that he should say something. The rocket had been an Army operation and its failure had been laid at the door of GRU. Nikitin knew this perfectly well. As usual M.G.B. was trying to make trouble for GRU – raking up old history in this manner. ‘We asked for this man to be dealt with by your department, Comrade Colonel,’ he said icily. ‘I cannot recall that any action followed our request. If it had, we should not now be having to bother with him.’

Colonel Nikitin’s temples throbbed with rage. He controlled himself. ‘With due respect, Comrade General,’ he said in a loud, sarcastic voice, ‘the request of GRU was not confirmed by Higher Authority. Further embarrassment with England was not desired. Perhaps that detail has slipped your memory. In any case, if such a request had reached M.G.B., it would have been referred to SMERSH for action.’

‘My department received no such request,’ said <a id="calibre_link-1729"></a>General G. sharply. ‘Or the execution of this man would have rapidly followed. However, this is no time for historical researches. The rocket affair was three years ago. Perhaps the M.G.B. could tell us of the more recent activities of this man.’

Colonel Nikitin whispered hurriedly with his aide. He turned back to the table. ‘We have very little further information, Comrade General,’ he said defensively. ‘We believe that he was involved in some diamond smuggling affair. That was last year. Between Africa and America. The case did not concern us. Since then we have no further news of him. Perhaps there is more recent information on his file.’

General G. nodded. He picked up the receiver of the telephone nearest to him. This was the so-called Kommandant Telefon of the M.G.B. All lines were direct and there was no central switchboard. He dialled a number. ‘Central Index? Here General Grubozaboyschikov. The zapiska of “Bond” – English spy. Emergency.’ He listened for the immediate ‘At once, Comrade General,’ and put back the receiver. He looked down the table with authority. ‘Comrades, from many points of view this spy sounds an appropriate target. He appears to be a dangerous enemy of the State. His liquidation will be of benefit to all departments of our Intelligence apparat. Is that so?’

The conference grunted.

<a id="calibre_link-1730"></a>‘Also his loss will be felt by the Secret Service. But will it do more? Will it seriously wound them? Will it help to destroy this myth about which we have been speaking? Is this man a hero to his organization and his country?’

General Vozdvishensky decided that this question was intended for him. He spoke up. ‘The English are not interested in heroes unless they are footballers or cricketers or jockeys. If a man climbs a mountain or runs very fast he also is a hero to some people, but not to the masses. The Queen of England is also a hero, and Churchill. But the English are not greatly interested in military heroes. This man Bond is unknown to the public. If he was known, he would still not be a hero. In England, neither open war nor secret war is a heroic matter. They do not like to think about war, and after a war the names of their war heroes are forgotten as quickly as possible. Within the Secret Service, this man may be a local hero or he may not. It will depend on his appearance and personal characteristics. Of these I know nothing. He may be fat and greasy and unpleasant. No one makes a hero out of such a man, however successful he is.’

Nikitin broke in. ‘English spies we have captured speak highly of this man. He is certainly much admired in his Service. He is said to be a lone wolf, but a good looking one.’

<a id="calibre_link-1731"></a>The internal office telephone purred softly. General G. lifted the receiver, listened briefly and said, ‘Bring it in.’ There was a knock on the door. The A.D.C. came in carrying a bulky file in cardboard covers. He crossed the room and placed the file on the desk in front of the General and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

The file had a shiny black cover. A thick white stripe ran diagonally across it from top right-hand corner to bottom left. In the top left-hand space there were the letters ‘S.S.’ in white, and under them ‘SOVER-SHENNOE SEKRETNO’, the equivalent of ‘Top Secret’. Across the centre was neatly painted in white letters ‘JAMES BOND’, and underneath ‘Angliski Spion’.

General G. opened the file and took out a large envelope containing photographs which he emptied on to the glass surface of the desk. He picked them up one by one. He looked closely at them, sometimes through a magnifying glass which he took out of a drawer, and passed them across the desk to Nikitin who glanced at them and handed them on.

The first was dated 1946. It showed a dark young man sitting at a table outside a sunlit café. There was a tall glass beside him on the table and a soda-water siphon. The right forearm rested on the table and there was a cigarette between the fingers of the right hand that hung negligently down from the edge of the table. The legs <a id="calibre_link-1732"></a>were crossed in that attitude that only an Englishman adopts – with the right ankle resting on the left knee and the left hand grasping the ankle. It was a careless pose. The man didn’t know that he was being photographed from a point about twenty feet away.

The next was dated 1950. It was a face and shoulders, blurred, but of the same man. It was a close-up and Bond was looking with careful, narrowed eyes at something, probably the photographer’s face, just above the lens. A miniature buttonhole camera, guessed General G.

The third was from 1951. Taken from the left flank, quite close, it showed the same man in a dark suit, without a hat, walking down a wide empty street. He was passing a shuttered shop whose sign said ‘Charcuterie’. He looked as if he was going somewhere urgently. The clean-cut profile was pointing straight ahead and the crook of the right elbow suggested that his right hand was in the pocket of his coat. General G. reflected that it was probably taken from a car. He thought that the decisive look of the man, and the purposeful slant of his striding figure, looked dangerous, as if he was making quickly for something bad that was happening further down the street.

The fourth and last photograph was marked Passe. 1953. The corner of the Royal Seal and the letters ‘… REIGN OFFICE’ in the segment of a circle showed in the bottom right-hand corner. The photograph, which <a id="calibre_link-1733"></a>had been blown up to cabinet size, must have been made at a frontier, or by the concierge of an hotel when Bond had surrendered his passport. General G. carefully went over the face with his magnifying glass.

It was a dark, clean-cut face, with a three-inch scar showing whitely down the sunburned skin of the right cheek. The eyes were wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. The hair was black, parted on the left, and carelessly brushed so that a thick black comma fell down over the right eyebrow. The longish straight nose ran down to a short upper lip below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth. The line of the jaw was straight and firm. A section of dark suit, white shirt and black knitted tie completed the picture.

General G. held the photograph out at arm’s length. Decision, authority, ruthlessness – these qualities he could see. He didn’t care what else went on inside the man. He passed the photograph down the table and turned to the file, glancing rapidly down each page and flipping brusquely on to the next.

The photographs came back to him. He kept his place with a finger and looked briefly up. ‘He looks a nasty customer,’ he said grimly. ‘His story confirms it. I will read out some extracts. Then we must decide. It is getting late.’ He turned back to the first page and began to rattle off the points that struck him.

‘First name: JAMES. Height: 183 centimetres; weight: <a id="calibre_link-1734"></a>76 kilograms; slim build; eyes: blue; hair: black; scar down right cheek and on left shoulder; signs of plastic surgery on back of right hand (see Appendix “A”); all-round athlete; expert pistol shot, boxer, knife-thrower; does not use disguises. Languages: French and German. Smokes heavily (N.B.: special cigarettes with three gold bands); vices: drink, but not to excess, and women. Not thought to accept bribes.’

General G. skipped a page and went on:

‘This man is invariably armed with a .25 Beretta automatic carried in a holster under his left arm. Magazine holds eight rounds. Has been known to carry a knife strapped to his left forearm; has used steel-capped shoes; knows the basic holds of judo. In general, fights with tenacity and has a high tolerance of pain (see Appendix “B”).’

General G. riffled through more pages giving extracts from agents’ reports from which this data was drawn. He came to the last page before the Appendices which gave details of the cases on which Bond had been encountered. He ran his eye to the bottom and read out: ‘Conclusion. This man is a dangerous professional terrorist and spy. He has worked for the British Secret Service since 1938 and now (see Highsmith file of December 1950) holds the secret number “007” in that Service. The double o numerals signify an agent who has killed and who is privileged to kill on active service. <a id="calibre_link-1735"></a>There are believed to be only two other British agents with this authority. The fact that this spy was decorated with the C.M.G. in 1953, an award usually given only on retirement from the Secret Service, is a measure of his worth. If encountered in the field, the fact and full details to be reported to headquarters (see SMERSH, M.G.B. and GRU Standing Orders 1951 onwards).’

General G. shut the file and slapped his hand decisively on the cover. ‘Well, Comrades. Are we agreed?’

‘Yes,’ said Colonel Nikitin, loudly.

‘Yes,’ said General Slavin in a bored voice.

General Vozdvishensky was looking down at his fingernails. He was sick of murder. He had enjoyed his time in England. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose so.’

General G.’s hand went to the internal office telephone. He spoke to his A.D.C. ‘Death Warrant,’ he said harshly. ‘Made out in the name of “James Bond”.’ He spelled the names out. ‘Description: Angliski Spion. Crime: Enemy of the State.’ He put the receiver back and leant forward in his chair. ‘And now it will be a question of devising an appropriate konspiratsia. And one that cannot fail!’ He smiled grimly. ‘We cannot have another of those Khoklov affairs.’

The door opened and the A.D.C. came in carrying a bright yellow sheet of paper. He put it in front of General G. and went out. General G. ran his eyes down the paper and wrote the words ‘To be killed. <a id="calibre_link-1736"></a>Grubozaboyschikov’ at the head of the large empty space at the bottom. He passed the paper to the M.G.B. man who read it and wrote ‘Kill him. Nikitin’ and handed it across to the head of GRU who wrote ‘Kill him. Slavin’. One of the A.D.C.s passed the paper to the plain-clothes man sitting beside the representative of RUMID. The man put it in front of General Vozdvishensky and handed him a pen.

General Vozdvishensky read the paper carefully. He raised his eyes slowly to those of General G. who was watching him and, without looking down, scribbled the ‘Kill him’ more or less under the other signatures and scrawled his name after it. Then he took his hands away from the paper and got to his feet.

‘If that is all, Comrade General?’ he pushed his chair back.

General G. was pleased. His instincts about this man had been right. He would have to put a watch on him and pass on his suspicions to General Serov. ‘One moment, Comrade General,’ he said. ‘I have something to add to the warrant.’

The paper was handed up to him. He took out his pen and scratched out what he had written. He wrote again, speaking the words slowly as he did so.

‘To be killed WITH IGNOMINY. Grubozaboyschikov.’

He looked up and smiled pleasantly to the company. ‘Thank you, Comrades. That is all. I shall advise you of <a id="calibre_link-1737"></a>the decision of the Praesidium on our recommendation. Good night.’

When the conference had filed out, General G. rose to his feet and stretched and gave a loud controlled yawn. He sat down again at his desk, switched off the wire-recorder and rang for his A.D.C. The man came in and stood beside his desk.

General G. handed him the yellow paper. ‘Send this over to General Serov at once. Find out where Kronsteen is and have him fetched by car. I don’t care if he’s in bed. He will have to come. Otdyel II will know where to find him. And I will see Colonel Klebb in ten minutes.’

‘Yes, Comrade General.’ The man left the room.

General G. picked up the V.Ch. receiver and asked for General Serov. He spoke quietly for five minutes. At the end he concluded: ‘And I am now about to give the task to Colonel Klebb and the Planner, Kronsteen. We will discuss the outlines of a suitable konspiratsia and they will give me detailed proposals tomorrow. Is that in order, Comrade General?’

‘Yes,’ came the quiet voice of General Serov of the High Praesidium. ‘Kill him. But let it be excellently accomplished. The Praesidium will ratify the decision in the morning.’

<a id="calibre_link-1738"></a>The line went dead. The inter-office telephone rang. General G. said ‘Yes’ into the receiver and put it back.

A moment later the A.D.C. opened the big door and stood in the entrance. ‘Comrade Colonel Klebb,’ he announced.

A toad-like figure in an olive green uniform which bore the single red ribbon of the Order of Lenin came into the room and walked with quick short steps over to the desk.

General G. looked up and waved to the nearest chair at the conference table. ‘Good evening, Comrade.’

The squat face split into a sugary smile. ‘Good evening, Comrade General.’

The Head of Otdyel II, the department of SMERSH in charge of Operations and Executions, hitched up her skirts and sat down.

<a id="calibre_link-1740"></a>7 THE WIZARD OF ICE

The two faces of the double clock in the shiny, domed case looked out across the chess-board like the eyes of some huge sea monster that had peered over the edge of the table to watch the game.

The two faces of the chess clock showed different times. Kronsteen’s showed twenty minutes to one. The long red pendulum that ticked off the seconds was moving in its staccato sweep across the bottom half of his clock’s face, while the enemy clock was silent and its pendulum motionless down the face. But Makharov’s clock said five minutes to one. He had wasted time in the middle of the game and he now had only five minutes to go. He was in bad ‘time-trouble’ and unless Kronsteen made some lunatic mistake, which was unthinkable, he was beaten.

Kronsteen sat motionless and erect, as malevolently <a id="calibre_link-1741"></a>inscrutable as a parrot. His elbows were on the table and his big head rested on clenched fists that pressed into his cheeks, squashing the pursed lips into a pout of hauteur and disdain. Under the wide, bulging brow the rather slanting black eyes looked down with deadly calm on his winning board. But, behind the mask, the blood was throbbing in the dynamo of his brain, and a thick wormlike vein in his right temple pulsed at a beat of over ninety. He had sweated away a pound of weight in the last two hours and ten minutes, and the spectre of a false move still had one hand at his throat. But to Makharov, and to the spectators, he was still ‘The Wizard of Ice’ whose game had been compared to a man eating fish. First he stripped off the skin, then he picked out the bones, then he ate the fish. Kronsteen had been Champion of Moscow two years running, was now in the final for the third time and, if he won this game, would be a contender for Grand Mastership.

In the pool of silence round the roped-off top table there was no sound except the loud tripping feet of Kronsteen’s clock. The two umpires sat motionless in their raised chairs. They knew, as did Makharov, that this was certainly the kill. Kronsteen had introduced a brilliant twist into the Meran Variation of the Queen’s Gambit Declined. Makharov had kept up with him until the 28th move. He had lost time on that move. Perhaps he had made a mistake there, and perhaps again on the <a id="calibre_link-1742"></a>31st and 33rd moves. Who could say? It would be a game to be debated all over Russia for weeks to come.

There came a sigh from the crowded tiers opposite the Championship game. Kronsteen had slowly removed the right hand from his cheek and had stretched it across the board. Like the pincers of a pink crab, his thumb and forefinger had opened, then they had descended. The hand, holding a piece, moved up and sideways and down. Then the hand was slowly brought back to the face.

The spectators buzzed and whispered as they saw, on the great wall map, the 41st move duplicated with a shift of one of the three-foot placards. R-Kt8. That must be the kill!

Kronsteen reached deliberately over and pressed down the lever at the bottom of his clock. His red pendulum went dead. His clock showed a quarter to one. At the same instant, Makharov’s pendulum came to life and started its loud, inexorable beat.

Kronsteen sat back. He placed his hands flat on the table and looked coldly across at the glistening, lowered face of the man whose guts he knew, for he too had suffered defeat in his time, would be writhing in agony like an eel pierced with a spear. Makharov, Champion of Georgia. Well, tomorrow Comrade Makharov could go back to Georgia and stay there. At any rate this year he would not be moving with his family up to Moscow.

<a id="calibre_link-1743"></a>A man in plain clothes slipped under the ropes and whispered to one of the umpires. He handed him a white envelope. The umpire shook his head, pointing at Makharov’s clock, which now said three minutes to one. The man in plain clothes whispered one short sentence which made the umpire sullenly bow his head. He pinged a handbell.

‘There is an urgent personal message for Comrade Kronsteen,’ he announced into the microphone. ‘There will be a three minutes’ pause.’

A mutter went round the hall. Even though Makharov now courteously raised his eyes from the board and sat immobile, gazing up into the recesses of the high, vaulted ceiling, the spectators knew that the position of the game was engraved on his brain. A three minutes’ pause simply meant three extra minutes for Makharov.

Kronsteen felt the same stab of annoyance, but his face was expressionless as the umpire stepped down from his chair and handed him a plain, unaddressed envelope. Kronsteen ripped it open with his thumb and extracted the anonymous sheet of paper. It said, in the large typewritten characters he knew so well, ‘YOU ARE REQUIRED THIS INSTANT’. No signature and no address.

Kronsteen folded the paper and carefully placed it in his inside breast pocket. Later it would be recovered from him and destroyed. He looked up at the face of the plain-clothes man standing beside the umpire. The <a id="calibre_link-1744"></a>eyes were watching him impatiently, commandingly. To hell with these people, thought Kronsteen. He would not resign with only three minutes to go. It was unthinkable. It was an insult to the People’s Sport. But, as he made a gesture to the umpire that the game could continue, he trembled inside, and he avoided the eyes of the plain-clothes man who remained standing, in coiled immobility, inside the ropes.

The bell pinged. ‘The game proceeds.’

Makharov slowly bent down his head. The hand of his clock slipped past the hour and he was still alive.

Kronsteen continued to tremble inside. What he had done was unheard of in an employee of SMERSH, or of any other State agency. He would certainly be reported. Gross disobedience. Dereliction of duty. What might be the consequences? At the best a tongue-lashing from General G., and a black mark on his zapiska. At the worst? Kronsteen couldn’t imagine. He didn’t like to think. Whatever happened, the sweets of victory had turned bitter in his mouth.

But now it was the end. With five seconds to go on his clock, Makharov raised his whipped eyes no higher than the pouting lips of his opponent and bent his head in the brief, formal bow of surrender. At the double ping of the umpire’s bell, the crowded hall rose to its feet with a thunder of applause.

Kronsteen stood up and bowed to his opponent, to <a id="calibre_link-1745"></a>the umpires, and finally, deeply, to the spectators. Then, with the plain-clothes man in his wake, he ducked under the ropes and fought his way coldly and rudely through the mass of his clamouring admirers towards the main exit.

Outside the Tournament Hall, in the middle of the wide Pushkin Ulitza, with its engine running, stood the usual anonymous black ZIK saloon. Kronsteen climbed into the back and shut the door. As the plain-clothes man jumped on to the running-board and squeezed into the front seat, the driver crashed his gears and the car tore off down the street.

Kronsteen knew it would be a waste of breath to apologize to the plain-clothes guard. It would also be contrary to discipline. After all, he was Head of the Planning Department of SMERSH, with the honorary rank of full Colonel. And his brain was worth diamonds to the organization. Perhaps he could argue his way out of the mess. He gazed out of the window at the dark streets, already wet with the work of the night cleaning squad, and bent his mind to his defence. Then there came a straight street at the end of which the moon rode fast between the onion spires of the Kremlin, and they were there.

When the guard handed Kronsteen over to the A.D.C., he also handed the A.D.C. a slip of paper. The A.D.C. glanced at it and looked coldly up at Kronsteen <a id="calibre_link-1746"></a>with half-raised eyebrows. Kronsteen looked calmly back without saying anything. The A.D.C. shrugged his shoulders and picked up the office telephone and announced him.

When they went into the big room and Kronsteen had been waved to a chair and had nodded acknowledgment of the brief pursed smile of Colonel Klebb, the A.D.C. went up to General G. and handed him the piece of paper. The General read it and looked hard across at Kronsteen. While the ADC walked to the door and went out, the General went on looking at Kronsteen. When the door was shut, General G. opened his mouth and said softly, ‘Well, Comrade?’

Kronsteen was calm. He knew the story that would appeal. He spoke quietly and with authority. ‘To the public, Comrade General, I am a professional chess player. Tonight I became Champion of Moscow for the third year in succession. If, with only three minutes to go, I had received a message that my wife was being murdered outside the door of the Tournament Hall, I would not have raised a finger to save her. My public know that. They are as dedicated to the game as myself. Tonight, if I had resigned the game and had come immediately on receipt of that message, five thousand people would have known that it could only be on the orders of such a department as this. There would have been a storm of gossip. My future goings and comings would <a id="calibre_link-1747"></a>have been watched for clues. It would have been the end of my cover. In the interests of State Security, I waited three minutes before obeying the order. Even so, my hurried departure will be the subject of much comment. I shall have to say that one of my children is gravely ill. I shall have to put a child into hospital for a week to support the story. I deeply apologize for the delay in carrying out the order. But the decision was a difficult one. I did what I thought best in the interests of the Department.’

General G. looked thoughtfully into the dark slanting eyes. The man was guilty, but the defence was good. He read the paper again as if weighing up the size of the offence, then he took out his lighter and burned it. He dropped the last burning corner on to the glass top of his desk and blew the ashes sideways on to the floor. He said nothing to reveal his thoughts, but the burning of the evidence was all that mattered to Kronsteen. Now nothing could go on his zapiska. He was deeply relieved and grateful. He would bend all his ingenuity to the matter on hand. The General had performed an act of great clemency. Kronsteen would repay him with the full coin of his mind.

‘Pass over the photographs, Comrade Colonel,’ said General G., as if the brief court-martial had not occurred. ‘The matter is as follows …’

So it is another death, thought Kronsteen, as the <a id="calibre_link-1748"></a>General talked and he examined the dark ruthless face that gazed levelly at him from the blown-up passport photograph. While Kronsteen listened with half his mind to what the General was saying, he picked out the salient facts – English spy. Great scandal desired. No Soviet involvement. Expert killer. Weakness for women (therefore not homosexual, thought Kronsteen). Drinks (but nothing is said about drugs). Unbribable (who knows? There is a price for every man). No expense would be spared. All equipment and personnel available from all intelligence departments. Success to be achieved within three months. Broad ideas required now. Details to be worked out later.

General G. fastened his sharp eyes on Colonel Klebb.

‘What are your immediate reactions, Comrade Colonel?’

The square-cut rimless glass of the spectacles flashed in the light of the chandelier as the woman straightened from her position of bowed concentration and looked across the desk at the General. The pale moist lips below the sheen of nicotine-stained fur over the mouth parted and started moving rapidly up and down as the woman gave her views. To Kronsteen, watching the face across the table, the square, expressionless opening and shutting of the lips reminded him of the boxlike jabber of a puppet.

The voice was hoarse and flat without emotion, <a id="calibre_link-1749"></a>‘… resembles in some respects the case of Stolzenberg. If you remember, Comrade General, this also was a matter of destroying a reputation as well as a life. On that occasion the matter was simple. The spy was also a pervert. If you recall …’

Kronsteen stopped listening. He knew all these cases. He had handled the planning of most of them and they were filed away in his memory like so many chess gambits. Instead, with closed ears, he examined the face of this dreadful woman and wondered casually how much longer she would last in her job – how much longer he would have to work with her.

Dreadful? Kronsteen was not interested in human beings – not even in his own children. Nor did the categories of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ have a place in his vocabulary. To him all people were chess pieces. He was only interested in their reactions to the movements of other pieces. To foretell their reactions, which was the greater part of his job, one had to understand their individual characteristics. Their basic instincts were immutable. Self-preservation, sex and the instinct of the herd – in that order. Their temperaments could be sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric or melancholic. The temperament of an individual would largely decide the comparative strength of his emotions and his sentiments. Character would greatly depend on upbringing and, whatever Pavlov and the Behaviourists might say, to a certain <a id="calibre_link-1750"></a>extent on the character of the parents. And, of course, people’s lives and behaviour would be partly conditioned by physical strengths and weaknesses.

It was with these basic classifications at the back of his mind that Kronsteen’s cold brain considered the woman across the table. It was the hundredth time he had summed her up, but now they had weeks of joint work in front of them and it was as well to refresh the memory so that a sudden intrusion of the human element in their partnership should not come as a surprise.

Of course Rosa Klebb had a strong will to survive, or she would not have become one of the most powerful women in the State, and certainly the most feared. Her rise, Kronsteen remembered, had begun with the Spanish Civil War. Then, as a double agent inside P.O.U.M. – that is, working for the O.G.P.U. in Moscow as well as for Communist Intelligence in Spain – she had been the right hand, and some sort of a mistress, they said, of her chief, the famous Andreas Nin. She had worked with him from 1935-37. Then, on the orders of Moscow, he was murdered and, it was rumoured, murdered by her. Whether this was true or not, from then on she had progressed slowly but straight up the ladder of power, surviving setbacks, surviving wars, surviving, because she forged no allegiances and joined no factions, all the purges, until, in 1953, with the death of Beria, the bloodstained hands grasped the rung, so few from the <a id="calibre_link-1751"></a>very top, that was Head of the Operations Department of SMERSH.

And, reflected Kronsteen, much of her success was due to the peculiar nature of her next most important instinct, the Sex Instinct. For Rosa Klebb undoubtedly belonged to the rarest of all sexual types. She was a Neuter. Kronsteen was certain of it. The stories of men and, yes, of women, were too circumstantial to be doubted. She might enjoy the act physically, but the instrument was of no importance. For her, sex was nothing more than an itch. And this psychological and physiological neutrality of hers at once relieved her of so many human emotions and sentiments and desires. Sexual neutrality was the essence of coldness in an individual. It was a great and wonderful thing to be born with.

In her, the Herd instinct would also be dead. Her urge for power demanded that she should be a wolf and not a sheep. She was a lone operator, but never a lonely one, because the warmth of company was unnecessary to her. And, of course, temperamentally, she would be a phlegmatic – imperturbable, tolerant of pain, sluggish. Laziness would be her besetting vice, thought Kronsteen. She would be difficult to get out of her warm, hoggish bed in the morning. Her private habits would be slovenly, even dirty. It would not be pleasant, thought Kronsteen, to look into the intimate side of her life, when she relaxed, <a id="calibre_link-1752"></a>out of uniform. Kronsteen’s pouting lips curled away from the thought and his mind hastened on, skipping her character, which was certainly cunning and strong, to her appearance.

Rosa Klebb would be in her late forties, he assumed, placing her by the date of the Spanish War. She was short, about five foot four, and squat, and her dumpy arms and short neck, and the calves of the thick legs in the drab khaki stockings, were very strong for a woman. The devil knows, thought Kronsteen, what her breasts were like, but the bulge of uniform that rested on the table-top looked like a badly packed sandbag, and in general her figure, with its big pear-shaped hips, could only be likened to a ’cello.

The tricoteuses of the French Revolution must have had faces like hers, decided Kronsteen, sitting back in his chair and tilting his head slightly to one side. The thinning orange hair scraped back to the tight, obscene bun; the shiny yellow-brown eyes that stared so coldly at General G. through the sharp-edged squares of glass; the wedge of thickly powdered, large-pored nose; the wet trap of a mouth, that went on opening and shutting as if it was operated by wires under the chin. Those French women, as they sat and knitted and chatted while the guillotine clanged down, must have had the same pale, thick chicken’s skin that scragged in little folds under the eyes and at the corners of the mouth and below <a id="calibre_link-1753"></a>the jaws, the same big peasant’s ears, the same tight, hard dimpled fists, like knobkerries, that, in the case of the Russian woman, now lay tightly clenched on the red velvet table-top on either side of the big bundle of bosom. And their faces must have conveyed the same impression, concluded Kronsteen, of coldness and cruelty and strength as this, yes, he had to allow himself the emotive word, dreadful woman of SMERSH.

‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel. Your review of the position is of value. And now, Comrade Kronsteen, have you anything to add? Please be short. It is two o’clock and we all have a heavy day before us.’ General G.’s eyes, bloodshot with strain and lack of sleep, stared fixedly across the desk into the fathomless brown pools below the bulging forehead. There had been no need to tell this man to be brief. Kronsteen never had much to say, but each of his words was worth speeches from the rest of the staff.

Kronsteen had already made up his mind, or he would not have allowed his thoughts to concentrate for so long on the woman.

He slowly tilted back his head and gazed into the nothingness of the ceiling. His voice was extremely mild, but it had the authority that commands close attention.

‘Comrade General, it was a Frenchman, in some respects a predecessor of yours, Fouché, who observed <a id="calibre_link-1754"></a>that it is no good killing a man unless you also destroy his reputation. It will, of course, be easy to kill this man Bond. Any paid Bulgarian assassin would do it, if properly instructed. The second part of the operation, the destruction of this man’s character, is more important and more difficult. At this stage it is only clear to me that the deed must be done away from England, and in a country over whose press and radio we have influence. If you ask me how the man is to be got there, I can only say that if the bait is important enough, and its capture is open to this man alone, he will be sent to seize it from wherever he may happen to be. To avoid the appearance of a trap, I would consider giving the bait a touch of eccentricity, of the unusual. The English pride themselves on their eccentricity. They treat the eccentric proposition as a challenge. I would rely partly on this reading of their psychology to have them send this important operator after the bait.’

Kronsteen paused. He lowered his head so that he was looking just over General G.’s shoulder.

‘I shall proceed to devise such a trap,’ he said indifferently. ‘For the present, I can only say that if the bait is successful in attracting its prey, we are then likely to require an assassin with a perfect command of the English language.’

Kronsteen’s eyes moved to the red velvet table-top in <a id="calibre_link-1755"></a>front of him. Thoughtfully, as if this was the kernel of the problem, he added: ‘We shall also require a reliable and extremely beautiful girl.’

<a id="calibre_link-1757"></a>8 THE BEAUTIFUL LURE

Sitting by the window of her one room and looking out at the serene June evening, at the first pink of the sunset reflected in the windows across the street, at the distant onion spire of a church that flamed like a torch above the ragged horizon of Moscow roofs, Corporal of State Security Tatiana Romanova thought that she was happier than she had ever been before.

Her happiness was not romantic. It had nothing to do with the rapturous start to a love affair – those days and weeks before the first tiny tear-clouds appear on the horizon. It was the quiet, settled happiness of security, of being able to look forward with confidence to the future, heightened by the immediate things, a word of praise she had had that afternoon from Professor Denikin, the smell of a good supper cooking on the electric stove, her favourite prelude to Boris Goudonov <a id="calibre_link-1758"></a>being played by the Moscow State Orchestra on the radio, and, over all, the beauty of the fact that the long winter and short spring were past and it was June.

The room was a tiny box in the huge modern apartment building on the Sadovaya-Chernogriazskay Ulitza that is the women’s barracks of the State Security Departments. Built by prison labour, and finished in 1939, the fine eight-storey building contains two thousand rooms, some, like hers on the third floor, nothing but square boxes with a telephone, hot and cold water, a single electric light and a share of the central bathrooms and lavatories, others, on the two top floors, consisting of two- and three-room flats with bathrooms. These were for high-ranking women. Graduation up the building was strictly by rank, and Corporal Romanova had to rise through Sergeant, Lieutenant, Captain, Major and Lieutenant-Colonel before she would reach the paradise of the eighth and Colonels’ floor.

But heaven knew she was content enough with her present lot. A salary of 1,200 roubles a month (thirty per cent more than she could have earned in any other Ministry), a room to herself; cheap food and clothes from the ‘closed shops’ on the ground floor of the building; a monthly allocation of at least two Ministry tickets to the Ballet or the Opera; a full two weeks’ paid holiday a year. And, above all, a steady job with good prospects in Moscow – not in one of those dreary provincial towns <a id="calibre_link-1759"></a>where nothing happened month after month, and where the arrival of a new film or the visit of a travelling circus was the only thing to keep one out of bed in the evening.

Of course, you had to pay for being in the M.G.B. The uniform put you apart from the world. People were afraid, which didn’t suit the nature of most girls, and you were confined to the society of other M.G.B. girls and men, one of whom, when the time came, you would have to marry in order to stay with the Ministry. And they worked like the devil – eight to six, five and a half days a week, and only forty minutes off for lunch in the canteen. But it was a good lunch, a real meal, and you could do with little supper and save up for the sable coat that would one day take the place of the well-worn Siberian fox.

At the thought of her supper, Corporal Romanova left the chair by the window and went to examine the pot of thick soup, with a few shreds of meat and some powdered mushroom, that was to be her supper. It was nearly done and smelled delicious. She turned off the electricity and let the pot simmer while she washed and tidied, as, years before, she had been taught to do before meals.

While she dried her hands, she examined herself in the big oval looking-glass over the washstand.

One of her early boy-friends had said she looked like the young Greta Garbo. What nonsense! And yet tonight <a id="calibre_link-1760"></a>she did look rather well. Fine dark brown silken hair brushed straight back from a tall brow and falling heavily down almost to the shoulders, there to curl slightly up at the ends (Garbo had once done her hair like that and Corporal Romanova admitted to herself that she had copied it), a good, soft pale skin with an ivory sheen at the cheekbones; wide apart, level eyes of the deepest blue under straight natural brows (she closed one eye after the other. Yes, her lashes were certainly long enough!), a straight, rather imperious nose – and then the mouth. What about the mouth? Was it too broad? It must look terribly wide when she smiled. She smiled at herself in the mirror. Yes, it was wide; but then so had Garbo’s been. At least the lips were full and finely etched. There was the hint of a smile at the corners. No one could say it was a cold mouth! And the oval of her face. Was that too long? Was her chin a shade too sharp? She swung her head sideways to see it in profile. The heavy curtain of hair swung forward and across her right eye so that she had to brush it back. Well, the chin was pointed, but at least it wasn’t sharp. She faced the mirror again and picked up a brush and started on the long, heavy hair. Greta Garbo! She was all right, or so many men wouldn’t tell her that she was – let alone the girls who were always coming to her for advice about their faces. But a film star – a famous one! She made a face at herself in the glass and went to eat her supper.

<a id="calibre_link-1761"></a>In fact Corporal Tatiana Romanova was a very beautiful girl indeed. Apart from her face, the tall, firm body moved particularly well. She had been a year in the ballet school in Leningrad and had abandoned dancing as a career only when she grew an inch over the prescribed limit of five feet six. The school had taught her to hold herself well and to walk well. And she looked wonderfully healthy, thanks to her passion for figure-skating, which she practised all through the year at the Dynamo ice-stadium and which had already earned her a place on the first Dynamo women’s team. Her arms and breasts were faultless. A purist would have disapproved of her behind. Its muscles were so hardened with exercise that it had lost the smooth downward feminine sweep, and now, round at the back and flat and hard at the sides, it jutted like a man’s.

Corporal Romanova was admired far beyond the confines of the English translation section of the M.G.B. Central Index. Everyone agreed that it would not be long before one of the senior officers came across her and peremptorily hauled her out of her modest section to make her his mistress, or if absolutely necessary, his wife.

The girl poured the thick soup into a small china bowl, decorated with wolves chasing a galloping sleigh round the rim, broke some black bread into it and went and sat in her chair by the window and ate it slowly <a id="calibre_link-1762"></a>with a nice shiny spoon she had slipped into her bag not many weeks before after a gay evening at the Hotel Moskwa.

When she had finished, she washed up and went back to her chair and lit the first cigarette of the day (no respectable girl in Russia smokes in public, except in a restaurant, and it would have meant instant dismissal if she had smoked at her work) and listened impatiently to the whimpering discords of an orchestra from Turkmenistan. This dreadful Oriental stuff they were always putting on to please the kulaks of one of those barbaric outlying states! Why couldn’t they play something kulturny? Some of that modern jazz music, or something classical. This stuff was hideous. Worse, it was old fashioned.

The telephone rang harshly. She walked over and turned down the radio and picked up the receiver.

‘Corporal Romanova?’

It was the voice of her dear Professor Denikin. But out of office hours he always called her Tatiana or even Tania. What did this mean?

The girl was wide-eyed and tense. ‘Yes, Comrade Professor.’

The voice at the other end sounded strange and cold. ‘In fifteen minutes, at 8.30, you are required for interview by Comrade Colonel Klebb, of Otdyel II. You will call on her in her apartment, No. 1875, on the eighth floor of your building. Is that clear?’

<a id="calibre_link-1763"></a>‘But, Comrade, why? What is … What is …?’

The odd, strained voice of her beloved Professor cut her short.

‘That is all, Comrade Corporal.’

The girl held the receiver away from her face. She stared at it with frenzied eyes as if she could wring more words out of the circles of little holes in the black earpiece. ‘Hullo! Hullo!’ The empty mouthpiece yawned at her. She realized that her hand and her forearm were aching with the strength of her grip. She bent slowly forward and put the receiver down on the cradle.

She stood for a moment, frozen, gazing blindly at the black machine. Should she call him back? No, that was out of the question. He had spoken as he had because he knew, and she knew, that every call, in and out of the building, was listened to or recorded. That was why he had not wasted a word. This was a State matter. With a message of this sort, you got rid of it as quickly as you could, in as few words as possible, and wiped your hands of it. You had got the dreadful card out of your hand. You had passed the Queen of Spades to someone else. Your hands were clean again.

The girl put her knuckles up to her open mouth and bit on them, staring at the telephone. What did they want her for? What had she done? Desperately she cast her mind back, scrabbling through the days, the months, the years. Had she made some terrible mistake in her work <a id="calibre_link-1764"></a>and they had just discovered it? Had she made some remark against the State, some joke that had been reported back? That was always possible. But which remark? When? If it had been a bad remark, she would have felt a twinge of guilt or fear at the time. Her conscience was clear. Or was it? Suddenly she remembered. What about the spoon she had stolen? Was it that? Government property! She would throw it out of the window, now, far to one side or the other. But no, it couldn’t be that. That was too small. She shrugged her shoulders resignedly and her hand dropped to her side. She got up and moved towards the clothes cupboard to get out her best uniform, and her eyes were misty with the tears of fright and bewilderment of a child. It could be none of those things. SMERSH didn’t send for one for that sort of thing. It must be something much, much worse.

The girl glanced through her wet eyes at the cheap watch on her wrist. Only seven minutes to go! A new panic seized her. She brushed her forearm across her eyes and grabbed down her parade uniform. On top of it all, whatever it was, to be late! She tore at the buttons of her white cotton blouse.

As she dressed and washed her face and brushed her hair, her mind went on probing at the evil mystery like an inquisitive child poking into a snake’s hole with a stick. From whatever angle she explored the hole, there came an angry hiss.

<a id="calibre_link-1765"></a>Leaving out the nature of her guilt, contact with any tentacle of SMERSH was unspeakable. The very name of the organization was abhorred and avoided. SMERSH, ‘Smiert Spionam’, ‘Death to Spies’. It was an obscene word, a word from the tomb, the very whisper of death, a word never mentioned even in secret office gossip among friends. Worst of all, within this horrible organization, Otdyel II, the Department of Torture and Death, was the central horror.

And the Head of Otdyel II, the woman, Rosa Klebb! Unbelievable things were whispered about this woman, things that came to Tatiana in her nightmares, things she forgot again during the day, but that she now paraded.

It was said that Rosa Klebb would let no torturing take place without her. There was a blood-spattered smock in her office, and a low camp-stool, and they said that when she was seen scurrying through the basement passages dressed in the smock and with the stool in her hand, the word would go round, and even the workers in SMERSH would hush their words and bend low over their papers – perhaps even cross their fingers in their pockets – until she was reported back in her room.

For, or so they whispered, she would take the camp-stool and draw it up close below the face of the man or woman that hung down over the edge of the <a id="calibre_link-1766"></a>interrogation table. Then she would squat down on the stool and look into the face and quietly say ‘No. 1’ or ‘No. 10’ or ‘No. 25’ and the inquisitors would know what she meant and they would begin. And she would watch the eyes in the face a few inches away from hers and breathe in the screams as if they were perfume. And, depending on the eyes, she would quietly change the torture, and say ‘Now No. 36’ or ‘Now No. 64’ and the inquisitors would do something else. As the courage and resistance seeped out of the eyes, and they began to weaken and beseech, she would start cooing softly. ‘There, there my dove. Talk to me, my pretty one, and it will stop. It hurts. Ah me, it hurts so, my child. And one is so tired of the pain. One would like it to stop, and to be able to lie down in peace, and for it never to begin again. Your mother is here beside you, only waiting to stop the pain. She has a nice soft cosy bed all ready for you to sleep on and forget, forget, forget. Speak,’ she would whisper lovingly. ‘You have only to speak and you will have peace and no more pain.’ If the eyes still resisted, the cooing would start again. ‘But you are foolish, my pretty one. Oh so foolish. This pain is nothing. Nothing! You don’t believe me, my little dove? Well then, your mother must try a little, but only a very little, of No. 87.’ And the interrogators would hear and change their instruments and their aim, and she would squat there and watch the life slowly ebbing <a id="calibre_link-1767"></a>from the eyes until she had to speak loudly into the ear of the person or the words would not reach the brain.

But it was seldom, so they said, that the person had the will to travel far along SMERSH’S road of pain, let alone to the end, and, when the soft voice promised peace, it nearly always won, for somehow Rosa Klebb knew from the eyes the moment when the adult had been broken down into a child crying for its mother. And she provided the image of the mother and melted the spirit where the harsh words of a man would have toughened it.

Then, after yet another suspect had been broken, Rosa Klebb would go back down the passage with her camp-stool and take off her newly soiled smock and get back to her work and the word would go round that all was over and normal activity would come back to the basement.

Tatiana, frozen by her thoughts, looked again at her watch. Four minutes to go. She ran her hands down her uniform and gazed once more at her white face in the glass. She turned and said farewell to the dear, familiar little room. Would she ever see it again?

She walked straight down the long corridor and rang for the lift.

When it came, she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin and walked into the lift as if it was the platform of the guillotine.

<a id="calibre_link-1768"></a>‘Eighth,’ she said to the girl operator. She stood facing the doors. Inside her, remembering a word she had not used since childhood, she repeated over and over ‘My God – My God – My God.’

<a id="calibre_link-1770"></a>9 A LABOUR OF LOVE

Outside the anonymous, cream painted door, Tatiana already smelled the inside of the room. When the voice told her curtly to come in, and she opened the door, it was the smell that filled her mind while she stood and stared into the eyes of the woman who sat behind the round table under the centre light.

It was the smell of the Metro on a hot evening – cheap scent concealing animal odours. People in Russia soak themselves in scent, whether they have had a bath or not, but mostly when they have not, and healthy, clean girls like Tatiana always walk home from the office, unless the rain or the snow is too bad, so as to avoid the stench in the trains and the Metro.

Now Tatiana was in a bath of the smell. Her nostrils twitched with disgust.

It was her disgust and her contempt for a person <a id="calibre_link-1771"></a>who could live in the middle of such a smell that helped her to look down into the yellowish eyes that stared at her through the square glass panes. Nothing could be read in them. They were receiving eyes, not giving eyes. They slowly moved all over her, like camera lenses, taking her in.

Colonel Klebb spoke: ‘You are a fine-looking girl, Comrade Corporal. Walk across the room and back.’

What were these honeyed words? Taut with a new fear, fear of the notorious personal habits of the woman, Tatiana did as she was told.

‘Take your jacket off. Put it down on the chair. Raise your hands above your head. Higher. Now bend and touch your toes. Upright. Good. Sit down.’ The woman spoke like a doctor. She gestured to the chair across the table from her. Her staring, probing eyes hooded themselves as they bent over the file on the table.

It must be my zapiska, thought Tatiana. How interesting to see the actual instrument that ordered the whole of one’s life. How thick it was – nearly two inches thick. What could be on all those pages? She looked across at the open folder with wide, fascinated eyes.

Colonel Klebb riffled through the last pages and shut down the cover. The cover was orange with a diagonal black stripe. What did those colours signify?

The woman looked up. Somehow Tatiana managed to look bravely back.

<a id="calibre_link-1772"></a>‘Comrade Corporal Romanova.’ It was the voice of authority, of the senior officer. ‘I have good reports of your work. Your record is excellent, both in your duties and in sport. The State is pleased with you.’

Tatiana could not believe her ears. She felt faint with reaction. She blushed to the roots of her hair and then turned pale. She put out a hand to the table edge. She stammered in a weak voice, ‘I am g-grateful, Comrade Colonel.’

‘Because of your excellent services you have been singled out for a most important assignment. This is a great honour for you. Do you understand?’

Whatever it was, it was better than what might have been. ‘Yes, indeed, Comrade Colonel.’

‘This assignment carries much responsibility. It bears a higher rank. I congratulate you on your promotion, Comrade Corporal, on completion of the assignment, to the rank of Captain of State Security.’

This was unheard of for a girl of twenty-four! Tatiana sensed danger. She stiffened like an animal who sees the steel jaws beneath the meat. ‘I am deeply honoured, Comrade Colonel.’ She was unable to keep the wariness out of her voice.

Rosa Klebb grunted non-committally. She knew exactly what the girl must have thought when she got the summons. The effect of her kindly reception, her shock of relief at the good news, her reawakening fears, <a id="calibre_link-1773"></a>had been transparent. This was a beautiful, guileless, innocent girl. Just what the konspiratsia demanded. Now she must be loosened up. ‘My dear,’ she said smoothly. ‘How remiss of me. This promotion should be celebrated in a glass of wine. You must not think we senior officers are inhuman. We will drink together. It will be a good excuse to open a bottle of French champagne.’

Rosa Klebb got up and went over to the sideboard where her batman had laid out what she had ordered.

‘Try one of these chocolates while I wrestle with the cork. It is never easy getting out champagne corks. We girls really need a man to help us with that sort of work, don’t we?’

The ghastly prattle went on as she put a spectacular box of chocolates in front of Tatiana. She went back to the sideboard. ‘They’re from Switzerland. The very best. The soft centres are the round ones. The hard ones are square.’

Tatiana murmured her thanks. She reached out and chose a round one. It would be easier to swallow. Her mouth was dry with fear of the moment when she would finally see the trap and feel it snap round her neck. It must be something dreadful to need to be concealed under all this play-acting. The bite of chocolate stuck in her mouth like chewing-gum. Mercifully the glass of champagne was thrust into her hand.

<a id="calibre_link-1774"></a>Rosa Klebb stood over her. She lifted her glass merrily. ‘Za vashe zdarovie, Comrade Tatiana. And my warmest congratulations!’

Tatiana stitched a ghastly smile on her face. She picked up her glass and gave a little bow. ‘Za vashe zdarovie, Comrade Colonel.’ She drained the glass, as is the custom in Russian drinking, and put it down in front of her.

Rosa Klebb immediately filled it again, slopping some over the table-top. ‘And now to the health of your new department, Comrade.’ She raised her glass. The sugary smile tightened as she watched the girl’s reactions.

‘To SMERSH!’

Numbly, Tatiana got to her feet. She picked up the full glass. ‘To SMERSH.’ The word scarcely came out. She choked on the champagne and had to take two gulps. She sat heavily down.

Rosa Klebb gave her no time for reflection. She sat down opposite and laid her hands flat on the table. ‘And now to business, Comrade.’ Authority was back in the voice. ‘There is much work to be done.’ She leant forward. ‘Have you ever wished to live abroad, Comrade? In a foreign country?’

The champagne was having its effect on Tatiana. Probably worse was to come, but now let it come quickly.

‘No, Comrade. I am happy in Moscow.’

‘You have never thought what it might be like living <a id="calibre_link-1775"></a>in the West – all those beautiful clothes, the jazz, the modern things?’

‘No, Comrade.’ She was truthful. She had never thought about it.

‘And if the State required you to live in the West?’

‘I would obey.’

‘Willingly?’

Tatiana shrugged her shoulders with a hint of impatience. ‘One does what one is told.’

The woman paused. There was girlish conspiracy in the next question.

‘Are you a virgin, Comrade?’

Oh, my God, thought Tatiana. ‘No, Comrade Colonel.’

The wet lips glinted in the light.

‘How many men?’

Tatiana coloured to the roots of her hair. Russian girls are reticent and prudish about sex. In Russia the sexual climate is mid-Victorian. These questions from the Klebb woman were all the more revolting for being asked in this cold inquisitorial tone by a State official she had never met before in her life. Tatiana screwed up her courage. She stared defensively into the yellow eyes. ‘What is the purpose of these intimate questions please, Comrade Colonel?’

Rosa Klebb straightened. Her voice cut back like a whip. ‘Remember yourself, Comrade. You are not here to ask questions. You forget to whom you are speaking. Answer me!’

<a id="calibre_link-1776"></a>Tatiana shrank back. ‘Three men, Comrade Colonel.’

‘When? How old were you?’ The hard yellow eyes looked across the table into the hunted blue eyes of the girl and held them and commanded.

Tatiana was on the edge of tears. ‘At school. When I was seventeen. Then at the Institute of Foreign Languages. I was twenty-two. Then last year. I was twenty-three. It was a friend I met skating.’

‘Their names, please, Comrade.’ Rosa Klebb picked up a pencil and pulled a scribbling pad towards her.

Tatiana covered her face with her hands and burst into tears. ‘No,’ she cried between her sobs. ‘No, never, whatever you do to me. You have no right.’

‘Stop that nonsense.’ The voice was a hiss. ‘In five minutes I could have those names from you, or anything else I wish to know. You are playing a dangerous game with me, Comrade. My patience will not last for ever.’ Rosa Klebb paused. She was being too rough. ‘For the moment we will pass on. Tomorrow you will give me the names. No harm will come to these men. They will be asked one or two questions about you – simple technical questions, that is all. Now sit up and dry your tears. We cannot have any more of this foolishness.’

Rosa Klebb got up and came round the table. She stood looking down at Tatiana. The voice became oily and smooth. ‘Come, come, my dear. You must trust me. <a id="calibre_link-1777"></a>Your little secrets are safe with me. Here, drink some more champagne and forget this little unpleasantness. We must be friends. We have work to do together. You must learn, my dear Tania, to treat me as you would your mother. Here, drink this down.’

Tatiana pulled a handkerchief out of the waistband of her skirt and dabbed at her eyes. She reached out a trembling hand for the glass of champagne and sipped at it with bowed head.

‘Drink it down, my dear.’

Rosa Klebb stood over the girl like some dreadful mother duck, clucking encouragement.

Obediently Tatiana emptied the glass. She felt drained of resistance, tired, willing to do anything to finish with this interview and get away somewhere and sleep. She thought, so this is what it is like on the interrogation table, and that is the voice the Klebb uses. Well, it was working. She was docile now. She would co-operate.

Rosa Klebb sat down. She observed the girl appraisingly from behind the motherly mask.

‘And now, my dear, just one more intimate little question. As between girls. Do you enjoy making love? Does it give you pleasure? Much pleasure?’

Tatiana’s hands came up again and covered her face. From behind them, in a muffled voice, she said, ‘Well yes, Comrade Colonel. Naturally, when one is in love …’ Her <a id="calibre_link-1778"></a>voice trailed away. What else could she say? What answer did this woman want?

‘And supposing, my dear, you were not in love. Then would love-making with a man still give you pleasure?’

Tatiana shook her head indecisively. She took her hands down from her face and bowed her head. The hair fell down on either side in a heavy curtain. She was trying to think, to be helpful, but she couldn’t imagine such a situation. She supposed … ‘I suppose it would depend on the man, Comrade Colonel.’

‘That is a sensible answer, my dear.’ Rosa Klebb opened a drawer in the table. She took out a photograph and slipped it across to the girl. ‘What about this man, for instance?’

Tatiana drew the photograph cautiously towards her as if it might catch fire. She looked down warily at the handsome, ruthless face. She tried to think, to imagine … ‘I cannot tell, Comrade Colonel. He is good-looking. Perhaps if he was gentle …’ She pushed the photograph anxiously away from her.

‘No, keep it, my dear. Put it beside your bed and think of this man. You will learn more about him later in your new work. And now,’ the eyes glittered behind the square panes of glass, ‘would you like to know what your new work is to be? The task for which you have been chosen from all the girls in Russia?’

‘Yes, indeed, Comrade Colonel,’ Tatiana looked <a id="calibre_link-1779"></a>obediently across at the intent face that was now pointing at her like a gun-dog.

The wet, rubbery lips parted enticingly. ‘It is a simple, delightful duty you have been chosen for, Comrade Corporal – a real labour of love, as we say. It is a matter of falling in love. That is all. Nothing else. Just falling in love with this man.’

‘But who is he? I don’t even know him.’

Rosa Klebb’s mouth revelled. This would give the silly chit of a girl something to think about.

‘He is an English spy.’

‘Bogou moiou!’ Tatiana clapped a hand over her mouth as much to stifle the use of God’s name as from terror. She sat, tense with the shock, and gazed at Rosa Klebb through wide, slightly drunk eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Rosa Klebb, pleased with the effect of her words. ‘He is an English spy. Perhaps the most famous of them all. And from now on you are in love with him. So you had better get used to the idea. And no silliness, Comrade. We must be serious. This is an important State matter for which you have been chosen as the instrument. So no nonsense, please. Now for some practical details.’ Rosa Klebb stopped. She said sharply, ‘And take your hand away from your silly face. And stop looking like a frightened cow. Sit up in your chair and pay attention. Or it will be the worse for you. Understood?’

<a id="calibre_link-1780"></a>‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Tatiana quickly straightened her back and sat up with her hands in her lap as if she was back at the Security Officers’ School. Her mind was in a ferment, but this was no time for personal things. Her whole training told her that this was an operation for the State. She was now working for her country. Somehow she had come to be chosen for an important konspiratsia. As an officer in the M.G.B., she must do her duty and do it well. She listened carefully and with her whole professional attention.

‘For the moment,’ Rosa Klebb put on her official voice, ‘I will be brief. You will hear more later. For the next few weeks you will be most carefully trained for this operation until you know exactly what to do in all contingencies. You will be taught certain foreign customs. You will be equipped with beautiful clothes. You will be instructed in all the arts of allurement. Then you will be sent to a foreign country, somewhere in Europe. There you will meet this man. You will seduce him. In this matter you will have no silly compunctions. Your body belongs to the State. Since your birth, the State has nourished it. Now your body must work for the State. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ The logic was inescapable.

‘You will accompany this man to England. There, you will no doubt be questioned. The questioning will be easy. The English do not use harsh methods. You will <a id="calibre_link-1781"></a>give such answers as you can without endangering the State. We will supply you with certain answers which we would like to be given. You will probably be sent to Canada. That is where the English send a certain category of foreign prisoner. You will be rescued and brought back to Moscow.’ Rosa Klebb peered at the girl. She seemed to be accepting all this without question. ‘You see, it is a comparatively simple matter. Have you any questions at this stage?’

‘What will happen to the man, Comrade Colonel?’

‘That is a matter of indifference to us. We shall simply use him as a means to introduce you into England. The object of the operation is to give false information to the British. We shall, of course, Comrade, be very glad to have your own impressions of life in England. The reports of a highly trained and intelligent girl such as yourself will be of great value to the State.’

‘Really, Comrade Colonel!’ Tatiana felt important. Suddenly it all sounded exciting. If only she could do it well. She would assuredly do her very best. But supposing she could not make the English spy love her. She looked again at the photograph. She put her head on one side. It was an attractive face. What were these ‘arts of allurement’ that the woman had talked about? What could they be? Perhaps they would help.

Satisfied, Rosa Klebb got up from the table. ‘And now we can relax, my dear. Work is over for the night. I will <a id="calibre_link-1782"></a>go and tidy up and we will have a friendly chat together. I shan’t be a moment. Eat up those chocolates or they will go to waste.’ Rosa Klebb made a vague gesture of the hand and disappeared with a preoccupied look into the next room.

Tatiana sat back in her chair. So that was what it was all about! It really wasn’t so bad after all. What a relief! And what an honour to have been chosen. How silly to have been so frightened! Naturally the great leaders of the State would not allow harm to come to an innocent citizen who worked hard and had no black marks on her zapiska. Suddenly she felt immensely grateful to the father-figure that was the State, and proud that she would now have a chance to repay some of her debt. Even the Klebb woman wasn’t really so bad after all.

Tatiana was still cheerfully reviewing the situation when the bedroom door opened and ‘the Klebb woman’ appeared in the opening. ‘What do you think of this my dear?’ Colonel Klebb opened her dumpy arms and twirled on her toes like a mannequin. She struck a pose with one arm outstretched and the other arm crooked at her waist.

Tatiana’s mouth had fallen open. She shut it quickly. She searched for something to say.

Colonel Klebb of SMERSH was wearing a semi-transparent nightgown in orange crêpe de chine. It had scallops of the same material round the low square <a id="calibre_link-1783"></a>neckline and scallops at the wrists of the broadly flounced sleeves. Underneath could be seen a brassière consisting of two large pink satin roses. Below, she wore old-fashioned knickers of pink satin with elastic above the knees. One dimpled knee, like a yellowish coconut, appeared thrust forward between the half open folds of the nightgown in the classic stance of the modeller. The feet were enclosed in pink satin slippers with pompoms of ostrich feathers. Rosa Klebb had taken off her spectacles and her naked face was now thick with mascara and rouge and lipstick.

She looked like the oldest and ugliest whore in the world.

Tatiana stammered, ‘It’s very pretty.’

‘Isn’t it,’ twittered the woman. She went over to a broad couch in the corner of the room. It was covered with a garish piece of peasant tapestry. At the back, against the wall, were rather grimy satin cushions in pastel colours.

With a squeak of pleasure, Rosa Klebb threw herself down in the caricature of a Recamier pose. She reached up an arm and turned on a pink shaded table-lamp whose stem was a naked woman in sham Lalique glass. She patted the couch beside her.

‘Turn out the top light, my dear. The switch is by the door. Then come and sit beside me. We must get to know each other better.’

<a id="calibre_link-1784"></a>Tatiana walked to the door. She switched off the top light. Her hand dropped decisively to the door knob. She turned it and opened the door and stepped coolly out into the corridor. Suddenly her nerve broke. She banged the door shut behind her and ran wildly off down the corridor with her hands over her ears against the pursuing scream that never came.

<a id="calibre_link-1786"></a>10 THE FUSE BURNS

It was the morning of the next day.

Colonel Klebb sat at her desk in the roomy office that was her headquarters in the underground basement of SMERSH. It was more an operations room than an office. One wall was completely papered with a map of the Western Hemisphere. The opposite wall was covered with the Eastern Hemisphere. Behind her desk and within reach of her left hand, a Telekrypton occasionally chattered out a signal en clair, duplicating another machine in the Cipher Department under the tall radio masts on the roof of the building. From time to time, when Colonel Klebb thought of it, she tore off the lengthening strip of tape and read through the signals. This was a formality. If anything important happened, her telephone would ring. Every agent of SMERSH throughout the world was controlled from this room, and it was a vigilant and iron control.

<a id="calibre_link-1787"></a>The heavy face looked sullen and dissipated. The chicken-skin under the eyes was pouched and the whites of the eyes were veined with red.

One of the three telephones at her side purred softly. She picked up the receiver. ‘Send him in.’

She turned to Kronsteen who sat, picking his teeth thoughtfully with an opened paper clip, in an armchair up against the left-hand wall, under the toe of Africa.

‘Granitsky.’

Kronsteen slowly turned his head and looked at the door.

Red Grant came in and closed the door softly behind him. He walked up to the desk and stood looking down, obediently, almost hungrily, into the eyes of his Commanding Officer. Kronsteen thought that he looked like a powerful mastiff, waiting to be fed.

Rosa Klebb surveyed him coldly. ‘Are you fit and ready for work?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’

‘Let’s have a look at you. Take off your clothes.’

Red Grant showed no surprise. He took off his coat and, after looking around for somewhere to put it, dropped it on the floor. Then, unselfconsciously, he took off the rest of his clothes and kicked off his shoes. The great red-brown body with its golden hair lit up the drab room. Grant stood relaxed, his hands held loosely at his sides and one knee bent slightly forward, as if he was posing for an art class.

<a id="calibre_link-1788"></a>Rosa Klebb got to her feet and came round the desk. She studied the body minutely, prodding here, feeling there, as if she was buying a horse. She went behind the man and continued her minute inspection. Before she came back in front of him, Kronsteen saw her slip something out of her jacket pocket and fit it into her hand. There was a glint of metal.

The woman came round and stood close up to the man’s gleaming stomach, her right arm behind her back. She held his eyes in hers.

Suddenly, with terrific speed and the whole weight of her shoulder behind the blow, she whipped her right fist, loaded with a heavy brass knuckle-duster, round and exactly into the solar plexus of the man.

Whuck!

Grant let out a snort of surprise and pain. His knees gave slightly, and then straightened. For a flash the eyes closed tight with agony. Then they opened again and glared redly down into the cold yellow probing eyes behind the square glasses. Apart from an angry flush on the skin just below the breast bone, Grant showed no ill effects from a blow that would have sent any normal man writhing to the ground.

Rosa Klebb smiled grimly. She slipped the knuckle-duster back in her pocket and walked to her desk and sat down. She looked across at Kronsteen with a hint of pride. ‘At least he is fit enough,’ she said.

<a id="calibre_link-1789"></a>Kronsteen grunted.

The naked man grinned with sly satisfaction. He brought up one hand and rubbed his stomach.

Rosa Klebb sat back in her chair and watched him thoughtfully. Finally she said, ‘Comrade Granitsky, there is work for you. An important task. More important than anything you have attempted. It is a task that will earn you a medal’ – Grant’s eyes gleamed – ‘for the target is a difficult and dangerous one. You will be in a foreign country, and alone. Is that clear?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Grant was excited. Here was a chance for that big step forward. What would the medal be? The Order of Lenin? He listened carefully.

‘The target is an English spy. You would like to kill an English spy?’

‘Very much indeed, Comrade Colonel.’ Grant’s enthusiasm was genuine. He asked nothing better than to kill an Englishman. He had accounts to settle with the bastards.

‘You will need many weeks of training and preparation. On this assignment you will be operating in the guise of an English agent. Your manners and appearance are uncouth. You will have to learn at least some of the tricks,’ the voice sneered, ‘of a chentleman. You will be placed in the hands of a certain Englishman we have here. A former chentleman of the Foreign Office in London. It will be his task to make you pass as some <a id="calibre_link-1790"></a>sort of an English spy. They employ many different kinds of men. It should not be difficult. And you will have to learn many other things. The operation will be at the end of August, but you will start your training at once. There is much to be done. Put on your clothes and report back to the A.D.C. Understood?’

‘Yes, Comrade Colonel.’ Grant knew not to ask any questions. He scrambled into his clothes, indifferent to the woman’s eyes on him, and walked over to the door, buttoning his jacket. He turned. ‘Thank you, Comrade Colonel.’

Rosa Klebb was writing up her note of the interview. She didn’t answer or look up and Grant went out and closed the door softly behind him.

The woman threw down her pen and sat back.

‘And now, Comrade Kronsteen. Are there any points to discuss before we put the full machinery in motion? I should mention that the Praesidium has approved the target and ratified the death warrant. I have reported the broad lines of your plan to Comrade General Grubozaboyschikov. He is in agreement. The detailed execution has been left entirely in my hands. The combined planning and operations staff has been selected and is waiting to begin work. Have you any last minute thoughts, Comrade?’

Kronsteen sat looking up at the ceiling, the tips of his fingers joined in front of him. He was indifferent to the <a id="calibre_link-1791"></a>condescension in the woman’s voice. The pulse of concentration beat in his temples.

‘This man Granitsky. He is reliable? You can trust him in a foreign country? He will not go private?’

‘He has been tested for nearly ten years. He has had many opportunities to escape. He has been watched for signs of itching feet. There has never been a breath of suspicion. The man is in the position of a drug addict. He would no more abandon the Soviet Union than a drugger would abandon the source of his cocaine. He is my top executioner. There is no one better.’

‘And this girl, Romanova. She was satisfactory?’

The woman said grudgingly, ‘She is very beautiful. She will serve our purpose. She is not a virgin, but she is prudish and sexually unawakened. She will receive instruction. Her English is excellent. I have given her a certain version of her task and its object. She is co-operative. If she should show signs of faltering, I have the addresses of certain relatives, including children. I shall also have the names of her previous lovers. If necessary, it would be explained to her that these people will be hostages until her task is completed. She has an affectionate nature. Such a hint would be sufficient. But I do not anticipate any trouble from her.’

‘Romanova. That is the name of a buivshi – of one of the former people. It seems odd to be using a Romanov for such a delicate task.’

<a id="calibre_link-1792"></a>‘Her grandparents were distantly related to the Imperial Family. But she does not frequent buivshi circles. Anyway, all our grandparents were former people. There is nothing one can do about it.’

‘Our grandparents were not called Romanov,’ said Kronsteen dryly. ‘However, so long as you are satisfied.’ He reflected a moment. ‘And this man Bond. Have we discovered his whereabouts?’

‘Yes. The M.G.B. English network reports him in London. During the day, he goes to his headquarters. At night he sleeps in his flat in a district of London called Chelsea.’

‘That is good. Let us hope he stays there for the next few weeks. That will mean that he is not engaged on some operation. He will be available to go after our bait when they get the scent. Meanwhile,’ Kronsteen’s dark, pensive eyes continued to examine a particular point on the ceiling, ‘I have been studying the suitability of centres abroad. I have decided on Istanbul for the first contact. We have a good apparat there. The Secret Service has only a small station. The head of the station is reported to be a good man. He will be liquidated. The centre is conveniently placed for us, with short lines of communication with Bulgaria and the Black Sea. It is relatively far from London. I am working out details of the point of assassination and the means of getting this Bond there, after he has contacted the girl. It will be either in France <a id="calibre_link-1793"></a>or very near it. We have excellent leverage on the French press. They will make the most of this kind of story, with its sensational disclosures of sex and espionage. It also remains to be decided when Granitsky shall enter the picture. These are minor details. We must choose the cameramen and the other operatives and move them quietly into Istanbul. There must be no crowding of our apparat there, no congestion, no unusual activity. We will warn all departments that wireless traffic with Turkey is to be kept absolutely normal before and during the operation. We don’t want the British interceptors smelling a rat. The Cipher Department has agreed that there is no Security objection to handing over the outer case of a Spektor machine. That will be attractive. The machine will go to the Special Devices section. They will handle its preparation.’

Kronsteen stopped talking. His gaze slowly came down from the ceiling. He rose thoughtfully to his feet. He looked across and into the watchful, intent eyes of the woman.

‘I can think of nothing else at the moment, Comrade,’ he said. ‘Many details will come up and have to be settled from day to day. But I think the operation can safely begin.’

‘I agree, Comrade. The matter can now go forward. I will issue the necessary directives.’ The harsh, authoritative voice unbent. ‘I am grateful for your co-operation.’

<a id="calibre_link-1794"></a>Kronsteen lowered his head one inch in acknowledgment. He turned and walked softly out of the room.

In the silence, the Telekrypton gave a warning ping and started up its mechanical chatter. Rosa Klebb stirred in her chair and reached for one of the telephones. She dialled a number.

‘Operations Room,’ said a man’s voice.

Rosa Klebb’s pale eyes, gazing out across the room, lit on the pink shape on the wall-map that was England. Her wet lips parted.

‘Colonel Klebb speaking. The konspiratsia against the English spy Bond. The operation will commence forthwith.’

<a id="calibre_link-1796"></a>PART TWO

THE EXECUTION

<a id="calibre_link-1798"></a><a id="calibre_link-1799"></a>11 THE SOFT LIFE

The blubbery arms of the soft life had Bond round the neck and they were slowly strangling him. He was a man of war and when, for a long period, there was no war, his spirit went into a decline.

In his particular line of business, peace had reigned for nearly a year. And peace was killing him.

At 7.30 on the morning of Thursday, August 12th, Bond awoke in his comfortable flat in the plane-tree’d square off the King’s Road and was disgusted to find that he was thoroughly bored with the prospect of the day ahead. Just as, in at least one religion, accidie is the first of the cardinal sins, so boredom, and particularly the incredible circumstance of waking up bored, was the only vice Bond utterly condemned.

Bond reached out and gave two rings on the bell to show May, his treasured Scottish housekeeper, that he <a id="calibre_link-1800"></a>was ready for breakfast. Then he abruptly flung the single sheet off his naked body and swung his feet to the floor.

There was only one way to deal with boredom – kick oneself out of it. Bond went down on his hands and did twenty slow press-ups, lingering over each one so that his muscles had no rest. When his arms could stand the pain no longer, he rolled over on his back and, with his hands at his sides, did the straight leg-lift until his stomach muscles screamed. He got to his feet and, after touching his toes twenty times, went over to arm and chest exercises combined with deep breathing until he was dizzy. Panting with the exertion, he went into the big white-tiled bathroom and stood in the glass shower cabinet under very hot and then cold hissing water for five minutes.

At last, after shaving and putting on a sleeveless dark blue Sea Island cotton shirt and navy blue tropical worsted trousers, he slipped his bare feet into black leather sandals and went through the bedroom into the long big-windowed sitting-room with the satisfaction of having sweated his boredom, at any rate for the time being, out of his body.

May, an elderly Scotswoman with iron grey hair and a handsome closed face, came in with the tray and put it on the table in the bay window together with The Times, the only paper Bond ever read.

<a id="calibre_link-1801"></a>Bond wished her good morning and sat down to breakfast.

‘Good morning-s.’ (To Bond, one of May’s endearing qualities was that she would call no man ‘sir’ except – Bond had teased her about it years before – English kings and Winston Churchill. As a mark of exceptional regard, she accorded Bond an occasional hint of an ‘s’ at the end of a word.)

She stood by the table while Bond folded his paper to the centre news page.

‘Yon man was here again last night about the Televeesion.’

‘What man was that?’ Bond looked along the headlines.

‘Yon man that’s always coming. Six times he’s been here pestering me since June. After what I said to him the first time about the sinful thing, you’d think he’d give up trying to sell us one. By hire purchase, too, if you please!’

‘Persistent chaps these salesmen.’ Bond put down his paper and reached for the coffee pot.

‘I gave him a right piece of my mind last night. Disturbing folk at their supper. Asked him if he’d got any papers – anything to show who he was.’

‘I expect that fixed him.’ Bond filled his large coffee cup to the brim with black coffee.

‘Not a bit of it. Flourished his union card. Said he had every right to earn his living. Electricians Union it <a id="calibre_link-1802"></a>was too. They’re the Communist one, aren’t they-s?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Bond vaguely. His mind sharpened. Was it possible They could be keeping an eye on him? He took a sip of the coffee and put the cup down. ‘Exactly what did this man say, May?’ he asked, keeping his voice indifferent, but looking up at her.

‘He said he’s selling Televeesion sets on commission in his spare time. And are we sure we don’t want one. He says we’re one of the only folk in the square that haven’t got one. Sees there isn’t one of those aerial things on the house, I dare say. He’s always asking if you’re at home so that he can have a word with you about it. Fancy his cheek! I’m surprised he hasn’t thought to catch you coming in or going out. He’s always asking if I’m expecting you home. Naturally I don’t tell him anything about your movements. Respectable, quiet-spoken body, if he wasn’t so persistent.’

Could be, thought Bond. There are many ways of checking up whether the owner’s at home or away. A servant’s appearance and reactions – a glance through the open door. ‘Well, you’re wasting your time because he’s away,’ would be the obvious reception if the flat was empty. Should he tell the Security Section? Bond shrugged his shoulders irritably. What the hell. There was probably nothing in it. Why would They be interested in him? And, if there was something in it, Security was quite capable of making him change his flat.

<a id="calibre_link-1803"></a>‘I expect you’ve frightened him away this time.’ Bond smiled up at May. ‘I should think you’ve heard the last of him.’

‘Yes-s,’ said May doubtfully. At any rate she had carried out her orders to tell him if she saw anyone ‘hanging about the place’. She bustled off with a whisper of the old-fashioned black uniform she persisted in wearing even in the heat of August.

Bond went back to his breakfast. Normally it was little straws in the wind like this that would start a persistent intuitive ticking in his mind, and, on other days, he would not have been happy until he had solved the problem of the man from the Communist Union who kept on coming to the house. Now, from months of idleness and disuse, the sword was rusty in the scabbard and Bond’s mental guard was down.

Breakfast was Bond’s favourite meal of the day. When he was stationed in London it was always the same. It consisted of very strong coffee, from De Bry in New Oxford Street, brewed in an American Chemex, of which he drank two large cups, black and without sugar. The single egg, in the dark blue egg-cup with a gold ring round the top, was boiled for three and a third minutes.

It was a very fresh, speckled brown egg from French Marans hens owned by some friend of May in the country. (Bond disliked white eggs and, faddish as he was in many small things, it amused him to maintain that there <a id="calibre_link-1804"></a>was such a thing as the perfect boiled egg.) Then there were two thick slices of wholewheat toast, a large pat of deep yellow Jersey butter and three squat glass jars containing Tiptree ‘Little Scarlet’ strawberry jam; Cooper’s Vintage Oxford marmalade and Norwegian Heather Honey from Fortnum’s. The coffee pot and the silver on the tray were Queen Anne, and the china was Minton, of the same dark blue and gold and white as the egg-cup.

That morning, while Bond finished his breakfast with honey, he pinpointed the immediate cause of his lethargy and of his low spirits. To begin with, Tiffany Case, his love for so many happy months, had left him and, after final painful weeks during which she had withdrawn to an hotel, had sailed for America at the end of July. He missed her badly and his mind still sheered away from the thought of her. And it was August, and London was hot and stale. He was due for leave, but he had not the energy or the desire to go off alone, or to try and find some temporary replacement for Tiffany to go with him. So he had stayed on in the half-empty headquarters of the Secret Service grinding away at the old routines, snapping at his secretary and rasping his colleagues.

Even M. had finally got impatient with the surly caged tiger on the floor below, and, on Monday of this particular week, he had sent Bond a sharp note appointing him to a Committee of Inquiry under Paymaster Captain Troop. <a id="calibre_link-1805"></a>The note said that it was time Bond, as a senior officer in the Service, took a hand in major administrative problems. Anyway, there was no one else available. Headquarters were short-handed and the oo Section was quiescent. Bond would pray report that afternoon, at 2.30, to Room 412.

It was Troop, reflected Bond, as he lit his first cigarette of the day, who was the most nagging and immediate cause of his discontent.

In every large business, there is one man who is the office tyrant and bugbear and who is cordially disliked by all the staff. This individual performs an unconsciously important role by acting as a kind of lightning conductor for the usual office hates and fears. In fact, he reduces their disruptive influence by providing them with a common target. The man is usually the general manager, or the Head of Admin. He is that indispensable man who is a watchdog over the small things – petty cash, heat and light, towels and soap in the lavatories, stationery supplies, the canteen, the holiday rota, the punctuality of the staff. He is the one man who has real impact on the office comforts and amenities and whose authority extends into the privacy and personal habits of the men and women of the organization. To want such a job, and to have the necessary qualifications for it, the man must have exactly those qualities which irritate and abrade. He must be parsimonious, observant, prying <a id="calibre_link-1806"></a>and meticulous. And he must be a strong disciplinarian and indifferent to opinion. He must be a little dictator. In all well-run businesses there is such a man. In the Secret Service, it is Paymaster Captain Troop, R.N. Retired, Head of Admin., whose job it is, in his own words, ‘to keep the place shipshape and Bristol fashion’.

It was inevitable that Captain Troop’s duties would bring him into conflict with most of the organization, but it was particularly unfortunate that M. could think of no one but Troop to spare as Chairman for this particular Committee.

For this was yet one more of those Committees of Inquiry dealing with the delicate intricacies of the Burgess and Maclean case, and with the lessons that could be learned from it. M. had dreamed it up, five years after he had closed his own particular file on that case, purely as a sop to the Privy Council Inquiry into the Security Services which the Prime Minister had ordered in 1955.

At once Bond had got into a hopeless wrangle with Troop over the employment of ‘intellectuals’ in the Secret Service.

Perversely, and knowing it would annoy, Bond had put forward the proposition that, if M.I.5. and the Secret Service were to concern themselves seriously with the atom age ‘intellectual spy’, they must employ a certain number of intellectuals to counter them. ‘Retired officers <a id="calibre_link-1807"></a>of the Indian Army,’ Bond had pronounced, ‘can’t possibly understand the thought processes of a Burgess or a Maclean. They won’t even know such people exist – let alone be in a position to frequent their cliques and get to know their friends and their secrets. Once Burgess and Maclean went to Russia, the only way to make contact with them again and, perhaps, when they got tired of Russia, turn them into double agents against the Russians, would have been to send their closest friends to Moscow and Prague and Budapest with orders to wait until one of these chaps crept out of the masonry and made contact. And one of them, probably Burgess, would have been driven to make contact by his loneliness and by his ache to tell his story to someone.^{<a class="hlink1" href="#calibre_link-117" id="calibre_link-118">1</a>} But they certainly wouldn’t take the risk of revealing themselves to some man with a trench-coat and a cavalry moustache and a beta minus mind.’

‘Oh really,’ Troop had said with icy calm. ‘So you suggest we should staff the organization with long-haired perverts. That’s quite an original notion. I thought we were all agreed that homosexuals were about the worst security risk there is. I can’t see the Americans handing over many atom secrets to a lot of pansies soaked in scent.’

‘All intellectuals aren’t homosexual. And many of them are bald. I’m just saying that …,’ and so <a id="calibre_link-1808"></a>the argument had gone on intermittently through the hearings of the past three days, and the other Committee members had ranged themselves more or less with Troop. Now, today, they had to draw up their recommendations and Bond was wondering whether to take the unpopular step of entering a minority report.

How seriously did he feel about the whole question, Bond wondered as, at nine o’clock, he walked out of his flat and down the steps to his car? Was he just being petty and obstinate? Had he constituted himself into a one-man opposition only to give his teeth something to bite into? Was he so bored that he could find nothing better to do than make a nuisance of himself inside his own organization? Bond couldn’t make up his mind. He felt restless and indecisive, and, behind it all, there was a nagging disquiet he couldn’t put his finger on.

As he pressed the self-starter and the twin exhausts of the Bentley woke to their fluttering growl, a curious bastard quotation slipped from nowhere into Bond’s mind.

‘Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make bored.’

<a class="hlink1" href="#calibre_link-118">1</a> Written in March 1956. I.F.

<a id="calibre_link-1810"></a>12 A PIECE OF CAKE

As it turned out, Bond never had to make a decision on the Committee’s final report.

He had complimented his secretary on a new summer frock, and was half way through the file of signals that had come in during the night, when the red telephone that could only mean M. or his Chief-of-Staff gave its soft, peremptory burr.

Bond picked up the receiver. ‘007.’

‘Can you come up?’ It was the Chief-of-Staff.

‘M.?’

‘Yes. And it looks like a long session. I’ve told Troop you won’t be able to make the Committee.’

‘Any idea what it’s about?’

The Chief-of-Staff chuckled. ‘Well, I have as a matter of fact. But you’d better hear about it from him. It’ll make you sit up. There’s quite a swerve on this one.’

<a id="calibre_link-1811"></a>As Bond put on his coat and went out into the corridor, banging the door behind him, he had a feeling of certainty that the starter’s gun had fired and that the dog days had come to an end. Even the ride up to the top floor in the lift and the walk down the long quiet corridor to the door of M.’s staff office seemed to be charged with the significance of all those other occasions when the bell of the red telephone had been the signal that had fired him, like a loaded projectile, across the world towards some distant target of M.’s choosing. And the eyes of Miss Moneypenny, M.’s private secretary, had that old look of excitement and secret knowledge as she smiled up at him and pressed the switch on the intercom.

‘007’s here, sir.’

‘Send him in,’ said the metallic voice, and the red light of privacy went on above the door.

Bond went through the door and closed it softly behind him. The room was cool, or perhaps it was the venetian blinds that gave an impression of coolness. They threw bars of light and shadow across the dark green carpet up to the edge of the big central desk. There the sunshine stopped so that the quiet figure behind the desk sat in a pool of suffused greenish shade. In the ceiling directly above the desk, a big twin-bladed tropical fan, a recent addition to M.’s room, slowly revolved, shifting the thundery August air that, even high up above the Regent’s Park, was heavy and stale after a week of heat-wave.

<a id="calibre_link-1812"></a>M. gestured to the chair opposite him across the red leather desk. Bond sat down and looked across into the tranquil, lined sailor’s face that he loved, honoured and obeyed.

‘Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, James?’ M. never asked his staff personal questions and Bond couldn’t imagine what was coming.

‘No, sir.’

M. picked his pipe out of the big copper ash-tray and began to fill it, thoughtfully watching his fingers at work with the tobacco. He said harshly: ‘You needn’t answer, but it’s to do with your, er, friend, Miss Case. As you know, I don’t generally interest myself in these matters, but I did hear that you had been, er, seeing a lot of each other since that diamond business. Even some idea you might be going to get married.’ M. glanced up at Bond and then down again. He put the loaded pipe into his mouth and set a match to it. Out of the corner of his mouth, as he drew at the jigging flame, he said: ‘Care to tell me anything about it?’

Now what? wondered Bond. Damn these office gossips. He said gruffly, ‘Well, sir, we did get on well. And there was some idea we might get married. But then she met some chap in the American Embassy. On the Military Attaché’s staff. Marine Corps major. And I gather she’s going to marry him. They’ve both gone back to the States, as a matter of fact. Probably better that way. <a id="calibre_link-1813"></a>Mixed marriages aren’t often a success. I gather he’s a nice enough fellow. Probably suit her better than living in London. She couldn’t really settle down here. Fine girl, but she’s a bit neurotic. We had too many rows. Probably my fault. Anyway it’s over now.’

M. gave one of the brief smiles that lit up his eyes more than his mouth. ‘I’m sorry if it went wrong, James,’ he said. There was no sympathy in M.’s voice. He disapproved of Bond’s ‘womanizing’, as he called it to himself, while recognizing that his prejudice was the relic of a Victorian upbringing. But, as Bond’s chief, the last thing he wanted was for Bond to be permanently tied to one woman’s skirts. ‘Perhaps it’s for the best. Doesn’t do to get mixed up with neurotic women in this business. They hang on your gun-arm, if you know what I mean. Forgive me for asking about it. Had to know the answer before I told you what’s come up. It’s a pretty odd business. Be difficult to get you involved if you were on the edge of marrying or anything of that sort.’

Bond shook his head, waiting for the story.

‘All right then,’ said M. There was a note of relief in his voice. He leant back in his chair and gave several quick pulls on his pipe to get it going. ‘This is what’s happened. Yesterday there was a long signal in from Istanbul. Seems on Tuesday the Head of Station T got an anonymous typewritten message which told him to take a round ticket on the 8 p.m. ferry steamer from the <a id="calibre_link-1814"></a>Galata Bridge to the mouth of the Bosphorus and back. Nothing else. Head of T’s an adventurous sort of chap, and of course he took the steamer. He stood up for’ard by the rail and waited. After about a quarter of an hour a girl came and stood beside him, a Russian girl, very good-looking, he says, and after they’d talked a bit about the view and so on, she suddenly switched and in the same sort of conversational voice she told him an extraordinary story.’

M. paused to put another match to his pipe. Bond interjected, ‘Who is Head of T, sir? I’ve never worked in Turkey.’

‘Man called Kerim, Darko Kerim. Turkish father and English mother. Remarkable fellow. Been Head of T since before the war. One of the best men we’ve got anywhere. Does a wonderful job. Loves it. Very intelligent and he knows all that part of the world like the back of his hand.’ M. dismissed Kerim with a sideways jerk of his pipe. ‘Anyway, the girl’s story was that she was a Corporal in the M.G.B. Had been in the show since she left school and had just got transferred to the Istanbul centre as a cipher officer. She’d engineered the transfer because she wanted to get out of Russia and come over.’

‘That’s good,’ said Bond. ‘Might be useful to have one of their cipher girls. But why does she want to come over?’

M. looked across the table at Bond. ‘Because she’s in <a id="calibre_link-1815"></a>love.’ He paused and added mildly, ‘She says she’s in love with you.’

‘In love with me?’

‘Yes, with you. That’s what she says. Her name’s Tatiana Romanova. Ever heard of her?’

‘Good God, no! I mean, no, sir.’ M. smiled at the mixture of expressions on Bond’s face. ‘But what the hell does she mean? Has she ever met me? How does she know I exist?’

‘Well,’ said M. ‘The whole thing sounds absolutely ridiculous. But it’s so crazy that it just might be true. This girl is twenty-four. Ever since she joined the M.G.B. she’s been working in their Central Index, the same as our Records. And she’s been working in the English section of it. She’s been there six years. One of the files she had to deal with was yours.’

‘I’d like to see that one,’ commented Bond.

‘Her story is that she first took a fancy to the photographs they’ve got of you. Admired your looks and so on.’ M.’s mouth turned downwards at the corners as if he had just sucked at a lemon. ‘She read up all your cases. Decided that you were the hell of a fellow.’

Bond looked down his nose. M.’s face was non-committal.

‘She said you particularly appealed to her because you reminded her of the hero of a book by some Russian fellow called Lermontov. Apparently it was her favourite <a id="calibre_link-1816"></a>book. This hero chap liked gambling and spent his whole time getting in and out of scraps. Anyway, you reminded her of him. She says she came to think of nothing else, and one day the idea came to her that if only she could transfer to one of their foreign centres she could get in touch with you and you would come and rescue her.’

‘I’ve never heard such a crazy story, sir. Surely Head of T didn’t swallow it.’

‘Now wait a moment,’ M.’s voice was testy. ‘Just don’t be in too much of a hurry simply because something’s turned up you’ve never come across before. Suppose you happened to be a film star instead of being in this particular trade. You’d get daft letters from girls all over the world stuffed with Heaven knows what sort of rot about not being able to live without you and so on. Here’s a silly girl doing a secretary’s job in Moscow. Probably the whole department is staffed by women, like our Records. Not a man in the room to look at, and here she is, faced with your, er, dashing features on a file that’s constantly coming up for review. And she gets what I believe they call a “crush” on these pictures just as secretaries all over the world get crushes on these dreadful faces in the magazines.’ M. waved his pipe sideways to indicate his ignorance of these grisly female habits. ‘The Lord knows I don’t know much about these things, but you must admit that they happen.’

Bond smiled at the appeal for help. ‘Well, as a matter <a id="calibre_link-1817"></a>of fact, sir, I’m beginning to see there is some sense in it. There’s no reason why a Russian girl shouldn’t be just as silly as an English one. But she must have got guts to do what she did. Does Head of T say if she realized the consequences if she was found out?’

‘He said she was frightened out of her wits,’ said M. ‘Spent the whole time on the boat looking round to see if anybody was watching her. But it seems they were the usual peasants and commuters that take these boats, and as it was a late boat there weren’t many passengers anyway. But wait a minute. You haven’t heard half the story.’ M. took a long pull at his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke up towards the slowly turning fan above his head. Bond watched the smoke get caught up in the blades and whirled into nothingness. ‘She told Kerim that this passion for you gradually developed into a phobia. She got to hate the sight of Russian men. In time this turned into a dislike of the régime and particularly of the work she was doing for them and, so to speak, against you. So she applied for a transfer abroad, and since her languages were very good – English and French – in due course she was offered Istanbul if she would join the Cipher Department, which meant a cut in pay. To cut a long story short, after six months’ training, she got to Istanbul about three weeks ago. Then she sniffed about and soon got hold of the name of our man, Kerim. He’s been there so long that everybody in Turkey knows <a id="calibre_link-1818"></a>what he does by now. He doesn’t mind, and it takes people’s eyes off the special men we send in from time to time. There’s no harm in having a front man in some of these places. Quite a lot of customers would come to us if they knew where to go and who to talk to.’

Bond commented: ‘The public agent often does better than the man who has to spend a lot of time and energy keeping under cover.’

‘So she sent Kerim the note. Now she wants to know if he can help her.’ M. paused and sucked thoughtfully at his pipe. ‘Of course Kerim’s first reactions were exactly the same as yours, and he fished around looking for a trap. But he simply couldn’t see what the Russians could gain from sending this girl over to us. All this time the steamer was getting further and further up the Bosphorus and soon it would be turning to come back to Istanbul. And the girl got more and more desperate as Kerim went on trying to break down her story. Then,’ M.’s eyes glittered softly across at Bond, ‘came the clincher.’

That glitter in M.’s eyes, thought Bond. How well he knew those moments when M.’s cold grey eyes betrayed their excitement and their greed.

‘She had a last card to play. And she knew it was the ace of trumps. If she could come over to us, she would bring her cipher machine with her. It’s the brand new Spektor machine. The thing we’d give our eyes to have.’

‘God,’ said Bond softly, his mind boggling at the <a id="calibre_link-1819"></a>immensity of the prize. The Spektor! The machine that would allow them to decipher the Top Secret traffic of all. To have that, even if its loss was immediately discovered and the settings changed, or the machine taken out of service in Russian embassies and spy centres all over the world, would be a priceless victory. Bond didn’t know much about cryptography, and, for security’s sake, in case he was ever captured, wished to know as little as possible about its secrets, but at least he knew that, in the Russian secret service, loss of the Spektor would be counted a major disaster.

Bond was sold. At once he accepted all M.’s faith in the girl’s story, however crazy it might be. For a Russian to bring them this gift, and take the appalling risk of bringing it, could only mean an act of desperation – of desperate infatuation if you liked. Whether the girl’s story was true or not, the stakes were too high to turn down the gamble.

‘You see, 007?’ said M. softly. It was not difficult to read Bond’s mind from the excitement in his eyes. ‘You see what I mean?’

Bond hedged. ‘But did she say how she could do it?’

‘Not exactly. But Kerim says she was absolutely definite. Some business about night duty. Apparently she’s on duty alone certain nights of the week and sleeps on a camp bed in the office. She seemed to have no doubts about it, although she realized that she would be shot <a id="calibre_link-1820"></a>out of hand if anyone even dreamed of her plan. She was even worried about Kerim reporting all this back to me. Made him promise he would encode the signal himself and send it on a one-time-only pad and keep no copy. Naturally he did as she asked. Directly she mentioned the Spektor, Kerim knew he might be on to the most important coup that’s come our way since the war.’

‘What happened then, sir?’

‘The steamer was coming up to a place called Ortakoy. She said she was going to get off there. Kerim promised to get a signal off that night. She refused to make any arrangements for staying in touch. Just said that she would keep her end of the bargain if we would keep ours. She said good night and mixed in the crowd going down the gang-plank and that was the last Kerim saw of her.’

M. suddenly leant forward in his chair and looked hard at Bond. ‘But of course he couldn’t guarantee that we would make the bargain with her.’

Bond said nothing. He thought he could guess what was coming.

‘This girl will only do these things on one condition.’ M.’s eyes narrowed until they were fierce, significant slits. ‘That you go out to Istanbul and bring her and the machine back to England.’

Bond shrugged his shoulders. That presented no <a id="calibre_link-1821"></a>difficulties. But … He looked candidly back at M. ‘Should be a piece of cake, sir. As far as I can see there’s only one snag. She’s only seen photographs of me and read a lot of exciting stories. Suppose that when she sees me in the flesh, I don’t come up to her expectations.’

‘That’s where the work comes in,’ said M. grimly. ‘That’s why I asked those questions about Miss Case. It’s up to you to see that you do come up to her expectations.’

<a id="calibre_link-1823"></a>13 ‘B.E.A. TAKES YOU THERE …’

The four small, square-ended propellers turned slowly, one by one, and became four whizzing pools. The low hum of the turbo-jets rose to a shrill smooth whine. The quality of the noise, and the complete absence of vibration, were different from the stuttering roar and straining horsepower of all other aircraft Bond had flown in. As the Viscount wheeled easily out to the shimmering east-west runway of London Airport, Bond felt as if he was sitting in an expensive mechanical toy.

There was a pause as the chief pilot gunned up the four turbo-jets into a banshee scream and then, with a jerk of released brakes, the 10.30 B.E.A. Flight 130 to Rome, Athens and Istanbul gathered speed and hurtled down the runway and up into a quick, easy climb.

In ten minutes they had reached 20,000 feet and were <a id="calibre_link-1824"></a>heading south along the wide air-channel that takes the Mediterranean traffic from England. The scream of the jets died to a low, drowsy whistle. Bond unfastened his seat-belt and lit a cigarette. He reached for the slim, expensive-looking attaché case on the floor beside him and took out The Mask of Dimitrios by Eric Ambler and put the case, which was very heavy in spite of its size, on the seat beside him. He thought how surprised the ticket clerk at London Airport would have been if she had weighed the case instead of letting it go unchecked as an ‘overnight bag’. And if, in their turn, Customs had been intrigued by its weight, how interested they would have been when it was slipped under the Inspectoscope.

Q Branch had put together this smart-looking little bag, ripping out the careful handiwork of Swaine and Adeney to pack fifty rounds of .25 ammunition, in two flat rows, between the leather and the lining of the spine. In each of the innocent sides there was a flat throwing knife, built by Wilkinsons, the sword makers, and the tops of their handles were concealed cleverly by the stitching at the corners. Despite Bond’s efforts to laugh them out of it, Q’s craftsmen had insisted on building a hidden compartment into the handle of the case, which, by pressure at a certain point, would deliver a cyanide death-pill into the palm of his hand. (Directly he had taken delivery of the case, Bond had washed this pill down the lavatory.) More important was the <a id="calibre_link-1825"></a>thick tube of Palmolive shaving cream in the otherwise guileless spongebag. The whole top of this unscrewed to reveal the silencer for the Beretta, packed in cotton wool. In case hard cash was needed, the lid of the attaché case contained fifty golden sovereigns. These could be poured out by slipping sideways one ridge of welting.

The complicated bag of tricks amused Bond, but he also had to admit that, despite its eight-pound weight, the bag was a convenient way of carrying the tools of his trade, which otherwise would have to be concealed about his body.

Only a dozen miscellaneous passengers were on the plane. Bond smiled at the thought of Loelia Ponsonby’s horror if she knew that that made the load thirteen. The day before, when he had left M. and had gone back to his office to arrange the details of his flight, his secretary had protested violently at the idea of his travelling on Friday the thirteenth.

‘But it’s always best to travel on the thirteenth,’ Bond had explained patiently. ‘There are practically no passengers and it’s more comfortable and you get better service. I always choose the thirteenth when I can.’

‘Well,’ she had said resignedly, ‘it’s your funeral. But I shall spend the day worrying about you. And for heaven’s sake don’t go walking under ladders or anything silly this afternoon. You oughtn’t to overplay your luck <a id="calibre_link-1826"></a>like this. I don’t know what you’re going to Turkey for, and I don’t want to know. But I have a feeling in my bones.’

‘Ah, those beautiful bones!’ Bond had teased her. ‘I’ll take them out to dinner the night I get back.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ she had said coldly. Later she had kissed him goodbye with a sudden warmth, and for the hundredth time Bond had wondered why he bothered with other women when the most darling of them all was his secretary.

The plane sang steadily on above the endless sea of whipped-cream clouds that looked solid enough to land on if the engines failed. The clouds broke up and a distant blue haze, far away to their left, was Paris. For an hour they flew high over the burned-up fields of France until, after Dijon, the land turned from a pale to a darker green as it sloped up into the Juras.

Lunch came. Bond put aside his book and the thoughts that kept coming between him and the printed page, and, while he ate, he gazed down at the cool mirror of the Lake of Geneva. As the pine forests began to climb towards the snow patches between the beautifully scoured teeth of the Alps, he remembered early skiing holidays. The plane skirted the great eye-tooth of Mont Blanc, a few hundred yards to port, and Bond looked down at the dirty grey elephant’s skin of the glaciers and saw himself again, a young man in his teens, with the <a id="calibre_link-1827"></a>leading end of the rope round his waist, bracing himself against the top of a rock-chimney on the Aiguilles Rouges as his two companions from the University of Geneva inched up the smooth rock towards him.

And now? Bond smiled wryly at his reflection in the Perspex as the plane swung out of the mountains and over the grosgrained terrazza of Lombardy. If that young James Bond came up to him in the street and talked to him, would he recognize the clean, eager youth that had been him at seventeen? And what would that youth think of him, the secret agent, the older James Bond? Would he recognize himself beneath the surface of this man who was tarnished with years of treachery and ruthlessness and fear – this man with the cold arrogant eyes and the scar down his cheek and the flat bulge beneath his left armpit? If the youth did recognize him what would his judgment be? What would he think of Bond’s present assignment? What would he think of the dashing secret agent who was off across the world in a new and most romantic role – to pimp for England?

Bond put the thought of his dead youth out of his mind. Never job backwards. What-might-have-been was a waste of time. Follow your fate, and be satisfied with it, and be glad not to be a second-hand motor salesman, or a yellow-press journalist, pickled in gin and nicotine, or a cripple – or dead.

Gazing down on the sun-baked sprawl of Genoa and <a id="calibre_link-1828"></a>the gentle blue waters of the Mediterranean, Bond closed his mind to the past and focused it on the immediate future – on this business, as he sourly described it to himself, of ‘pimping for England’.

For that, however else one might like to describe it, was what he was on his way to do – to seduce, and seduce very quickly, a girl whom he had never seen before, whose name he had heard yesterday for the first time. And all the while, however attractive she was – and Head of T had described her as ‘very beautiful’ – Bond’s whole mind would have to be not on what she was, but on what she had – the dowry she was bringing with her. It would be like trying to marry a rich woman for her money. Would he be able to act the part? Perhaps he could make the right faces and say the right things, but would his body dissociate itself from his secret thoughts and effectively make the love he would declare? How did men behave credibly in bed when their whole minds were focused on a woman’s bank balance? Perhaps there was an erotic stimulus in the notion that one was ravaging a sack of gold. But a cipher machine?

Elba passed below them and the plane slid into its fifty-mile glide towards Rome. 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, <a id="calibre_link-1829"></a>and Bond’s mind went back to sifting the minutest details of the rendezvous that was drawing closer at three hundred miles an hour.

Was it all a complicated M.G.B. plot of which he couldn’t find the key? Was he walking into some trap that not even the tortuous mind of M. could fathom? God knew M. was worried about the possibility of such a trap. Every conceivable angle of the evidence, for and against, had been scrutinized – not only by M., but also by a full-dress operations meeting of Heads of Sections that had worked all through the afternoon and evening before. But, which ever way the case had been examined, no one had been able to suggest what the Russians might get out of it. They might want to kidnap Bond and interrogate him. But why Bond? He was an operating agent, unconcerned with the general working of the Service, carrying in his head nothing of use to the Russians except the details of his current duty and a certain amount of background information that could not possibly be vital. Or they might want to kill Bond, as an act of revenge. Yet he had not come up against them for two years. If they wanted to kill him, they had only to shoot him in the streets of London, or in his flat, or put a bomb in his car.

Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by the stewardess. ‘Fasten your seat-belts, please.’ As she spoke the plane dropped sickeningly and soared up again with an ugly <a id="calibre_link-1830"></a>note of strain in the scream of the jets. The sky outside was suddenly black. Rain hammered on the windows. There came a blinding flash of blue and white light and a crash as if an anti-aircraft shell had hit them, and the plane heaved and bucketed in the belly of the electric storm that had ambushed them out of the mouth of the Adriatic.

Bond smelt the smell of danger. It is a real smell, something like the mixture of sweat and electricity you get in an amusement arcade. Again the lightning flung its hands across the windows. Crash! It felt as if they were the centre of the thunder clap. Suddenly the plane seemed incredibly small and frail. Thirteen passengers! Friday the thirteenth! Bond thought of Loelia Ponsonby’s words and his hands on the arms of his chair felt wet. How old is this plane, he wondered? How many flying hours has it done? Had the deathwatch beetle of metal fatigue got into the wings? How much of their strength had it eaten away? Perhaps he wouldn’t get to Istanbul after all. Perhaps a plummeting crash into the Gulf of Corinth was going to be the destiny he had been scanning philosophically only an hour before.

In the centre of Bond was a hurricane-room, the kind of citadel found in old-fashioned houses in the tropics. These rooms are small, strongly built cells in the heart of the house, in the middle of the ground floor and sometimes dug down into its foundations. To this cell <a id="calibre_link-1831"></a>the owner and his family retire if the storm threatens to destroy the house, and they stay there until the danger is past. Bond went to his hurricane-room only when the situation was beyond his control and no other possible action could be taken. Now he retired to this citadel, closed his mind to the hell of noise and violent movement, and focused on a single stitch in the back of the seat in front of him, waiting with slackened nerves for whatever fate had decided for B.E.A. Flight No. 130.

Almost at once it got lighter in the cabin. The rain stopped crashing on the Perspex window and the noise of the jets settled back into their imperturbable whistle. Bond opened the door of his hurricane-room and stepped out. He slowly turned his head and looked curiously out of the window and watched the tiny shadow of the plane hastening far below across the quiet waters of the Gulf of Corinth. He heaved a deep sigh and reached into his hip-pocket for his gunmetal cigarette case. He was pleased to see his hands were dead steady as he took out his lighter and lit one of the Morland cigarettes with the three gold rings. Should he tell Lil that perhaps she had almost been right? He decided that if he could find a rude enough postcard in Istanbul he would.

The day outside faded through the colours of a dying dolphin and Mount Hymettus came at them, blue in the dusk. Down over the twinkling sprawl of Athens and then the Viscount was wheeling across the standard <a id="calibre_link-1832"></a>concrete air-strip with its drooping windsock and the notices in the strange dancing letters Bond had hardly seen since school.

Bond climbed out of the plane with the 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.

By the time the loudspeakers called him out again it was dusk and the half moon rode clear and high above the lights of the town. The air was soft with evening and the smell of flowers and there was the steady pulse-beat of the cicadas – zing-a-zing-a-zing – and the distant sound of a man singing. The voice was clear and sad and the song had a note of lament. Near the airport a dog barked excitedly at an unknown human smell. Bond suddenly realized that he had come into the East where the guard-dog howls all night. For some reason the realization sent a pang of pleasure and excitement into his heart.

They had only a ninety-minute flight to Istanbul, across the dark Aegean and the Sea of Marmara. An excellent dinner, with two dry Martinis and a half-bottle of Calvet claret, put Bond’s reservations about flying on <a id="calibre_link-1833"></a>Friday the thirteenth, and his worries about his assignment, out of his mind and substituted a mood of pleased anticipation.

Then they were there and the plane’s four propellers wheeled to a stop outside the fine modern airport of Yesilkoy, an hour’s drive from Istanbul. Bond said goodbye and thank you for a good flight to the stewardess, carried the heavy little attaché case through the passport check into the customs, and waited for his suitcase to come off the plane.

So these dark, ugly, neat little officials were the modern Turks. He listened to their voices, full of broad vowels and quiet sibilants and modified u-sounds, and he watched the dark eyes that belied the soft, polite voices. They were bright, angry, cruel eyes that had only lately come down from the mountains. Bond thought he knew the history of those eyes. They were eyes that had been trained for centuries to watch over sheep and decipher small movements on far horizons. They were eyes that kept the knife-hand in sight without seeming to, that counted the grains of meal and the small fractions of coin and noted the flicker of the merchant’s fingers. They were hard, untrusting, jealous eyes. Bond didn’t take to them.

Outside the customs, a tall rangy man with drooping black moustaches stepped out of the shadows. He wore a smart dust-coat and a chauffeur’s cap. He saluted and, <a id="calibre_link-1834"></a>without asking Bond his name, took his suitcase and led the way over to a gleaming aristocrat of a car – an old black basket-work Rolls Royce coupé-de-ville that Bond guessed must have been built for some millionaire of the ’20s.

When the car was gliding out of the airport, the man turned and said politely over his shoulder, in excellent English, ‘Kerim Bey thought you would prefer to rest tonight, sir. I am to call for you at nine tomorrow morning. What hotel are you staying at, sir?’

‘The Kristal Palas.’

‘Very good, sir.’ The car sighed off down the wide modern road.

Behind them, in the dappled shadows of the airport parking place, Bond vaguely heard the crackle of a motor scooter starting up. The sound meant nothing to him and he settled back to enjoy the drive.

<a id="calibre_link-1836"></a>14 DARKO KERIM

James Bond awoke early in his dingy room at the Kristal Palas on the heights of Pera and absent-mindedly reached down a hand to explore a sharp tickle on the outside of his right thigh. Something had bitten him during the night. Irritably he scratched the spot. He might have expected it.

When he had arrived the night before, to be greeted by a surly night-concierge in trousers and a collarless shirt, and had briefly inspected the entrance hall with the fly-blown palms in copper pots, and the floor and walls of discoloured Moorish tiles, he had known what he was in for. He had half thought of going to another hotel. Inertia, and a perverse liking for the sleazy romance that clings to old-fashioned Continental hotels, had decided him to stay, and he had signed in and followed the man up to the third floor in the old rope-and-gravity lift.

<a id="calibre_link-1837"></a>His room, with its few sticks of aged furniture and an iron bedstead, was what he had expected. He only looked to see if there were the blood spots of squashed bugs on the wall-paper behind the bedhead before dismissing the concierge.

He had been premature. When he went into the bathroom and turned on the hot tap it gave a deep sigh, then a deprecating cough, and finally ejected a small centipede into the basin. Bond morosely washed the centipede away with the thin stream of brownish water from the cold tap. So much, he had reflected wryly, for choosing an hotel because its name had amused him and because he had wanted to get away from the soft life of big hotels.

But he had slept well, and now, with the reservation that he must buy some insecticide, he decided to forget about his comforts and get on with the day.

Bond got out of bed, drew back the heavy red plush curtains and leant on the iron balustrade and looked out over one of the most famous views in the world – on his right the still waters of the Golden Horn, on his left the dancing waves of the unsheltered Bosphorus, and, in between, the tumbling roofs, soaring minarets and crouching mosques of Pera. After all, his choice had been good. The view made up for many bedbugs and much discomfort.

For ten minutes Bond stood and gazed out across the sparkling water barrier between Europe and Asia, then <a id="calibre_link-1838"></a>he turned back into the room, now bright with sunshine, and telephoned for his breakfast. His English was not understood, but his French at last got through. He turned on a cold bath and shaved patiently with cold water and hoped that the exotic breakfast he had ordered would not be a fiasco.

He was not disappointed. The yoghourt, in a blue china bowl, was deep yellow and with the consistency of thick cream. The green figs, ready peeled, were bursting with ripeness, and the Turkish coffee was jet black and with the burned taste that showed it had been freshly ground. Bond ate the delicious meal on a table drawn up beside the open window. He watched the steamers and the caiques criss-crossing the two seas spread out before him and wondered about Kerim and what fresh news there might be.

Punctually at nine, the elegant Rolls came for him and took him through Taksim square and down the crowded Istiklal and out of Asia. The thick black smoke of the waiting steamers, badged with the graceful crossed anchors of the Merchant Marine, streamed across the first span of the Galata Bridge and hid the other shore towards which the Rolls nosed forward through the bicycles and trams, the well-bred snort of the ancient bulb horn just keeping the pedestrians from under its wheels. Then the way was clear and the old European section of Istanbul glittered at the end of the broad half-mile of bridge with <a id="calibre_link-1839"></a>the slim minarets lancing up into the sky and the domes of the mosques, crouching at their feet, looking like big firm breasts. It should have been the Arabian Nights, but to Bond, seeing it first above the tops of trams and above the great scars of modern advertising along the river frontage, it seemed a once beautiful theatre-set that modern Turkey had thrown aside in favour of the steel and concrete flat-iron of the Istanbul-Hilton Hotel, blankly glittering behind him on the heights of Pera.

Across the bridge, the car nosed to the right down a narrow cobbled street parallel with the waterfront and stopped outside a high wooden porte-cochere.

A tough-looking watchman with a chunky, smiling face, dressed in frayed khaki, came out of a porter’s lodge and saluted. He opened the car door and gestured for Bond to follow him. He led the way back into his lodge and through a door into a small courtyard with a neatly raked gravel parterre. In the centre was a gnarled eucalyptus tree at whose foot two white ring-doves were pecking about. The noise of the town was a distant rumble and it was quiet and peaceful.

They walked across the gravel and through another small door and Bond found himself at one end of a great vaulted godown with high circular windows through which dusty bars of sunshine slanted across a vista of bundles and bales of merchandise. There was a cool, musty scent of spices and coffee and, as Bond followed <a id="calibre_link-1840"></a>the watchman down the central passage-way, a sudden strong wave of mint.

At the end of the long warehouse was a raised platform enclosed by a balustrade. On it half a dozen young men and girls sat on high stools and wrote busily in fat, old-fashioned ledgers. It was like a Dickensian counting-house and Bond noticed that each high desk had a battered abacus beside the inkpot. Not one of the clerks looked up as Bond walked between them, but a tall, swarthy man with a lean face and unexpected blue eyes came forward from the furthest desk and took delivery of him from the watchman. He smiled warmly at Bond, showing a set of extremely white teeth, and led him to the back of the platform. He knocked on a fine mahogany door with a Yale lock and, without waiting for an answer, opened it and let Bond in and closed the door softly behind him.

‘Ah, my friend. Come in. Come in.’ A very large man in a beautifully cut cream tussore suit got up from a mahogany desk and came to meet him, holding out his hand.

A hint of authority behind the loud friendly voice reminded Bond that this was the Head of Station T, and that Bond was in another man’s territory and juridically under his command. It was no more than a point of etiquette, but a point to remember.

Darko Kerim had a wonderfully warm dry handclasp. <a id="calibre_link-1841"></a>It was a strong Western handful of operative fingers – not the banana skin handshake of the East that makes you want to wipe your fingers on your coat-tails. And the big hand had a coiled power that said it could easily squeeze your hand tighter and tighter until finally it cracked your bones.

Bond was six feet tall, but this man was at least two inches taller and he gave the impression of being twice as broad and twice as thick as Bond. Bond looked up into two wide apart, smiling blue eyes in a large smooth brown face with a broken nose. The eyes were watery and veined with red, like the eyes of a hound who lies too often too close to the fire. Bond recognized them as the eyes of furious dissipation.

The face was vaguely gipsy-like in its fierce pride and in the heavy curling black hair and crooked nose, and the effect of a vagabond soldier of fortune was heightened by the small thin gold ring Kerim wore in the lobe of his right ear. It was a startlingly dramatic face, vital, cruel and debauched, but what one noticed more than its drama was that it radiated life. Bond thought he had never seen so much vitality and warmth in a human face. It was like being close to the sun, and Bond let go the strong dry hand and smiled back at Kerim with a friendliness he rarely felt for a stranger.

‘Thanks for sending the car to meet me last night.’

‘Ha!’ Kerim was delighted. ‘You must thank our <a id="calibre_link-1842"></a>friends too. You were met by both sides. They always follow my car when it goes to the airport.’

‘Was it a Vespa or a Lambretta?’

‘You noticed? A Lambretta. They have a whole fleet of them for their little men, the men I call “The Faceless Ones”. They look so alike, we have never managed to sort them out. Little gangsters, mostly stinking Bulgars, who do their dirty work for them. But I expect this one kept well back. They don’t get up close to the Rolls any more since the day my chauffeur stopped suddenly and then reversed back as hard as he could. Messed up the paintwork and bloodied the bottom of the chassis but it taught the rest of them manners.’

Kerim went to his chair and waved to an identical one across the desk. He pushed over a flat white box of cigarettes and Bond sat down and took a cigarette and lit it. It was the most wonderful cigarette he had ever tasted – the mildest and sweetest of Turkish tobacco in a slim long oval tube with an elegant gold crescent.

While Kerim was fitting one into a long nicotine-stained ivory holder, Bond took the opportunity to glance round the room, which smelled strongly of paint and varnish as if it had just been redecorated.

It was big and square and panelled in polished mahogany, except behind Kerim’s chair where a length of Oriental tapestry hung down from the ceiling and gently moved in the breeze as if there was an open <a id="calibre_link-1843"></a>window behind it. But this seemed unlikely as light came from three circular windows high up in the walls. Perhaps, behind the tapestry, was a balcony looking out over the Golden Horn, whose waves Bond could hear lapping at the walls below. In the centre of the right-hand wall hung a gold-framed reproduction of Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen. Opposite, also imposingly framed, was Cecil Beaton’s war-time photograph of Winston Churchill looking up from his desk in the Cabinet Offices like a contemptuous bulldog. A broad bookcase stood against one wall and, opposite, a comfortably padded leather settee. In the centre of the room the big desk winked with polished brass handles. On the littered desk were three silver photograph frames, and Bond caught a sideways view of the copperplate script of two Mentions in Dispatches and the Military Division of the O.B.E.

Kerim lit his cigarette. He jerked his head back at the piece of tapestry. ‘Our friends paid me a visit yesterday,’ he said casually. ‘Fixed a limpet bomb on the wall outside. Timed the fuse to catch me at my desk. By good luck, I had taken a few minutes off to relax on the couch over there with a young Rumanian girl who still believes that a man will tell secrets in exchange for love. The bomb went off at a vital moment. I refused to be disturbed, but I fear the experience was too much for the girl. When I released her, she had hysterics. I’m afraid she had decided that my love-making is altogether too violent.’ <a id="calibre_link-1844"></a>He waved his cigarette holder apologetically. ‘But it was a rush to get the room put to rights in time for your visit. New glass for the windows and my pictures, and the place stinks of paint. However.’ Kerim sat back in his chair. There was a slight frown on his face. ‘What I cannot understand is this sudden breach of the peace. We live together very amicably in Istanbul. We all have our work to do. It is unheard of that my chers collègues should suddenly declare war in this way. It is quite worrying. It can only lead to trouble for our Russian friends. I shall be forced to rebuke the man who did it when I have found out his name.’ Kerim shook his head. ‘It is most confusing. I am hoping it has nothing to do with this case of ours.’

‘But was it necessary to make my arrival so public?’ Bond asked mildly. ‘The last thing I want is to get you involved in all this. Why send the Rolls to the airport? It only ties you in with me.’

Kerim’s laugh was indulgent. ‘My friend, I must explain something which you should know. We and the Russians and the Americans have a paid man in all the hotels. And we have all bribed an official of the Secret police at Headquarters and we receive a carbon copy of the list of all foreigners entering the country every day by air or train or sea. Given a few more days I could have smuggled you in through the Greek frontier. But for what purpose? Your existence here has to be known <a id="calibre_link-1845"></a>to the other side so that our friend can contact you. It is a condition she has laid down that she will make her own arrangements for the meeting. Perhaps she does not trust our security. Who knows? But she was definite about it, and she said, as if I didn’t know it, that her centre would immediately be advised of your arrival.’ Kerim shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘So why make things difficult for her? I am merely concerned with making things easy and comfortable for you so that you will at least enjoy your stay – even if it is fruitless.’

Bond laughed. ‘I take it all back. I’d forgotten the Balkan formula. Anyway I’m under your orders here. You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.’

Kerim waved the subject aside. ‘And now, since we are talking of your comfort, how is your hotel? I was surprised you chose the Palas. It is little better than a disorderly house – what the French call a baisodrome. And it’s quite a haunt of the Russians. Not that that matters.’

‘It’s not too bad. I just didn’t want to stay at the Istanbul-Hilton or one of the other smart places.’

‘Money?’ Kerim reached into a drawer and took out a flat packet of new green notes. ‘Here’s a thousand Turkish pounds. Their real value, and their rate on the black market, is about twenty to the pound. The official rate is seven. Tell me when you’ve finished them and I’ll give you as many more as you want. We can do our <a id="calibre_link-1846"></a>accounts after the game. It’s muck, anyway. Ever since Croesus, the first millionaire, invented gold coins, money has depreciated. And the face of the coin has been debased as fast as its value. First the faces of gods were on the coins. Then the faces of kings. Then of presidents. Now there’s no face at all. Look at this stuff!’ Kerim tossed the money over to Bond. ‘Today it’s only paper, with a picture of a public building and the signature of a cashier. Muck! The miracle is that you can still buy things with it. However. What else? Cigarettes? Smoke only these. I will have a few hundred sent up to your hotel. They’re the best. Diplomates. They’re not easy to get. Most of them go to the Ministries and the Embassies. Anything else before we get down to business? Don’t worry about your meals and your leisure. I will look after both. I shall enjoy it and, if you will forgive me, I wish to stay close to you while you are here.’

‘Nothing else,’ said Bond. ‘Except that you must come over to London one day.’

‘Never,’ said Kerim definitely. ‘The weather and the women are far too cold. And I am proud to have you here. It reminds me of the war. Now,’ he rang a bell on his desk. ‘Do you like your coffee plain or sweet? In Turkey we cannot talk seriously without coffee or raki and it is too early for raki.’

‘Plain.’

The door behind Bond opened. Kerim barked an <a id="calibre_link-1847"></a>order. When the door was shut, Kerim unlocked a drawer and took out a file and put it in front of him. He smacked his hand down on it.

‘My friend,’ he said grimly, ‘I do not know what to say about this case.’ He leant back in his chair and linked his hands behind his neck. ‘Has it ever occurred to you that our kind of work is rather like shooting a film? So often I have got everybody on location and I think I can start turning the handle. Then it’s the weather, and then it’s the actors, and then it’s the accidents. And there is something else that also happens in the making of a film. Love appears in some shape or form, at the very worst, as it is now, between the two stars. To me that is the most confusing factor in this case, and the most inscrutable one. Does this girl really love her idea of you? Will she love you when she sees you? Will you be able to love her enough to make her come over?’

Bond made no comment. There was a knock on the door and the head clerk put a china eggshell, enclosed in gold filigree, in front of each of them and went out. Bond sipped his coffee and put it down. It was good, but thick with grains. Kerim swallowed his at a gulp and fitted a cigarette into his holder and lit it.

‘But there is nothing we can do about this love matter,’ Kerim continued, speaking half to himself. ‘We can only wait and see. In the meantime there are other things.’ <a id="calibre_link-1848"></a>He leant forward against the desk and looked across at Bond, his eyes suddenly very hard and shrewd.

‘There is something going on in the enemy camp, my friend. It is not only this attempt to get rid of me. There are comings and goings. I have few facts,’ he reached up a big index finger and laid it alongside his nose, ‘but I have this.’ He tapped the side of his nose as if he was patting a dog. ‘But this is a good friend of mine and I trust him.’ He brought his hand slowly and significantly down on to the desk and added softly, ‘And if the stakes were not so big, I would say to you, “Go home my friend. Go home. There is something here to get away from.” ’

Kerim sat back. The tension went out of his voice. He barked out a harsh laugh. ‘But we are not old women. And this is our work. So let us forget my nose and get on with the job. First of all, is there anything I can tell you that you do not know? The girl has made no sign of life since my signal and I have no other information. But perhaps you would like to ask me some questions about the meeting.’

‘There’s only one thing I want to know,’ said Bond flatly. ‘What do you think of this girl? Do you believe her story or not? Her story about me? Nothing else matters. If she hasn’t got some sort of a hysterical crush on me, the whole business falls to the ground and it’s some complicated M.G.B. plot we can’t understand. <a id="calibre_link-1849"></a>Now. Did you believe the girl?’ Bond’s voice was urgent and his eyes searched the other man’s face.

‘Ah, my friend,’ Kerim shook his head. He spread his arms wide. ‘That is what I asked myself then, and it is what I ask myself the whole time since. But who can tell if a woman is lying about these things? Her eyes were bright – those beautiful innocent eyes. Her lips were moist and parted in that heavenly mouth. Her voice was urgent and frightened at what she was doing and saying. Her knuckles were white on the guard rail of the ship. But what was in her heart?’ Kerim raised his hands, ‘God alone knows.’ He brought his hands down resignedly. He placed them flat on the desk and looked straight at Bond. ‘There is only one way of telling if a woman really loves you, and even that way can only be read by an expert.’

‘Yes,’ said Bond dubiously. ‘I know what you mean. In bed.’

<a id="calibre_link-1851"></a>15 BACKGROUND TO A SPY

Coffee came again, and then more coffee, and the big room grew thick with cigarette smoke as the two men took each shred of evidence, dissected it and put it aside. At the end of an hour they were back where they had started. It was up to Bond to solve the problem of this girl and, if he was satisfied with her story, get her and the machine out of the country.

Kerim undertook to look after the administrative problems. As a first step he picked up the telephone and spoke to his travel agent and reserved two seats on every outgoing plane for the next week – by B.E.A., Air France, S.A.S. and Turkair.

‘And now you must have a passport,’ he said. ‘One will be sufficient. She can travel as your wife. One of my men will take your photograph and he will find a photograph of some girl who looks more or less like her. <a id="calibre_link-1852"></a>As a matter of fact, an early picture of Garbo would serve. There is a certain resemblance. He can get one from the newspaper files. I will speak to the Consul General. He’s an excellent fellow who likes my little cloak-and-dagger plots. The passport will be ready by this evening. What name would you like to have?’

‘Take one out of a hat.’

‘Somerset. My mother came from there. David Somerset. Profession, Company Director. That means nothing. And the girl? Let us say Caroline. She looks like a Caroline. A couple of clean-limbed young English people with a taste for travel. Finance Control Form? Leave that to me. It will show eighty pounds in travellers’ cheques, let’s say, and a receipt from the bank to show you changed fifty while you were in Turkey. Customs? They never look at anything. Only too glad if somebody has bought something in the country. You will declare some Turkish Delight – presents for your friends in London. If you have to get out quickly, leave your hotel bill and luggage to me. They know me well enough at the Palas. Anything else?’

‘I can’t think of anything.’

Kerim looked at his watch. ‘Twelve o’clock. Just time for the car to take you back to your hotel. There might be a message. And have a good look at your things to see if anyone has been inquisitive.’

He rang the bell and fired instructions at the head <a id="calibre_link-1853"></a>clerk who stood with his sharp eyes on Kerim’s and his lean head straining forward like a whippet’s.

Kerim led Bond to the door. There came again the warm powerful handclasp. ‘The car will bring you to lunch,’ he said. ‘A little place in the Spice Bazaar.’ His eyes looked happily into Bond’s. ‘And I am glad to be working with you. We will do well together.’ He let go of Bond’s hand. ‘And now I have a lot of things to do very quickly. They may be the wrong things, but at any rate,’ he grinned broadly, ‘jouons mal, mais jouons vite!’

The head clerk, who seemed to be some sort of chief-of-staff to Kerim, led Bond through another door in the wall of the raised platform. The heads were still bowed over the ledgers. There was a short passage with rooms on either side. The man led the way into one of these and Bond found himself in an extremely well-equipped dark-room and laboratory. In ten minutes he was out again on the street. The Rolls edged out of the narrow alley and back again on to the Galata Bridge.

A new concierge was on duty at the Kristal Palas, a small obsequious man with guilty eyes in a yellow face. He came out from behind the desk, his hands spread in apology. ‘Effendi, I greatly regret. My colleague showed you to an inadequate room. It was not realized that you are a friend of Kerim Bey. Your things have been moved to No. 12. It is the best room in the hotel. In fact,’ the concierge leered, ‘it is the room reserved for honeymoon <a id="calibre_link-1854"></a>couples. Every comfort. My apologies, Effendi. The other room is not intended for visitors of distinction.’ The man executed an oily bow, washing his hands.

If there was one thing Bond couldn’t stand it was the sound of his boots being licked. He looked the concierge in the eyes and said, ‘Oh.’ The eyes slid away. ‘Let me see this room. I may not like it. I was quite comfortable where I was.’

‘Certainly, Effendi,’ the man bowed Bond to the lift. ‘But alas the plumbers are in your former room. The water supply …’ the voice trailed away. The lift rose about ten feet and stopped at the first floor.

Well, the story of the plumbers makes sense, reflected Bond. And, after all, there was no harm in having the best room in the hotel.

The concierge unlocked a high door and stood back.

Bond had to approve. The sun streamed in through wide double windows that gave on to a small balcony. The motif was pink and grey and the style was mock French Empire, battered by the years, but still with all the elegance of the turn of the century. There were fine Bokhara rugs on the parquet floor. A glittering chandelier hung from the ornate ceiling. The bed against the right-hand wall was huge. A large mirror in a gold frame covered most of the wall behind it. (Bond was amused. The honeymoon room! Surely there should be a mirror on the ceiling as well.) The adjoining bathroom was tiled <a id="calibre_link-1855"></a>and fitted with everything, including a bidet and a shower. Bond’s shaving things were neatly laid out.

The concierge followed Bond back into the bedroom, and when Bond said he would take the room, bowed himself gratefully out.

Why not? Bond again walked round the room. This time he carefully inspected the walls and the neighbourhood of the bed and the telephone. Why not take the room? Why would there be microphones or secret doors? What would be the point of them?

His suitcase was on a bench near the chest-of-drawers. He knelt down. No scratches round the lock. The bit of fluff he had trapped in the clasp was still there. He unlocked the suitcase and took out the little attaché case. Again no signs of interference. Bond locked the case and got to his feet.

He washed and went out of the room and down the stairs. No, there had been no messages for the Effendi. The concierge bowed as he opened the door of the Rolls. Was there a hint of conspiracy behind the permanent guilt in those eyes? Bond decided not to care if there was. The game, whatever it was, had to be played out. If the change of rooms had been the opening gambit, so much the better. The game had to begin somewhere.

As the car sped back down the hill, Bond’s thoughts turned to Darko Kerim. What a man for Head of Station T! His size alone, in this country of furtive, <a id="calibre_link-1856"></a>stunted little men, would give him authority, and his giant vitality and love of life would make everyone his friend. Where had this exuberant shrewd pirate come from? And how had he come to work for the Service? He was the rare type of man that Bond loved, and Bond already felt prepared to add Kerim to the half-dozen of those real friends whom Bond, who had no ‘acquaintances’, would be ready to take to his heart.

The car went back over the Galata Bridge and drew up outside the vaulted arcades of the Spice Bazaar. The chauffeur led the way up the shallow worn steps and into the fog of exotic scents, shouting curses at the beggars and sack-laden porters. Inside the entrance the chauffeur turned left out of the stream of shuffling, jabbering humanity and showed Bond a small arch in the thick wall. Turret-like stone steps curled upwards.

‘Effendi, you will find Kerim Bey in the far room on the left. You have only to ask. He is known to all.’

Bond climbed the cool stairs to a small ante-room where a waiter, without asking his name, took charge and led him through a maze of small, colourfully tiled, vaulted rooms to where Kerim was sitting at a corner table over the entrance to the bazaar. Kerim greeted him boisterously, waving a glass of milky liquid in which ice twinkled.

‘Here you are my friend! Now, at once, some raki. You must be exhausted after your sight-seeing.’ He fired orders at the waiter.

<a id="calibre_link-1857"></a>Bond sat down in a comfortable-armed chair and took the small tumbler the waiter offered him. He lifted it towards Kerim and tasted it. It was identical with ouzo. He drank it down. At once the waiter refilled his glass.

‘And now to order your lunch. They eat nothing but offal cooked in rancid olive oil in Turkey. At least the offal at the Misir Carsarsi is the best.’

The grinning waiter made suggestions.

‘He says the Doner Kebab is very good today. I don’t believe him, but it can be. It is very young lamb broiled over charcoal with savoury rice. Lots of onions in it. Or is there anything you prefer? A pilaff or some of those damned stuffed peppers they eat here? All right then. And you must start with a few sardines grilled en papillote, They are just edible.’ Kerim harangued the waiter. He sat back, smiling at Bond. ‘That is the only way to treat these damned people. They love to be cursed and kicked. It is all they understand. It is in the blood. All this pretence of democracy is killing them. They want some sultans and wars and rape and fun. Poor brutes, in their striped suits and bowler hats. They are miserable. You’ve only got to look at them. However, to hell with them all. Any news?’

Bond shook his head. He told Kerim about the change of room and the untouched suitcase.

Kerim downed a glass of raki and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He echoed the thought Bond <a id="calibre_link-1858"></a>had had. ‘Well, the game must begin sometime. I have made certain small moves. Now we can only wait and see. We will make a little foray into enemy territory after lunch. I think it will interest you. Oh, we shan’t be seen. We shall move in the shadows, underground.’ Kerim laughed delightedly at his cleverness. ‘And now let us talk about other things. How do you like Turkey? No, I don’t want to know. What else?’

They were interrupted by the arrival of their first course. Bond’s sardines en papillote tasted like any other fried sardines. Kerim set about a large plate of what appeared to be strips of raw fish. He saw Bond’s look of interest. ‘Raw fish,’ he said. ‘After this I shall have raw meat and lettuce and then I shall have a bowl of yoghourt. I am not a faddist, but I once trained to be a professional strong man. It is a good profession in Turkey. The public loves them. And my trainer insisted that I should eat only raw food. I got the habit. It is good for me, but,’ he waved his fork, ‘I do not pretend it is good for everyone. I don’t care the hell what other people eat so long as they enjoy it. I can’t stand sad eaters and sad drinkers.’

‘Why did you decide not to be a strong man? How did you get into this racket?’

Kerim forked up a strip of fish and tore at it with his teeth. He drank down half a tumbler of raki. He lit a cigarette and sat back in his chair. ‘Well,’ he said with <a id="calibre_link-1859"></a>a sour grin, ‘we might as well talk about me as about anything else. And you must be wondering “How did this big crazy man get into the Service?” I will tell you, but briefly, because it is a long story. You will stop me if you get bored. All right?’

‘Fine.’ Bond lit a Diplomate. He leant forward on his elbows.

‘I come from Trebizond.’ Kerim watched his cigarette smoke curl upwards. ‘We were a huge family with many mothers. My father was the sort of man women can’t resist. All women want to be swept off their feet. In their dreams they long to be slung over a man’s shoulder and taken into a cave and raped. That was his way with them. My father was a great fisherman and his fame was spread all over the Black Sea. He went after the sword-fish. They are difficult to catch and hard to fight and he would always outdo all others after these fish. Women like their men to be heroes. He was a kind of hero in a corner of Turkey where it is a tradition for the men to be tough. He was a big, romantic sort of fellow. So he could have any woman he wanted. He wanted them all and sometimes killed other men to get them. Naturally he had many children. We all lived on top of each other in a great rambling old ruin of a house that our “aunts” made habitable. The aunts really amounted to a harem. One of them was an English governess from Istanbul my father had seen watching a circus. He took a fancy <a id="calibre_link-1860"></a>to her and she to him and that evening he put her on board his fishing boat and sailed up the Bosphorus and back to Trebizond. I don’t think she ever regretted it. I think she forgot all the world except him. She died just after the war. She was sixty. The child before me had been by an Italian girl and the girl had called him Bianco. He was fair. I was dark. I got to be called Darko. There were fifteen of us children and we had a wonderful childhood. Our aunts fought often and so did we. It was like a gipsy encampment. It was held together by my father who thrashed us, women or children, when we were a nuisance. But he was good to us when we were peaceful and obedient. You cannot understand such a family?’

‘The way you describe it I can.’

‘Anyway so it was. I grew up to be nearly as big a man as my father, but better educated. My mother saw to that. My father only taught us to be clean and to go to the lavatory once a day and never to feel shame about anything in the world. My mother also taught me a regard for England, but that is by the way. By the time I was twenty, I had a boat of my own and I was making money. But I was wild. I left the big house and went to live in two small rooms on the waterfront. I wanted to have my women where my mother would not know. There was a stroke of bad luck. I had a little Bessarabian hell-cat. I had won her in a fight with some gipsies, here <a id="calibre_link-1861"></a>in the hills behind Istanbul. They came after me, but I got her on board the boat. I had to knock her unconscious first. She was still trying to kill me when we got back to Trebizond, so I got her to my place and took away all her clothes and kept her chained naked under the table. When I ate, I used to throw scraps to her under the table, like a dog. She had to learn who was master. Before that could happen, my mother did an unheard of thing. She visited my place without warning. She came to tell me that my father wanted to see me immediately. She found the girl. My mother was really angry with me for the first time in my life. Angry? She was beside herself. I was a cruel ne’er-do-well and she was ashamed to call me son. The girl must immediately be taken back to her people. My mother brought her some of her own clothes from the house. The girl put them on, but when the time came, she refused to leave me.’ Darko Kerim laughed hugely. ‘An interesting lesson in female psychology, my dear friend. However, the problem of the girl is another story. While my mother was fussing over her and getting nothing but gipsy curses for her pains, I was having an interview with my father, who had heard nothing of all this and who never did hear. My mother was like that. There was another man with my father, a tall, quiet Englishman with a black patch over one eye. They were talking about the Russians. The Englishman wanted to know what they were doing along <a id="calibre_link-1862"></a>their frontier, about what was going on at Batoum, their big oil and naval base only fifty miles away from Trebizond. He would pay good money for information. I knew English and I knew Russian. I had good eyes and ears. I had a boat. My father had decided that I would work for the Englishman. And that Englishman, my dear friend, was Major Dansey, my predecessor as Head of this Station. And the rest,’ Kerim made a wide gesture with his cigarette holder, ‘you can imagine.’

‘But what about this training to be a professional strong man?’

‘Ah,’ said Kerim slyly, ‘that was only a sideline. Our travelling circuses were almost the only Turks allowed through the frontier. The Russians cannot live without circuses. It is as simple as that. I was the man who broke chains and lifted weights by a rope between the teeth. I wrestled against the local strong men in the Russian villages. And some of those Georgians are giants. Fortunately they are stupid giants and I nearly always won. Afterwards, at the drinking, there was always much talk and gossip. I would look foolish and pretend not to understand. Every now and then I would ask an innocent question and they would laugh at my stupidity and tell me the answer.’

The second course came, and with it a bottle of Kavaklidere, a rich coarse burgundy like any other Balkan wine. The Kebab was good and tasted of smoked <a id="calibre_link-1863"></a>bacon fat and onions. Kerim ate a kind of Steak Tartare – a large flat hamburger of finely minced raw meat laced with peppers and chives and bound together with yolk of egg. He made Bond try a forkful. It was delicious. Bond said so.

‘You ought to eat it every day,’ said Kerim earnestly. ‘It is good for those who wish to make much love. There are certain exercises you should do for the same purpose. These things are important to men. Or at least they are to me. Like my father, I consume a large quantity of women. But, unlike him, I also drink and smoke too much, and these things do not go well with making love. Nor does this work I do. Too many tensions and too much thinking. It takes the blood to the head instead of to where it should be for making love. But I am greedy for life. I do too much of everything all the time. Suddenly one day my heart will fail. The Iron Crab will get me as it got my father. But I am not afraid of The Crab. At least I shall have died from an honourable disease. Perhaps they will put on my tombstone “This Man Died from Living Too Much”.’

Bond laughed. ‘Don’t go too soon, Darko,’ he said. ‘M. would be very displeased. He thinks the world of you.’

‘He does?’ Kerim searched Bond’s face to see if he was telling the truth. He laughed delightedly. ‘In that case I will not let The Crab have my body yet.’ He looked <a id="calibre_link-1864"></a>at his watch. ‘Come, James,’ he said. ‘It is good that you reminded me of my duty. We will have coffee in the office. There is not much time to waste. Every day at 2.30 the Russians have their council of war. Today you and I will do them the honour of being present at their deliberations.’

<a id="calibre_link-1866"></a>16 THE TUNNEL OF RATS

Back in the cool office, while they waited for the inevitable coffee, Kerim opened a cupboard in the wall and pulled out sets of engineers’ blue overalls. Kerim stripped to his shorts and dressed himself in one of the suits and pulled on a pair of rubber boots. Bond picked out a suit and a pair of boots that more or less fitted him and put them on.

With the coffee, the head clerk brought in two powerful flashlights which he put on the desk.

When the clerk had left the room Kerim said, ‘He is one of my sons – the eldest one. The others in there are all my children. The chauffeur and the watchman are uncles of mine. Common blood is the best security. And this spice business is good cover for us all. M. set me up in it. He spoke to friends of his in the City of London. I am now the leading spice merchant in Turkey. I have <a id="calibre_link-1867"></a>long ago repaid M. the money that was lent me. My children are shareholders in the business. They have a good life. When there is secret work to be done and I need help, I choose the child who will be most suitable. They all have training in different secret things. They are clever and brave. Some have already killed for me. They would all die for me – and for M. I have taught them he is just below God.’ Kerim made a deprecating wave. ‘But that is just to tell you that you are in good hands.’

‘I hadn’t imagined anything different.’

‘Ha!’ said Kerim non-committally. He picked up the torches and handed one to Bond. ‘And now to work.’

Kerim walked over to the wide glass-fronted bookcase and put his hand behind it. There was a click and the bookcase rolled silently and easily along the wall to the left. Behind it was a small door, flush with the wall. Kerim pressed one side of the door and it swung inwards to reveal a dark tunnel with stone steps leading straight down. A dank smell, mixed with a faint zoo stench, came out into the room.

‘You go first,’ said Kerim. ‘Go down the steps to the bottom and wait. I must fix the door.’

Bond switched on his torch and stepped through the opening and went carefully down the stairs. The light of the torch showed fresh masonry, and, twenty feet below, a glimmer of water. When Bond got to the bottom <a id="calibre_link-1868"></a>he found that the glimmer was a small stream running down a central gutter in the floor of an ancient stonewalled tunnel that sloped steeply up to the right. To the left, the tunnel went on downwards and would, he guessed, come out below the surface of the Golden Horn.

Out of range of Bond’s light there was a steady, quiet, scuttling sound, and in the blackness hundreds of pinpoints of red light flickered and moved. It was the same uphill and downhill. Twenty yards away on either side, a thousand rats were looking at Bond. They were sniffing at his scent. Bond imagined the whiskers lifting slightly from their teeth. He had a quick moment of wondering what action they would take if his torch went out.

Kerim was suddenly beside him. ‘It is a long climb. A quarter of an hour. I hope you love animals,’ Kerim’s laugh boomed hugely away up the tunnel. The rats scuffled and stirred. ‘Unfortunately there is not much choice. Rats and bats. Squadrons of them, divisions – a whole air force and army. And we have to drive them in front of us. Towards the end of the climb it becomes quite congested. Let’s get started. The air is good. It is dry underfoot on both sides of the stream. But in winter the floods come and then we have to use frogmen’s suits. Keep your torch on my feet. If a bat gets in your hair, brush him off. It will not be often. Their radar is very good.’

<a id="calibre_link-1869"></a>They set off up the steep slope. The smell of the rats and of the droppings of bats was thick – a mixture of monkey house and chicken battery. It occurred to Bond that it would be days before he got rid of it.

Clusters of bats hung like bunches of withered grapes from the roof and when, from time to time, either Kerim’s head or Bond’s brushed against them, they exploded twittering into the darkness. Ahead of them as they climbed there was the forest of squeaking, scuffling red pin-points that grew denser on both sides of the central gutter. Occasionally Kerim flashed his torch forward and the light shone on a grey field sown with glittering teeth and glinting whiskers. When this happened, an extra frenzy seized the rats, and those nearest jumped on the backs of the others to get away. All the while, fighting tumbling grey bodies came sweeping down the central gutter and, as the pressure of the mass higher up the tunnel grew heavier, the frothing rear-rank came closer.

The two men kept their torches levelled like guns on the rear-ranks until, after a good quarter of an hour’s climb, they reached their destination.

It was a deep alcove of newly faced brick in the side wall of the tunnel. There were two benches on each side of a thick tarpaulin-wrapped object that came down from the ceiling of the alcove.

They stepped inside. Another few yards’ climb, Bond <a id="calibre_link-1870"></a>thought, and mass hysteria must have seized the distant thousands of rats further up the tunnel. The horde would have turned. Out of sheer pressure for space, the rats would have braved the lights and hurled themselves down on to the two intruders, in spite of the two glaring eyes and the threatening scent.

‘Watch,’ said Kerim.

There was a moment of silence. Further up the tunnel the squeaking had stopped, as if at a word of command. Then suddenly the tunnel was a foot deep in a great wave of hurtling, scrambling grey bodies as, with a continuous high-pitched squeal, the rats turned and pelted back down the slope.

For minutes the sleek grey river foamed by outside the alcove until at last the numbers thinned and only a trickle of sick or wounded rats came limping and probing their way down the tunnel floor.

The scream of the horde slowly vanished down towards the river, until there was silence except for the occasional twitter of a fleeing bat.

Kerim gave a non-committal grunt. ‘One of these days those rats will start dying. Then we shall have the plague in Istanbul again. Sometimes I feel guilty for not telling the authorities of this tunnel so that they can clean the place up. But I can’t so long as the Russians are up here.’ He jerked his head at the roof. He looked at his watch. ‘Five minutes to go. They will be pulling up their chairs <a id="calibre_link-1871"></a>and fiddling with their papers. There will be the three permanent men – M.G.B., or one of them may be from army intelligence, GRU. And there will probably be three others. Two came in a fortnight ago, one through Greece and another through Persia. Another one arrived on Monday. God knows who they are, or what they are here for. And sometimes the girl, Tatiana, comes in with a signal and goes out again. Let us hope we will see her today. You will be impressed. She is something.’

Kerim reached up and untied the tarpaulin cover and pulled it downwards. Bond understood. The cover protected the shining butt of a submarine periscope, fully withdrawn. The moisture glistened on the thick grease of the exposed bottom joint. Bond chuckled. ‘Where the hell did you get that from, Darko?’

‘Turkish Navy. War surplus.’ Kerim’s voice did not invite further questions. ‘Now Q Branch in London is trying to fix some way of wiring the damn thing for sound. It’s not going to be easy. The lens at the top of this is no bigger than a cigarette-lighter, end on. When I raise it, it comes up to floor level in their room. In the corner of the room where it comes up, we cut a small mousehole. We did it well. Once when I came to have a look, the first thing I saw was a big mousetrap with a piece of cheese on it. At least it looked big through the lens.’ Kerim laughed briefly. ‘But there’s not much room to fit a sensitive pick-up alongside the lens. And there’s <a id="calibre_link-1872"></a>no hope of getting in again to do any more fiddling about with their architecture. The only way I managed to install this thing was to get my friends in the Public Works Ministry to turn the Russians out for a few days. The story was that the trams going up the hill were shaking the foundations of the houses. There had to be a survey. It cost me a few hundred pounds for the right pockets. The Public Works inspected half a dozen houses on either side of this one and declared the place safe. By that time, I and the family had finished our construction work. The Russians were suspicious as hell. I gather they went over the place with a toothcomb when they got back, looking for microphones and bombs and so on. But we can’t work that trick twice. Unless Q Branch can think up something very clever, I shall have to be content with keeping an eye on them. One of these days they’ll give away something useful. They’ll be interrogating someone we’re interested in or something of that sort.’

Alongside the matrix of the periscope in the roof of the alcove there was a pendulous blister of metal, twice the size of a football. ‘What’s that?’ said Bond.

‘Bottom half of a bomb – a big bomb. If anything happens to me, or if war breaks out with Russia, that bomb will be set off by radio-control from my office. It is sad [Kerim didn’t look sad] but I fear that many innocent people will get killed besides the Russians. When the blood is on the boil, man is as unselective as nature.’

<a id="calibre_link-1873"></a>Kerim had been polishing away at the hooded eyepieces between the two handle-bars that stuck out on both sides of the base of the periscope. Now he glanced at his watch and bent down and gripped the two handles and slowly brought them up level with his chin. There was a hiss of hydraulics as the glistening stem of the periscope slid up into its steel sheath in the roof of the alcove. Kerim bent his head and gazed into the eyepieces and slowly inched up the handles until he could stand upright. He twisted gently. He centred the lens and beckoned to Bond. ‘Just the six of them.’

Bond moved over and took the handles.

‘Have a good look at them,’ said Kerim. ‘I know them, but you’d better get their faces in your mind. Head of the table is their Resident Director. On his left are his two staff. Opposite them are the three new ones. The latest, who looks quite an important chap, is on the Director’s right. Tell me if they do anything except talk.’

Bond’s first impulse was to tell Kerim not to make so much noise. It was as if he was in the room with the Russians, as if he was sitting in a chair in the corner, a secretary perhaps, taking shorthand of the conference.

The wide, all-round lens, designed for spotting aircraft as well as surface ships, gave him a curious picture – a mouse’s eye view of a forest of legs below the fore-edge of the table, and various aspects of the heads belonging to the legs. The Director and his two colleagues were <a id="calibre_link-1874"></a>clear – serious dull Russian faces whose characteristics Bond filed away. There was the studious, professorial face of the Director – thick spectacles, lantern jaw, big forehead and thin hair brushed back. On his left was a square wooden face with deep clefts on either side of the nose, fair hair en brosse and a nick out of the left ear. The third member of the permanent staff had a shifty Armenian face with clever bright almond eyes. He was talking now. His face wore a falsely humble look. Gold glinted in his mouth.

Bond could see less of the three visitors. Their backs were half towards him and only the profile of the nearest, and presumably most junior, showed clearly. This man’s skin also was dark. He too would be from one of the southern republics. The jaw was badly shaved and the eye in profile was bovine and dull under a thick black brow. The nose was fleshy and porous. The upper lip was long over a sullen mouth and the beginning of a double chin. The tough black hair was cut very short so that most of the back of the neck looked blue to the level of the tips of the ears. It was a military haircut, done with mechanical clippers.

The only clues to the next man were an angry boil on the back of a fat bald neck, a shiny blue suit and rather bright brown shoes. The man was motionless during the whole period that Bond kept watch and apparently never spoke.

<a id="calibre_link-1875"></a>Now the senior visitor, on the right of the Resident Director, sat back and began talking. It was a strong, crag-like profile with big bones and a jutting chin under a heavy brown moustache of Stalin cut. Bond could see one cold grey eye under a bushy eyebrow and a low forehead topped by wiry grey-brown hair. This man was the only one who was smoking. He puffed busily at a tiny wooden pipe in the bowl of which stood half a cigarette. Every now and then he shook the pipe sideways so that the ash fell on the floor. His profile had more authority than any of the other faces and Bond guessed that he was a senior man sent down from Moscow.

Bond’s eyes were getting tired. He twisted the handles gently and looked round the office as far as the blurring jagged edges of the mousehole would allow. He saw nothing of interest – two olive green filing cabinets, a hatstand by the door, on which he counted six more or less identical grey homburgs, and a sideboard with a heavy carafe of water and some glasses. Bond stood away from the eyepiece, rubbing his eyes.

‘If only we could hear,’ Kerim said, shaking his head sadly. ‘It would be worth diamonds.’

‘It would solve a lot of problems,’ agreed Bond. Then, ‘By the way Darko, how did you come on this tunnel? What was it built for?’

Kerim bent and gave a quick glance into the eyepieces and straightened up.

<a id="calibre_link-1876"></a>‘It’s a lost drain from the Hall of Pillars,’ he said. ‘The Hall of Pillars is now a thing for tourists. It’s up above us on the heights of Istanbul, near St. Sophia. A thousand years ago it was built as a reservoir in case of siege. It’s a huge underground palace, a hundred yards long and about half as broad. It was made to hold millions of gallons of water. It was discovered again about four hundred years ago by a man called Gyllius. One day I was reading his account of finding it. He said it was filled in winter from “a great pipe with a mighty noise”. It occurred to me that there might be another “great pipe” to empty it quickly if the city fell to the enemy. I went up to the Hall of Pillars and bribed the watchman and rowed about among the pillars all one night in a rubber dinghy with one of my boys. We went over the walls with a hammer and an echo-sounder. At one end, in the most likely spot, there was a hollow sound. I handed out more money to the Minister of Public Works and he closed the place for a week – “for cleaning”. My little team got busy.’ Kerim ducked down again for a look through the eyepieces and went on. ‘We dug into the wall above water-level and came on the top of an arch. The arch was the beginning of a tunnel. We got into the tunnel and went down it. Quite exciting, not knowing where we were going to come out. And, of course, it went straight down the hill – under the Street of Books where the Russians have their place, and out <a id="calibre_link-1877"></a>into the Golden Horn, by the Galata Bridge, twenty yards away from my warehouse. So we filled in our hole in the Hall of Pillars and started digging from my end. That was two years ago. It took us a year and a lot of survey work to get directly under the Russians.’ Kerim laughed. ‘And now I suppose one of these days the Russians will decide to change their offices. By then I hope someone else will be Head of T.’

Kerim bent down to the rubber eyepieces. Bond saw him stiffen. Kerim said urgently, ‘The door’s opening. Quick. Take over. Here she comes.’

<a id="calibre_link-1879"></a>17 KILLING TIME

It was seven o’clock on the same evening and James Bond was back in his hotel. He had had a hot bath and a cold shower. He thought that he had at last scoured the zoo smell out of his skin.

He was sitting, naked except for his shorts, at one of the windows of his room, sipping a vodka and tonic and looking out into the heart of the great tragic sunset over the Golden Horn. But his eyes didn’t see the torn cloth of gold and blood that hung behind the minaretted stage beneath which he had caught his first glimpse of Tatiana Romanova.

He was thinking of the tall beautiful girl with the dancer’s long gait who had walked through the drab door with a piece of paper in her hand. She had stood beside her Chief and handed him the paper. All the men had looked up at her. She had blushed and looked down. <a id="calibre_link-1880"></a>What had that expression on the men’s faces meant? It was more than just the way some men look at a beautiful girl. They had shown curiosity. That was reasonable. They wanted to know what was in the signal, why they were being disturbed. But what else? There had been slyness and contempt – the way people stare at prostitutes.

It had been an odd, enigmatic scene. This was part of a highly disciplined para-military organization. These were serving officers, each of whom would be wary of the others. And this girl was just one of the staff, with a Corporal’s rank, who was now going through a normal routine. Why had they all unguardedly looked at her with this inquisitive contempt – almost as if she was a spy who had been caught and was going to be executed? Did they suspect her? Had she given herself away? But that seemed less likely as the scene played itself out. The Resident Director read the signal and the other men’s eyes turned away from the girl and on to him. He said something, presumably repeating the text of the signal, and the men looked glumly back at him as if the matter did not interest them. Then the Resident Director looked up at the girl and the other eyes followed his. He said something with a friendly, inquiring expression. The girl shook her head and answered briefly. The other men now only looked interested. The Director said one word with a question mark on the end. The girl blushed deeply, and nodded, holding his eyes obediently. The <a id="calibre_link-1881"></a>other men smiled encouragement, slyly perhaps, but with approval. No suspicion there. No condemnation. The scene ended with a few sentences from the Director to which the girl seemed to say the equivalent of ‘Yes, sir’ and turned and walked out of the room. When she had gone, the Director said something with an expression of irony on his face and the men laughed heartily and the sly expression was back on their faces, as if what he had said had been obscene. Then they went back to their work.

Ever since, on their way back down the tunnel, and later in Kerim’s office while they discussed what Bond had seen, Bond had racked his brains for a solution to this maddening bit of dumb crambo and now, looking without focus at the dying sun, he was still mystified.

Bond finished his drink and lit another cigarette. He put the problem away and turned his mind to the girl.

Tatiana Romanova. A Romanov. Well, she certainly looked like a Russian princess, or the traditional idea of one. The tall, fine-boned body that moved so gracefully and stood so well. The thick sweep of hair down to the shoulders and the quiet authority of the profile. The wonderful Garbo-esque face with its curiously shy serenity. The contrast between the level innocence of the big, deep blue eyes and the passionate promise of a wide mouth. And the way she had blushed and the way the long eyelashes had come down over the lowered eyes. Had that <a id="calibre_link-1882"></a>been the prudery of a virgin? Bond thought not. There was the confidence of having been loved in the proud breasts and the insolently lilting behind – the assertion of a body that knows what it can be for.

On what Bond had seen, could he believe that she was the sort of girl to fall in love with a photograph and a file? How could one tell? Such a girl would have a deeply romantic nature. There were dreams in the eyes and in the mouth. At that age, twenty-four, the Soviet machine would not yet have ground the sentiment out of her. The Romanov blood might well have given her a yearning for men other than the type of modern Russian officer she would meet – stern, cold, mechanical, basically hysterical and, because of their Party education, infernally dull.

It could be true. There was nothing to disprove her story in her looks. Bond wanted it to be true.

The telephone rang. It was Kerim. ‘Nothing new?’

‘No.’

‘Then I will pick you up at eight.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

Bond laid down the receiver and slowly started to put on his clothes.

Kerim had been firm about the evening. Bond had wanted to stay in his hotel room and wait for the first contact to be made – a note, a telephone call, whatever it might be. But Kerim had said no. The girl had been <a id="calibre_link-1883"></a>adamant that she would choose her own time and place. It would be wrong for Bond to seem a slave to her convenience. ‘That is bad psychology, my friend,’ Kerim had insisted. ‘No girl likes a man to run when she whistles. She would despise you if you made yourself too available. From your face and your dossier she would expect you to behave with indifference – even with insolence. She would want that. She wishes to court you, to buy a kiss’ – Kerim had winked – ‘from that cruel mouth. It is with an image she has fallen in love. Behave like that image. Act the part.’

Bond had shrugged his shoulders. ‘All right, Darko. I daresay you’re right. What do you suggest?’

‘Live the life you would normally. Go home now and have a bath and a drink. The local vodka is all right if you drown it with tonic water. If nothing happens, I will pick you up at eight. We will have dinner at the place of a gipsy friend of mine. A man called Vavra. He is head of a tribe. I must anyway see him tonight. He is one of my best sources. He is finding out who tried to blow up my office. Some of his girls will dance for you. I will not suggest that they should entertain you more intimately. You must keep your sword sharp. There is a saying “Once a King, always a King. But once a Knight is enough!” ’

Bond was smiling at the memory of Kerim’s dictum when the telephone rang again. He picked up the <a id="calibre_link-1884"></a>receiver. It was only the car. As he went down the few stairs and out to Kerim in the waiting Rolls, Bond admitted to himself that he was disappointed.

They were climbing up the far hill through the poorer quarters above the Golden Horn when the chauffeur half turned his head and said something in a non-committal voice.

Kerim answered with a monosyllable. ‘He says a Lambretta is on our tail. A Faceless One. It is of no importance. When I wish, I can make a secret of my movements. Often they have trailed this car for miles when there has been only a dummy in the back. A conspicuous car has its uses. They know this gipsy is a friend of mine, but I think they do not understand why. It will do no harm for them to know that we are having a night of relaxation. On a Saturday night, with a friend from England, anything else would be unusual.’

Bond looked back through the rear window and watched the crowded streets. From behind a stopped tram a motor scooter showed for a minute and then was hidden by a taxi. Bond turned away. He reflected briefly on the way the Russians ran their centres – with all the money and equipment in the world, while the Secret Service put against them a handful of adventurous, underpaid men, like this one, with his second-hand Rolls and his children to help him. Yet Kerim had the run of <a id="calibre_link-1885"></a>Turkey. Perhaps, after all, the right man was better than the right machine.

At half-past eight they stopped half way up a long hill on the outskirts of Istanbul at a dingy-looking open-air café with a few empty tables on the pavement. Behind it were the tops of trees over a high stone wall. They got out and the car drove off. They waited for the Lambretta, but its wasp-like buzz had stopped and at once it was on its way back down the hill. All they saw of the driver was a glimpse of a short squat man wearing goggles.

Kerim led the way through the tables and into the café. It seemed empty, but a man rose up quickly from behind the till. He kept one hand below the counter. When he saw who it was, he gave Kerim a nervous white smile. Something clanged to the floor. He stepped from behind the counter and led them out through the back and across a stretch of gravel to a door in the high wall and, after knocking once, unlocked it and waved them through.

There was an orchard with plank tables dotted about under the trees. In the centre was a circle of terrazza dancing floor. Round it were strung fairy lights, now dead, on poles planted in the ground. On the far side, at a long table, about twenty people of all ages had been sitting eating, but they had put down their knives and now looked towards the door. Some children had been <a id="calibre_link-1886"></a>playing in the grass behind the table. They also were now quiet and watching. The three-quarter moon showed everything up brightly and made pools of membraned shadow under the trees.

Kerim and Bond walked forward. The man at the head of the table said something to the others. He got up and came to meet them. The rest returned to their dinner and the children to their games.

The man greeted Kerim with reserve. He stood for a few moments making a long explanation to which Kerim listened attentively, occasionally asking a question.

The gipsy was an imposing, theatrical figure in Macedonian dress – white shirt with full sleeves, baggy trousers and laced soft leather top-boots. His hair was a tangle of black snakes. A large downward-drooping black moustache almost hid the full red lips. The eyes were fierce and cruel on either side of a syphilitic nose. The moon glinted on the sharp line of the jaw and the high cheekbones. His right hand, which had a gold ring on the thumb, rested on the hilt of a short curved dagger in a leather scabbard tipped with filigree silver.

The gipsy finished talking. Kerim said a few words, forceful and apparently complimentary, about Bond, at the same time stretching his hand out in Bond’s direction as if he was a compère in a nightclub commending a new turn. The gipsy stepped up to Bond and scrutinized <a id="calibre_link-1887"></a>him. He bowed abruptly. Bond followed suit. The gipsy said a few words through a sardonic smile. Kerim laughed and turned to Bond. ‘He says if you are ever out of work you should come to him. He will give you a job – taming his women and killing for him. That is a great compliment to a gajo – a foreigner. You should say something in reply.’

‘Tell him that I can’t imagine he needs any help in these matters.’

Kerim translated. The gipsy politely bared his teeth. He said something and walked back to the table, clapping his hands sharply. Two women got up and came towards him. He spoke to them curtly and they went back to the table and picked up a large earthenware dish and disappeared among the trees.

Kerim took Bond’s arm and led him to one side.

‘We have come on a bad night,’ he said. ‘The restaurant is closed. There are family troubles here which have to be solved – drastically, and in private. But I am an old friend and we are invited to share their supper. It will be disgusting but I have sent for raki. Then we may watch – but on condition that we do not interfere. I hope you understand, my friend.’ Kerim gave Bond’s arm an additional pressure. ‘Whatever you see, you must not move or comment. A court has just been held and justice is to be done – their kind of justice. It is an affair of love and jealousy. Two girls of the tribe are in love with <a id="calibre_link-1888"></a>one of his sons. There is a lot of death in the air. They both threaten to kill the other to get him. If he chooses one, the unsuccessful one has sworn to kill him and the girl. It is an impasse. There is much argument in the tribe. So the son has been sent up into the hills and the two girls are to fight it out here tonight – to the death. The son has agreed to take the winner. The women are locked up in separate caravans. It will not be for the squeamish, but it will be a remarkable affair. It is a great privilege that we may be present. You understand? We are gajos. You will forget your sense of the proprieties? You will not interfere? They would kill you, and possibly me, if you did.’

‘Darko,’ said Bond. ‘I have a French friend. A man called Mathis who is head of the Deuxième. He once said to me: “J’aime les sensations fortes.” I am like him. I shall not disgrace you. Men fighting women is one thing. Women fighting women is another. But what about the bomb? The bomb that blew up your office. What did he say about that?’

‘It was the leader of the Faceless Ones. He put it there himself. They came down the Golden Horn in a boat and he climbed up a ladder and fixed it to the wall. It was bad luck he didn’t get me. The operation was well thought out. The man is a gangster. A Bulgarian “refugee” called Krilencu. I shall have to have a reckoning with him. God knows why they suddenly want <a id="calibre_link-1889"></a>to kill me, but I cannot allow such annoyances. I may decide to take action later tonight. I know where he lives. In case Vavra knew the answer, I told my chauffeur to come back with the necessary equipment.’

A fiercely attractive young girl in a thick old-fashioned black frock, with strings of gold coins round her neck and about ten thin gold bracelets on each wrist, came over from the table and swept a low jingling curtsey in front of Kerim. She said something and Kerim replied.

‘We are bidden to the table,’ said Kerim. ‘I hope you are good at eating with your fingers. I see they are all wearing their smartest clothes tonight. That girl would be worth marrying. She has a lot of gold on her. It is her dowry.’

They walked over to the table. Two places had been cleared on either side of the head gipsy. Kerim gave what sounded like a polite greeting to the table. There was a curt nod of acknowledgment. They sat down. In front of each of them was a large plate of some sort of ragout smelling strongly of garlic, a bottle of raki, a pitcher of water and a cheap tumbler. More bottles of raki, untouched, were on the table. When Kerim reached for his and poured himself half a tumblerful, everyone followed suit. Kerim added some water and raised his glass. Bond did the same. Kerim made a short and vehement speech and all raised their glasses and drank. The <a id="calibre_link-1890"></a>atmosphere became easier. An old woman next to Bond passed him a long loaf of bread and said something. Bond smiled and said ‘thank you’. He broke off a piece and handed the loaf to Kerim who was picking among his ragout with thumb and forefinger. Kerim took the loaf with one hand and at the same time, with the other, he put a large piece of meat in his mouth and began to eat.

Bond was about to do the same when Kerim said sharply and quietly, ‘With the right hand, James. The left hand is used for only one purpose among these people.’

Bond halted his left hand in mid-air and moved it on to grasp the nearest raki bottle. He poured himself another half tumblerful and started to eat with his right hand. The ragout was delicious but steaming hot. Bond winced each time he dipped his fingers into it. Everyone watched them eat and from time to time the old woman dipped her fingers into Bond’s stew and chose a piece for him.

When they had scoured their plates, a silver bowl of water, in which rose leaves floated, and a clean linen cloth, were put between Bond and Kerim. Bond washed his fingers and his greasy chin and turned to his host and dutifully made a short speech of thanks which Kerim translated. The table murmured its appreciation. The head gipsy bowed towards Bond and said, according to <a id="calibre_link-1891"></a>Kerim, that he hated all gajos except Bond, whom he was proud to call his friend. Then he clapped his hands sharply and everybody got up from the table and began pulling the benches away and arranging them round the dance floor.

Kerim came round the table to Bond. They walked off together. ‘How do you feel? They’ve gone to get the two girls.’

Bond nodded. He was enjoying the evening. The scene was beautiful and thrilling – the white moon blazing down on the ring of figures now settling on the benches, the glint of gold or jewellery as somebody shifted his position, the glaring pool of terrazza and, all around, the quiet, sentinel trees standing guard in their black skirts of shadow.

Kerim led Bond to a bench where the chief gipsy sat alone. They took their places on his right.

A black cat with green eyes walked slowly across the terrazza and joined a group of children who were sitting quietly as if someone was about to come on to the dance floor and teach them a lesson. It sat down and began licking its chest.

Beyond the high wall, a horse neighed. Two of the gipsies looked over their shoulders towards the sound as if they were reading the cry of the horse. From the road came the silvery spray of a bicycle bell as someone sped down the hill.

<a id="calibre_link-1892"></a>The crouching silence was broken by the clang of a bolt being drawn. The door in the wall crashed back and two girls, spitting and fighting like angry cats, hurtled through and across the grass and into the ring.

<a id="calibre_link-1894"></a>18 STRONG SENSATIONS

The head gipsy’s voice cracked out. The girls separated reluctantly and stood facing him. The gipsy began to speak in a tone of harsh denunciation.

Kerim put his hand up to his mouth and whispered behind it. ‘Vavra is telling them that this is a great tribe of gipsies and they have brought dissension among it. He says there is no room for hatred among themselves, only against those outside. The hatred they have created must be purged so that the tribe can live peacefully again. They are to fight. If the loser is not killed she will be banished for ever. That will be the same as death. These people wither and die outside the tribe. They cannot live in our world. It is like wild beasts forced to live in a cage.’

While Kerim spoke, Bond examined the two beautiful, taut, sullen animals in the centre of the ring.

<a id="calibre_link-1895"></a>They were both gipsy-dark, with coarse black hair to their shoulders, and they were both dressed in the collection of rags you associate with shanty-town negroes – tattered brown shifts that were mostly darns and patches. One was bigger-boned than the other, and obviously stronger, but she looked sullen and slow-eyed and might not be quick on her feet. She was handsome in a rather leonine way, and there was a slow red glare in her heavy lidded eyes as she stood and listened impatiently to the head of the tribe. She ought to win, thought Bond. She is half an inch taller, and she is stronger.

Where this girl was a lioness, the other was a panther – lithe and quick and with cunning sharp eyes that were not on the speaker but sliding sideways, measuring inches, and the hands at her sides were curled into claws. The muscles of her fine legs looked hard as a man’s. The breasts were small, and, unlike the big breasts of the other girl, hardly swelled the rags of her shift. She looks a dangerous little bitch of a girl, thought Bond. She will certainly get in the first blow. She will be too quick for the other.

At once he was proved wrong. As Vavra spoke his last word, the big girl, who, Kerim whispered, was called Zora, kicked hard sideways, without taking aim, and caught the other girl square in the stomach and, as the smaller girl staggered, followed up with a swinging blow <a id="calibre_link-1896"></a>of the fist to the side of the head that knocked her sprawling on to the stone floor.

‘Oi, Vida,’ lamented a woman in the crowd. She needn’t have worried. Even Bond could see that Vida was shamming as she lay on the ground, apparently winded. He could see her eyes glinting under her bent arm as Zora’s foot came flashing at her ribs.

Vida’s hands flickered out together. They grasped the ankle and her head struck into the instep like a snake’s. Zora gave a scream of pain and wrenched furiously at her trapped foot. It was too late. The other girl was up on one knee, and then standing erect, the foot still in her hands. She heaved upwards and Zora’s other foot left the ground and she crashed full length.

The thud of the big girl’s fall shook the ground. For a moment she lay still. With an animal snarl, Vida dived on top of her, clawing and tearing.

My God, what a hell-cat, thought Bond. Beside him, Kerim’s breath hissed tensely through his teeth.

But the big girl protected herself with her elbows and knees and at last she managed to kick Vida off. She staggered to her feet and backed away, her lips bared from her teeth and the shift hanging in tatters from her splendid body. At once she went in to the attack again, her arms groping forward for a hold and, as the smaller girl leapt aside, Zora’s hand caught the neck of her shift and split it down to the hem. But immediately Vida <a id="calibre_link-1897"></a>twisted in close under the reaching arms and her fists and knees thudded into the attacker’s body.

This in-fighting was a mistake. The strong arms clamped shut round the smaller girl, trapping Vida’s hands low down so that they could not reach up for Zora’s eyes. And, slowly, Zora began to squeeze, while Vida’s legs and knees thrashed ineffectually below.

Bond thought that now the big girl must win. All Zora had to do was to fall on the other girl. Vida’s head would crack down on the stone and then Zora could do as she liked. But all of a sudden it was the big girl who began to scream. Bond saw that Vida’s head was buried deep in the other’s breasts. Her teeth were at work. Zora’s arms let go as she reached for Vida’s hair to pull the head back and away from her. But now Vida’s hands were free and they were scrabbling at the big girl’s body.

The girls tore apart and backed away like cats, their shining bodies glinting through the last rags of their shifts and blood showing on the exposed breasts of the big girl.

They circled warily, both glad to have escaped, and as they circled they tore off the last of their rags and threw them into the audience.

Bond held his breath at the sight of the two glistening, naked bodies, and he could feel Kerim’s body tense beside him. The ring of gipsies seemed to have come closer to <a id="calibre_link-1898"></a>the two fighters. The moon shone on glittering eyes and there was the whisper of hot, panting breath.

Still the two girls circled slowly, their teeth bared and their breath coming harshly. The light glinted off their heaving breasts and stomachs and off their hard, boyish flanks. Their feet left dark sweat marks on the white stones.

Again it was the big girl, Zora, who made the first move with a sudden forward leap and arms held out like a wrestler’s. But Vida stood her ground. Her right foot lashed out in a furious coup de savate that made a slap like a pistol shot. The big girl gave a wounded cry and clutched at herself. At once Vida’s other foot kicked up to the stomach and she threw herself in after it.

There was a low growl from the crowd as Zora went down on her knees. Her hands went up to protect her face, but it was too late. The smaller girl was astride her, and her hands grasped Zora’s wrists as she bore down on her with all her weight and bent her to the ground, her bared white teeth reaching towards the offered neck.

‘BOOM!’

The explosion cracked the tension like a nut. A flash of flame lit the darkness behind the dance floor and a chunk of masonry sang past Bond’s ear. Suddenly the orchard was full of running men and the head gipsy was slinking forward across the stone with his curved dagger held out in front of him. Kerim was going after him, a <a id="calibre_link-1899"></a>gun in his hand. As the gipsy passed the two girls, now standing wild-eyed and trembling, he shouted a word at them and they took to their heels and disappeared among the trees where the last of the women and children were already vanishing among the shadows.

Bond, the Beretta held uncertainly in his hand, followed slowly in the wake of Kerim towards the wide breach that had been blown out of the garden wall, and wondered what the hell was going on.

The stretch of grass between the hole in the wall and the dance floor was a turmoil of fighting, running figures. It was only as Bond came up with the fight that he distinguished the squat, conventionally dressed Bulgars from the swirling finery of the gipsies. There seemed to be more of the Faceless Ones than of the gipsies, almost two to one. As Bond peered into the struggling mass, a gipsy youth was ejected from it, clutching his stomach. He groped towards Bond, coughing terribly. Two small dark men came after him, their knives held low.

Instinctively Bond stepped to one side so that the crowd was not behind the two men. He aimed at their legs above the knees and the gun in his hand cracked twice. The two men fell, soundlessly, face downwards in the grass.

Two bullets gone. Only six left. Bond edged closer to the fight.

<a id="calibre_link-1900"></a>A knife hissed past his head and clanged on to the dance floor.

It had been aimed at Kerim, who came running out of the shadows with two men on his heels. The second man stopped and raised his knife to throw and Bond shot from the hip, blindly, and saw him fall. The other man turned and fled among the trees and Kerim dropped to one knee beside Bond, wrestling with his gun.

‘Cover me,’ he shouted. ‘Jammed on the first shot. It’s those bloody Bulgars. God knows what they think they’re doing.’

A hand caught Bond round the mouth and yanked him backwards. On his way to the ground he smelled carbolic soap and nicotine. He felt a boot thud into the back of his neck. As he whirled over sideways in the grass he expected to feel the searing flame of a knife. But the men, and there were three of them, were after Kerim, and as Bond scrambled to one knee he saw the squat black figures pile down on the crouching man, who gave one lash upwards with his useless gun and then went down under them.

At the same moment as Bond leaped forward and brought his gun butt down on a round shaven head, something flashed past his eyes and the curved dagger of the head gipsy was growing out of a heaving back. Then Kerim was on his feet and the third man was running and a man was standing in the breach in the <a id="calibre_link-1901"></a>wall shouting one word, again and again, and one by one the attackers broke off their fights and doubled over to the man and past him and out on to the road.

‘Shoot, James, shoot!’ roared Kerim. ‘That’s Krilencu.’ He started to run forward. Bond’s gun spat once. But the man had dodged round the wall, and thirty yards is too far for night shooting with an automatic. As Bond lowered his hot gun, there came the staccato firing of a squadron of Lambrettas, and Bond stood and listened to the swarm of wasps flying down the hill.

There was silence except for the groans of the wounded. Bond listlessly watched Kerim and Vavra come back through the breach in the wall and walk among the bodies, occasionally turning one over with a foot. The other gipsies seeped back from the road and the older women came hurrying out of the shadows to tend their men.

Bond shook himself. What the hell had it all been about? Ten or a dozen men had been killed. What for? Whom had they been trying to get? Not him, Bond. When he was down and ready for the killing they had passed him by and made for Kerim. This was the second attempt on Kerim’s life. Was it anything to do with the Romanova business? How could it possibly tie in?

Bond tensed. His gun spoke twice from the hip. The knife clattered harmlessly off Kerim’s back. The figure that had risen from the dead twirled slowly round <a id="calibre_link-1902"></a>like a ballet dancer and toppled forward on his face. Bond ran forward. He had been just in time. The moon had caught the blade and he had had a clear field of fire. Kerim looked down at the twitching body. He turned to meet Bond.

Bond stopped in his tracks. ‘You bloody fool,’ he said angrily. ‘Why the hell can’t you take more care! You ought to have a nurse.’ Most of Bond’s anger came from knowing that it was he who had brought a cloud of death around Kerim.

Darko Kerim grinned shamefacedly. ‘Now it is not good, James. You have saved my life too often. We might have been friends. Now the distance between us is too great. Forgive me, for I can never pay you back.’ He held out his hand.

Bond brushed it aside. ‘Don’t be a damn fool, Darko,’ he said roughly. ‘My gun worked, that’s all. Yours didn’t. You’d better get one that does. For Christ’s sake tell me what the hell this is all about. There’s been too much blood splashing about tonight. I’m sick of it. I want a drink. Come and finish that raki.’ He took the big man’s arm.

As they reached the table, littered with the remains of the supper, a piercing, terrible scream came out of the depths of the orchard. Bond put his hand on his gun. Kerim shook his head. ‘We shall soon know what the Faceless Ones were after,’ he said gloomily. ‘My friends <a id="calibre_link-1903"></a>are finding out. I can guess what they will discover. I think they will never forgive me for having been here tonight. Five of their men are dead.’

‘There might have been a dead woman too,’ said Bond unsympathetically. ‘At least you’ve saved her life. Don’t be stupid, Darko. These gipsies knew the risks when they started spying for you against the Bulgars. It was gang warfare.’ He added a dash of water to two tumblers of raki.

They both emptied the glasses at one swallow. The head gipsy came up, wiping the tip of his curved dagger on a handful of grass. He sat down and accepted a glass of raki from Bond. He seemed quite cheerful. Bond had the impression that the fight had been too short for him. The gipsy said something, slyly.

Kerim chuckled. ‘He said that his judgment was right. You killed well. Now he wants you to take on those two women.’

‘Tell him even one of them would be too much for me. But tell him I think they are fine women. I would be glad if he would do me a favour and call the fight a draw. Enough of his people have been killed tonight. He will need these two girls to bear children for the tribe.’

Kerim translated. The gipsy looked sourly at Bond and said a few bitter words.

‘He says that you should not have asked him such a <a id="calibre_link-1904"></a>difficult favour. He says that your heart is too soft for a good fighter. But he says he will do what you ask.’

The gipsy ignored Bond’s smile of thanks. He started talking fast to Kerim, who listened attentively, occasionally interrupting the flow with a question. Krilencu’s name was often mentioned. Kerim talked back. There was deep contrition in his voice and he refused to allow himself to be stopped by protests from the other. There came a last reference to Krilencu. Kerim turned to Bond.

‘My friend,’ he said drily. ‘It is a curious affair. It seems the Bulgars were ordered to kill Vavra and as many of his men as possible. That is a simple matter. They knew the gipsy had been working for me. Perhaps, rather drastic. But in killing, the Russians have not much finesse. They like mass death. Vavra was a main target, I was another. The declaration of war against me personally I can also understand. But it seems that you were not to be harmed. You were exactly described so that there should be no mistake. That is odd. Perhaps it was desired that there should be no diplomatic repercussions. Who can tell? The attack was well planned. They came to the top of the hill by a roundabout route and freewheeled down so that we should hear nothing. This is a lonely place and there is not a policeman for miles. I blame myself for having treated these people too lightly.’ Kerim looked puzzled and unhappy. He seemed to make up his mind. He said, ‘But now it is midnight. The Rolls <a id="calibre_link-1905"></a>will be here. There remains a small piece of work to be done before we go home to bed. And it is time we left these people. They have much to do before it is light. There are many bodies to go into the Bosphorus and there is the wall to be repaired. By daylight there must be no trace of these troubles. Our friend wishes you very well. He says you must return, and that Zora and Vida are yours until their breasts fall. He refuses to blame me for what has happened. He says that I am to continue sending him Bulgars. Ten were killed tonight. He would like some more. And now we will shake him by the hand and go. That is all he asks of us. We are good friends, but we are gajos. And I expect he does not want us to see his women weeping over their dead.’

Kerim stretched out his huge hand. Vavra took it and held it and looked into Kerim’s eyes. For a moment his own fierce eyes seemed to go opaque. Then the gipsy let the hand drop and turned to Bond. The hand was dry and rough and padded like the paw of a big animal. Again the eyes went opaque. He let go of Bond’s hand. He spoke rapidly and urgently to Kerim and turned his back on them and walked away towards the trees.

Nobody looked up from his work as Kerim and Bond climbed through the breach in the wall. The Rolls stood, glittering in the moonlight, a few yards down the road opposite the café entrance. A young man was sitting beside the chauffeur. Kerim gestured with his hand. <a id="calibre_link-1906"></a>‘That is my tenth son. He is called Boris. I thought I might need him. I shall.’

The youth turned and said, ‘Good evening, sir.’ Bond recognized him as one of the clerks in the warehouse. He was as dark and lean as the head clerk, and his eyes also were blue.

The car moved down the hill. Kerim spoke to the chauffeur in English. ‘It is a small street off the Hippodrome Square. When we get there we will proceed softly. I will tell you when to stop. Have you got the uniforms and the equipment?’

‘Yes, Kerim Bey.’

‘All right. Make good speed. It is time we were all in bed.’

Kerim sank back in his seat. He took out a cigarette. They sat and smoked. Bond gazed out at the drab streets and reflected that sparse street-lighting is the sure sign of a poor town.

It was some time before Kerim spoke. Then he said, ‘The gipsy said we both have the wings of death over us. He said that I am to beware of a son of the snows and you must beware of a man who is owned by the moon.’ He laughed harshly. ‘That is the sort of rigmarole they talk. But he says that Krilencu isn’t either of these men. That is good.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I cannot sleep until I have killed that man. <a id="calibre_link-1907"></a>I do not know if what happened tonight has any connection with you and your assignment. I do not care. For some reason, war has been declared on me. If I do not kill Krilencu, at the third attempt he will certainly kill me. So we are now on our way to keep an appointment with him in Samarra.’

<a id="calibre_link-1909"></a>19 THE MOUTH OF MARILYN MONROE

The car sped through the deserted streets, past shadowy mosques from which dazzling minarets lanced up towards the three-quarter moon, under the ruined Aqueduct and across the Ataturk Boulevard and north of the barred entrances to the Grand Bazaar. At the Column of Constantine the car turned right, through mean twisting streets that smelled of garbage, and finally debouched into a long ornamental square in which three stone columns fired themselves like a battery of space-rockets into the spangled sky.

‘Slow,’ said Kerim softly. They crept round the square under the shadow of the lime trees. Down a street on the east side, the lighthouse below the Seraglio Palace gave them a great yellow wink.

‘Stop.’

<a id="calibre_link-1910"></a>The car pulled up in the darkness under the limes. Kerim reached for the door handle. ‘We shan’t be long, James. You sit up front in the driver’s seat and if a policeman comes along just say “Ben Bey Kerim’in ortagiyim”. Can you remember that? It means “I am Kerim Bey’s partner”. They’ll leave you alone.’

Bond snorted. ‘Thanks very much. But you’ll be surprised to hear I’m coming with you. You’re bound to get into trouble without me. Anyway I’m damned if I’m going to sit here trying to bluff policemen. The worst of learning one good phrase is that it sounds as if one knew the language. The policeman will come back with a barrage of Turkish and when I can’t answer he’ll smell a rat. Don’t argue, Darko.’

‘Well, don’t blame me if you don’t like this.’ Kerim’s voice was embarrassed. ‘It’s going to be a straight killing in cold blood. In my country you let sleeping dogs lie, but when they wake up and bite, you shoot them. You don’t offer them a duel. All right?’

‘Whatever you say,’ said Bond. ‘I’ve got one bullet left in case you miss.’

‘Come on then,’ said Kerim reluctantly. ‘We’ve got quite a walk. The other two will be going another way.’

Kerim took a long walking-stick from the chauffeur, and a leather case. He slung them over his shoulder and they started off down the street into the yellow wink of the lighthouse. Their footsteps echoed hollowly back at <a id="calibre_link-1911"></a>them from the iron-shuttered shop frontages. There was not a soul in sight, not a cat, and Bond was glad he was not walking alone down this long street towards the distant baleful eye.

From the first, Istanbul had given him the impression of a town where, with the night, horror creeps out of the stones. It seemed to him a town the centuries had so drenched in blood and violence that, when daylight went out, the ghosts of its dead were its only population. His instinct told him, as it has told other travellers, that Istanbul was a town he would be glad to get out of alive.

They came to a narrow stinking alley that dived steeply down the hill to their right. Kerim turned into it and started gingerly down its cobbled surface. ‘Watch your feet,’ he said softly. ‘Garbage is a polite word for what my charming people throw into their streets.’

The moon shone whitely down the moist river of cobbles. Bond kept his mouth shut and breathed through his nose. He put his feet down one after the other, flat-footedly, and with his knees bent, as if he was walking down a snow-slope. He thought of his bed in the hotel and of the comfortable cushions of the car under the sweetly smelling lime trees, and he wondered how many more kinds of dreadful stench he was going to run into during his present assignment.

They stopped at the bottom of the alley. Kerim turned to him with a broad white grin. He pointed upwards at <a id="calibre_link-1912"></a>a towering block of black shadow. ‘Mosque of Sultan Ahmet. Famous Byzantine frescoes. Sorry I haven’t got time to show you more of the beauties of my country.’ Without waiting for Bond’s reply, he cut off to the right and along a dusty boulevard, lined with cheap shops, that sloped down towards the distant glint that was the Sea of Marmara. For ten minutes they walked in silence. Then Kerim slowed and beckoned Bond into the shadows.

‘This will be a simple operation,’ he said softly. ‘Krilencu lives down there, beside the railway line.’ He gestured vaguely towards a cluster of red and green lights at the end of the boulevard. ‘He hides out in a shack behind a bill-hoarding. There is a front door to the shack. Also a trap-door to the street through the hoarding. He thinks no one knows of this. My two men will go in at the front door. He will slip out through the hoarding. Then I shoot him. All right?’

‘If you say so.’

They walked on down the boulevard, keeping close to the wall. After ten minutes, they came in sight of the twenty-foot-high hoarding that formed a facing wall to the T intersection at the bottom of the street. The moon was behind the hoarding and its face in the shadow. Now Kerim walked even more carefully, putting each foot softly in front of him. About a hundred yards from the hoarding the shadows ended <a id="calibre_link-1913"></a>and the moon blazed whitely down on the intersection. Kerim stopped in the last dark doorway and stationed Bond in front of him, up against his chest. ‘Now we must wait,’ he whispered. Bond heard Kerim fiddling behind him. There came a soft plop as the lid of the leather case came off. A thin, heavy steel tube, about two feet long, with a bulge at each end, was pressed into Bond’s hand. ‘Sniperscope. German model,’ whispered Kerim. ‘Infra-red lens. Sees in the dark. Have a look at that big film advertisement over there. That face. Just below the nose. You’ll see the outline of a trap-door. In direct line down from the signal box.’

Bond rested his forearm against the door jamb and raised the tube to his right eye. He focused it on the patch of black shadow opposite. Slowly the black dissolved into grey. The outline of a huge woman’s face and some lettering appeared. Now Bond could read the lettering. It said: NIYAGARA. MARILYN MONROE VE JOSEPH COTTEN and underneath, the cartoon feature, BONZO FUTBOLOU. Bond inched the glass down the vast pile of Marilyn Monroe’s hair, and the cliff of forehead, and down the two feet of nose to the cavernous nostrils. A faint square showed in the poster. It ran from below the nose into the great alluring curve of the lips. It was about three feet deep. From it, there would be a longish drop to the ground.

Behind Bond there sounded a series of soft clicks. <a id="calibre_link-1914"></a>Kerim held forward his walking-stick. As Bond had supposed, it was a gun, a rifle, with a skeleton butt which was also a twist breech. The squat bulge of a silencer had taken the place of the rubber tip.

‘Barrel from the new 88 Winchester,’ whispered Kerim proudly. ‘Put together for me by a man in Ankara. Takes the .308 cartridge. The short one. Three of them. Give me the glass. I want to get that trap-door lined up before my men go in at the front. Mind if I use your shoulder as a rest?’

‘All right.’ Bond handed Kerim the Sniperscope. Kerim clipped it to the top of the barrel and slid the gun along Bond’s shoulder.

‘Got it,’ whispered Kerim. ‘Where Vavra said. He’s a good man that.’ He lowered his gun just as two policemen appeared at the right-hand corner of the intersection. Bond stiffened.

‘It’s all right,’ whispered Kerim. ‘That’s my boy and the chauffeur.’ He put two fingers in his mouth. A very quick, very low-pitched whistle sounded for a fraction of a second. One of the policemen lifted his hand to the back of his neck. The two policemen turned and walked away, their boots ringing loudly on the paving stones.

‘Few minutes more,’ whispered Kerim. ‘They’ve got to get round the back of that hoarding.’ Bond felt the heavy barrel of the gun slip into place along his right shoulder.

<a id="calibre_link-1915"></a>The moonstruck silence was broken by a loud iron clang from the signal box behind the hoarding. One of the signal arms dropped. A green pinpoint of light showed among the cluster of reds. There was a soft slow rumble in the distance, away to the left by Seraglio Point. It came closer and sorted itself into the heavy pant of an engine and the grinding clangour of a string of badly coupled goods trucks. A faint yellow glimmer shone along the embankment to the left. The engine came labouring into view above the hoarding.

The train slowly clanked by on its hundred-mile journey to the Greek frontier, a broken black silhouette against the silver sea, and the heavy cloud of smoke from its cheap fuel drifted towards them on the still air. As the red light on the brake van glimmered briefly and disappeared, there came the deeper rumble as the engine entered a cutting, and then two harsh, mournful whoops as it whistled its approach to the little station of Buyuk, a mile further down the line.

The rumble of the train died away. Bond felt the gun press deeper into his shoulder. He strained his eyes into the target of shadow. In the centre of it, a deeper square of blackness showed.

Bond cautiously lifted his left hand to shade his eyes from the moon. There came a hiss of breath from behind his right ear. ‘He’s coming.’

Out of the mouth of the huge, shadowed poster, <a id="calibre_link-1916"></a>between the great violet lips, half-open in ecstasy, the dark shape of a man emerged and hung down like a worm from the mouth of a corpse.

The man dropped. A ship going up towards the Bosphorus growled in the night like a sleepless animal in a zoo. Bond felt a prickle of sweat on his forehead. The barrel of the rifle depressed as the man stepped softly off the pavement towards them.

When he’s at the edge of the shadow, he’ll start to run, thought Bond. You damn fool, get the sights further down.

Now. The man bent for a quick sprint across the dazzling white street. He was coming out of the shadow. His right leg was bent forward and his shoulder was twisted to give him momentum.

At Bond’s ear there was the clunk of an axe hitting into a tree-trunk. The man dived forward, his arms outstretched. There was a sharp ‘tok’ as his chin or his forehead hit the ground.

An empty cartridge tinkled down at Bond’s feet. He heard the click of the next round going into the chamber.

The man’s fingers scrabbled briefly at the cobbles. His shoes knocked on the road. Then he lay absolutely still.

Kerim grunted. The rifle came down off Bond’s shoulder, Bond listened to the noises of Kerim folding up the gun and putting away the Sniperscope in its leather case.

<a id="calibre_link-1917"></a>Bond looked away from the sprawling figure in the road, the figure of the man who had been, but was no more. He had a moment of resentment against the life that made him witness these things. The resentment was not against Kerim. Kerim had twice been this man’s target. In a way it had been a long duel, in which the man had fired twice to Kerim’s once. But Kerim was the cleverer, cooler man, and the luckier, and that had been that. But Bond had never killed in cold blood, and he hadn’t liked watching, and helping, someone else do it.

Kerim silently took his arm. They walked slowly away from the scene and back the way they had come.

Kerim seemed to sense Bond’s thoughts. ‘Life is full of death, my friend,’ he said philosophically. ‘And sometimes one is made the instrument of death. I do not regret killing that man. Nor would I regret killing any of those Russians we saw in that office today. They are hard people. With them, what you don’t get from strength, you won’t get from mercy. They are all the same, the Russians. I wish your government would realize it and be strong with them. Just an occasional little lesson in manners like I have taught them tonight.’

‘In power politics, one doesn’t often have the chance of being as quick and neat as you were tonight, Darko. And don’t forget it’s only one of their satellites you’ve punished, one of the men they always find to do their <a id="calibre_link-1918"></a>dirty work. Mark you,’ said Bond, ‘I quite agree about the Russians. They simply don’t understand the carrot. Only the stick has any effect. Basically they’re masochists. They love the knout. That’s why they were so happy under Stalin. He gave it them. I’m not sure how they’re going to react to the scraps of carrot they’re being fed by Khrushchev and Co. As for England, the trouble today is that carrots for all are the fashion. At home and abroad. We don’t show teeth any more – only gums.’

Kerim laughed harshly, but made no comment. They were climbing back up the stinking alley and there was no breath for talk. They rested at the top and then walked slowly towards the trees of the Hippodrome Square.

‘So you forgive me for today?’ It was odd to hear the longing for reassurance in the big man’s usually boisterous voice.

‘Forgive you? Forgive what? Don’t be ridiculous.’ There was affection in Bond’s voice. ‘You’ve got a job to do and you’re doing it. I’ve been very impressed. You’ve got a wonderful set-up here. I’m the one who ought to apologize. I seem to have brought a great deal of trouble down on your head. And you’ve dealt with it. I’ve just tagged along behind. And I’ve got absolutely nowhere with my main job. M. will be getting pretty impatient. Perhaps there’ll be some sort of message at the hotel.’

<a id="calibre_link-1919"></a>But when Kerim took Bond back to the hotel and went with him to the desk there was nothing for Bond. Kerim clapped him on the back. ‘Don’t worry, my friend,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Hope makes a good breakfast. Eat plenty of it. I will send the car in the morning and if nothing has happened I will think of some more little adventures to pass the time. Clean your gun and sleep on it. You both deserve a rest.’

Bond climbed the few stairs and unlocked his door and locked and bolted it behind him. Moonlight filtered through the curtains. He walked across and turned on the pink-shaded lights on the dressing-table. He stripped off his clothes and went into the bathroom and stood for a few minutes under the shower. He thought how much more eventful Saturday the fourteenth had been than Friday the thirteenth. He cleaned his teeth and gargled with a sharp mouthwash to get rid of the taste of the day and turned off the bathroom light and went back into the bedroom.

Bond drew aside one curtain and opened wide the tall windows and stood, holding the curtains open and looking out across the great boomerang curve of water under the riding moon. The night breeze felt wonderfully cool on his naked body. He looked at his watch. It said two o’clock.

Bond gave a shuddering yawn. He let the curtains drop back into place. He bent to switch off the lights on <a id="calibre_link-1920"></a>the dressing-table. Suddenly he stiffened and his heart missed a beat.

There had been a nervous giggle from the shadows at the back of the room. A girl’s voice said, ‘Poor Mister Bond. You must be tired. Come to bed.’

<a id="calibre_link-1922"></a>20 BLACK ON PINK

Bond whirled round. He looked over to the bed, but his eyes were blind from gazing at the moon. He crossed the room and turned on the pink-shaded light by the bed. There was a long body under the single sheet. Brown hair was spread out on the pillow. The tips of fingers showed, holding the sheet up over the face. Lower down the breasts stood up like hills under snow.

Bond laughed shortly. He leaned forward and gave the hair a soft tug. There was a squeak of protest from under the sheet. Bond sat down on the edge of the bed. After a moment’s silence a corner of the sheet was cautiously lowered and one large blue eye inspected him.

‘You look very improper.’ The voice was muffled by the sheet.

‘What about you! And how did you get here?’

<a id="calibre_link-1923"></a>‘I walked down two floors. I live here too.’ The voice was deep and provocative. There was very little accent.

‘Well, I’m going to get into bed.’

The sheet came quickly down to the chin and the girl pulled herself up on the pillows. She was blushing. ‘Oh no. You mustn’t.’

‘But it’s my bed. And anyway you told me to.’ The face was incredibly beautiful. Bond examined it coolly. The blush deepened.

‘That was only a phrase. To introduce myself.’

‘Well I’m very glad to meet you. My name’s James Bond.’

‘Mine’s Tatiana Romanova.’ She sounded the second A of Tatiana and the first A of Romanova very long. ‘My friends call me Tania.’

There was a pause while they looked at each other, the girl with curiosity, and with what might have been relief. Bond with cool surmise.

She was the first to break the silence. ‘You look just like your photographs,’ she blushed again. ‘But you must put something on. It upsets me.’

‘You upset me just as much. That’s called sex. If I got into bed with you it wouldn’t matter. Anyway, what have you got on?’

She pulled the sheet a fraction lower to show a quarter-inch black velvet ribbon round her neck. ‘This.’

Bond looked down into the teasing blue eyes, now <a id="calibre_link-1924"></a>wide as if asking if the ribbon was inadequate. He felt his body getting out of control.

‘Damn you, Tania. Where are the rest of your things? Or did you come down in the lift like that?’

‘Oh no. That would not have been kulturny. They are under the bed.’

‘Well, if you think you are going to get out of this room without …’

Bond left the sentence unfinished. He got up from the bed and went to put on one of the dark blue silk pyjama coats he wore instead of pyjamas.

‘What you are suggesting is not kulturny.’

‘Oh isn’t it,’ said Bond sarcastically. He came back to the bed and pulled up a chair beside it. He smiled down at her. ‘Well I’ll tell you something kulturny. You’re one of the most beautiful women in the world.’

The girl blushed again. She looked at him seriously. ‘Are you speaking the truth? I think my mouth is too big. Am I as beautiful as Western girls? I was once told I look like Greta Garbo. Is that so?’

‘More beautiful,’ said Bond. ‘There is more light in your face. And your mouth isn’t too big. It’s just the right size. For me, anyway.’

‘What is that – “light in the face”? What do you mean?’

Bond meant that she didn’t look to him like a Russian spy. She seemed to show none of the reserve of a spy. <a id="calibre_link-1925"></a>None of the coldness, none of the calculation. She gave the impression of warmth of heart and gaiety. These things shone out through the eyes. He searched for a non-committal phrase. ‘There is a lot of gaiety and fun in your eyes,’ he said lamely.

Tatiana looked serious. ‘That is curious,’ she said. ‘There is not much fun and gaiety in Russia. No one speaks of these things. I have never been told that before.’

Gaiety? She thought, after the last two months? How could she be looking gay? And yet, yes, there was a lightness in her heart. Was she a loose woman by nature? Or was it something to do with this man she had never seen before? Relief about him after the agony of thinking about what she had to do? It was certainly much easier than she had expected. He made it easy – made it fun, with a spice of danger. He was terribly handsome. And he looked very clean. Would he forgive her when they got to London and she told him? Told him that she had been sent to seduce him? Even the night on which she must do it and the number of the room? Surely he wouldn’t mind very much. It was doing him no harm. It was only a way for her to get to England and make those reports. ‘Gaiety and fun in her eyes.’ Well, why not? It was possible. There was a wonderful sense of freedom being alone with a man like this and knowing that she would not be punished for it. It was really terribly exciting.

<a id="calibre_link-1926"></a>‘You are very handsome,’ she said. She searched for a comparison that would give him pleasure. ‘You are like an American film star.’

She was startled by his reaction. ‘For God’s sake! That’s the worst insult you can pay a man!’

She hurried to make good her mistake. How curious that the compliment didn’t please him. Didn’t everyone in the West want to look like a film star? ‘I was lying,’ she said. ‘I wanted to give you pleasure. In fact you are like my favourite hero. He’s in a book by a Russian called Lermontov. I will tell you about him one day.’

One day? Bond thought it was time to get down to business.

‘Now listen, Tania.’ He tried not to look at the beautiful face on the pillow. He fixed his eyes on the point of her chin. ‘We’ve got to stop fooling and be serious. What is all this about? Are you really going to come back to England with me?’ He raised his eyes to hers. It was fatal. She had opened them wide again in that damnable guilelessness.

‘But of course!’

‘Oh!’ Bond was taken aback by the directness of her answer. He looked at her suspiciously. ‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were truthful now. She had stopped flirting.

‘You’re not afraid?’

He saw a shadow cross her eyes. But it was not what <a id="calibre_link-1927"></a>he thought. She had remembered that she had a part to play. She was to be frightened of what she was doing. Terrified. It had sounded so easy, this acting, but now it was difficult. How odd! She decided to compromise.

‘Yes. I am afraid. But not so much now. You will protect me. I thought you would.’

‘Well, yes, of course I will.’ Bond thought of her relatives in Russia. He quickly put the thought out of his mind. What was he doing? Trying to dissuade her from coming? He closed his mind to the consequences he imagined for her. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll look after you.’ And now for the question he had been shirking. He felt a ridiculous embarrassment. The girl wasn’t in the least what he had expected. It was spoiling everything to ask the question. It had to be done.

‘What about the machine?’

Yes. It was as if he had cuffed her across the face. Pain showed in her eyes, and the edge of tears.

She pulled the sheet over her mouth and spoke from behind it. Her eyes above the sheet were cold.

‘So that’s what you want.’

‘Now listen.’ Bond put nonchalance in his voice. ‘This machine’s got nothing to do with you and me. But my people in London want it.’ He remembered security. He added blandly, ‘It’s not all that important. They know all about the machine and they think it’s a wonderful Russian invention. They just want one to copy. Like your <a id="calibre_link-1928"></a>people copy foreign cameras and things.’ God, how lame it sounded!

‘Now you’re lying,’ a big tear rolled out of one wide blue eye and down the soft cheek and on to the pillow. She pulled the sheet up over her eyes.

Bond reached out and put his hand on her arm under the sheet. The arm flinched angrily away.

‘Damn the bloody machine,’ he said impatiently. ‘But for God’s sake, Tania, you must know that I’ve got a job to do. Just say one way or the other and we’ll forget about it. There are lots more things to talk about. We’ve got to arrange our journey and so on. Of course my people want it or they wouldn’t have sent me out to bring you home with it.’

Tatiana dabbed her eyes with the sheet. Brusquely she pulled the sheet down to her shoulders again. She knew that she had been forgetting her job. It had just been that … Oh well. If only he had said the machine didn’t matter to him so long as she would come. But that was too much to hope for. He was right. He had a job to do. So had she.

She looked up at him calmly. ‘I will bring it. Have no fear. But do not let us mention it again. And now listen.’ She sat up straighter on the pillows. ‘We must go tonight.’ She remembered her lesson. ‘It is the only chance. This evening I am on night duty from six o’clock. I shall be alone in the office and I will take the Spektor.’

<a id="calibre_link-1929"></a>Bond’s eyes narrowed. His mind raced as he thought of the problems that would have to be faced. Where to hide her. How to get her out to the first plane after the loss had been discovered. It was going to be a risky business. They would stop at nothing to get her and the Spektor back. Roadblock on the way to the airport. Bomb in the plane. Anything.

‘That’s wonderful, Tania.’ Bond’s voice was casual. ‘We’ll keep you hidden and then we’ll take the first plane tomorrow morning.’

‘Don’t be foolish.’ Tatiana had been warned that here would be some difficult lines in her part. ‘We will take the train. This Orient Express. It leaves at nine tonight. Do you think I haven’t been thinking this thing out? I won’t stay a minute longer in Istanbul than I have to. We will be over the frontier at dawn. You must get the tickets and a passport. I will travel with you as your wife.’ She looked happily up at him. ‘I shall like that. In one of those coupés I have read about. They must be very comfortable. Like a tiny house on wheels. During the day we will talk and read and at night you will stand in the corridor outside our house and guard it.’

‘Like hell I will,’ said Bond. ‘But look here, Tania. That’s crazy. They’re bound to catch up with us somewhere. It’s four days and five nights to London on that train. We’ve got to think of something else.’

<a id="calibre_link-1930"></a>‘I won’t,’ said the girl flatly. ‘That’s the only way I’ll go. If you are clever, how can they find out?’

Oh God, she thought. Why had they insisted on this train? But they had been definite. It was a good place for love, they had said. She would have four days to get him to love her. Then, when they got to London, life would be easy for her. He would protect her. Otherwise, if they flew to London, she would be put straight into prison. The four days were essential. And, they had warned her, we will have men on the train to see you don’t get off. So be careful and obey your orders. Oh God. Oh God. Yet now she longed for those four days with him in the little house on wheels. How curious! It had been her duty to force him. Now it was her passionate desire.

She watched Bond’s thoughtful face. She longed to stretch out a hand to him and reassure him that it would be all right; that this was a harmless konspiratsia to get her to England: that no harm could come to either of them, because that was not the object of the plot.

‘Well, I still think it’s crazy,’ said Bond, wondering what M.’s reaction would be. ‘But I suppose it may work. I’ve got the passport. It will need a Yugoslav visa,’ he looked at her sternly. ‘Don’t think I’m going to take you on the part of the train that goes through Bulgaria, or I shall think you want to kidnap me.’

‘I do.’ Tatiana giggled. ‘That’s exactly what I want to do.’

<a id="calibre_link-1931"></a>‘Now shut up, Tania. We’ve got to work this out. I’ll get the tickets and I’ll have one of our men come along. Just in case. He’s a good man. You’ll like him. Your name’s Caroline Somerset. Don’t forget it. How are you going to get to the train?’

‘Karolin Siomerset,’ the girl turned the name over in her mind. ‘It is a pretty name. And you are Mister Siomerset.’ She laughed happily. ‘That is fun. Do not worry about me. I will come to the train just before it leaves. It is the Sirkeci Station. I know where it is. So that is all. And we do not worry any more. Yes?’

‘Suppose you lose your nerve? Suppose they catch you?’ Suddenly Bond was worried at the girl’s confidence. How could she be so certain? A sharp tingle of suspicion ran down his spine.

‘Before I saw you, I was frightened. Now I am not.’ Tatiana tried to tell herself that this was the truth. Somehow it nearly was. ‘Now I shall not lose my nerve, as you call it. And they cannot catch me. I shall leave my things in the hotel and take my usual bag to the office. I cannot leave my fur coat behind. I love it too dearly. But today is Sunday and that will be an excuse to come to the office in it. Tonight at half-past eight I shall walk out and take a taxi to the station. And now you must stop looking so worried.’ Impulsively, because she had to, she stretched out a hand towards him. ‘Say that you are pleased.’

<a id="calibre_link-1932"></a>Bond moved to the edge of the bed. He took her hand and looked down into her eyes. God, he thought. I hope it’s all right. I hope this crazy plan will work. Is this wonderful girl a cheat? Is she true? Is she real? The eyes told him nothing except that the girl was happy, and that she wanted him to love her, and that she was surprised at what was happening to her. Tatiana’s other hand came up and round his neck and pulled him fiercely down to her. At first the mouth trembled under his and then, as passion took her, the mouth yielded into a kiss without end.

Bond lifted his legs on to the bed. While his mouth went on kissing her, his hand went to her left breast and held it, feeling the peak hard with desire under his fingers. His hand strayed on down across her flat stomach. Her legs shifted languidly. She moaned softly and her mouth slid away from his. Below the closed eyes the long lashes quivered like humming birds’ wings.

Bond reached up and took the edge of the sheet and pulled it right down and threw it off the end of the huge bed. She was wearing nothing but the black ribbon round her neck and black silk stockings rolled above her knees. Her arms groped up for him.

Above them, and unknown to both of them, behind the gold-framed false mirror on the wall over the bed, <a id="calibre_link-1933"></a>the two photographers from SMERSH sat close together in the cramped cabinet de voyeur, as, before them, so many friends of the proprietor had sat on a honeymoon night in the stateroom of the Kristal Palas.

And the view-finders gazed coldly down on the passionate arabesques the two bodies formed and broke and formed again, and the clockwork mechanism of the cine-cameras whirred softly on and on as the breath rasped out of the open mouths of the two men and the sweat of excitement trickled down their bulging faces into their cheap collars.

<a id="calibre_link-1935"></a>21 ORIENT EXPRESS

The great trains are going out all over Europe, one by one, but still, three times a week, the Orient Express thunders superbly over the 1,400 miles of glittering steel track between Istanbul and Paris.

Under the arc-lights, the long-chassied German locomotive panted quietly with the laboured breath of a dragon dying of asthma. Each heavy breath seemed certain to be the last. Then came another. Wisps of steam rose from the couplings between the carriages and died quickly in the warm August air. The Orient Express was the only live train in the ugly, cheaply architectured burrow that is Istanbul’s main station. The trains on the other lines were engineless and unattended – waiting for tomorrow. Only Track No. 3, and its platform, throbbed with the tragic poetry of departure.

The heavy bronze cipher on the side of the dark blue <a id="calibre_link-1936"></a>coach said, COMPAGNIE INTERNATIONALE DES WAGON-LITS ET DES GRANDS EXPRESS EUROPÉENS. Above the cipher, fitted into metal slots, was a flat iron sign that announced, in black capitals on white, ORIENT EXPRESS, and underneath, in three lines:

ISTANBUL – THESSALONIKI – BEOGRAD VENEZIA – MILAN LAUSANNE – PARIS

James Bond gazed vaguely at one of the most romantic signs in the world. For the tenth time he looked at his watch. 8.51. His eyes went back to the sign. All the towns were spelled in the language of the country except MILAN. Why not MILANO? Bond took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Where the hell was the girl? Had she been caught? Had she had second thoughts? Had he been too rough with her last night, or rather this morning, in the great bed?

8.55. The quiet pant of the engine had stopped. There came an echoing whoosh as the automatic safety-valve let off the excess steam. A hundred yards away, through the milling crowd, Bond watched the station-master raise a hand to the engine driver and fireman and start walking slowly back down the train, banging the doors of the third-class carriages up front. Passengers, mostly peasants going back into Greece after a week-end with their relatives in Turkey, hung out of the windows and <a id="calibre_link-1937"></a>jabbered at the grinning crowd below.

Beyond, where the faded arc-lights stopped and the dark blue night and the stars showed through the crescent mouth of the station, Bond saw a red pinpoint turn to green.

The station-master came nearer. The brown uniformed wagon-lit attendant tapped Bond on the arm. ‘En voiture, s’il vous plaît.’ The two rich-looking Turks kissed their mistresses – they were too pretty to be wives – and, with a barrage of laughing injunctions, stepped on to the little iron pedestal and up the two tall steps into the carriage. There were no other wagon-lit travellers on the platform. The conductor, with an impatient glance at the tall Englishman, picked up the iron pedestal and climbed with it into the train.

The station-master strode purposefully by. Two more compartments, the first- and second-class carriages, and then, when he reached the guard’s van, he would lift the dirty green flag.

There was no hurrying figure coming up the platform from the guichet. High up above the guichet, near the ceiling of the station, the minute hand of the big illuminated clock jumped forward an inch and said ‘Nine’.

A window banged down above Bond’s head. Bond looked up. His immediate reaction was that the black veil was too wide-meshed. The intention to disguise the luxurious mouth and the excited blue eyes was amateurish.

<a id="calibre_link-1938"></a>‘Quick.’

The train had begun to move. Bond reached for the passing hand-rail and swung up on to the step. The attendant was still holding open the door. Bond stepped unhurriedly through.

‘Madam was late,’ said the attendant. ‘She came along the corridor. She must have entered by the last carriage.’

Bond went down the carpeted corridor to the centre coupé. A black 7 stood above a black 8 on the white metal lozenge. The door was ajar. Bond walked in and shut it behind him. The girl had taken off her veil and her black straw hat. She was sitting in the corner by the window. A long, sleek sable coat was thrown open to show a natural coloured shantung dress with a pleated skirt, honey-coloured nylons and a black crocodile belt and shoes. She looked composed.

‘You have no faith, James.’

Bond sat down beside her. ‘Tania,’ he said, ‘if there was a bit more room I’d put you across my knee and spank you. You nearly gave me heart failure. What happened?’

‘Nothing,’ said Tatiana innocently. ‘What could happen? I said I would be here, and I am here. You have no faith. Since I am sure you are more interested in my dowry than in me, it is up there.’

Bond looked casually up. Two small cases were on the rack beside his suitcase. He took her hand. He said, ‘Thank God you’re safe.’

<a id="calibre_link-1939"></a>Something in his eyes, perhaps the flash of guilt, as he admitted to himself that he had been more interested in the girl than the machine, reassured her. She kept his hand in hers and sank contentedly back in her corner.

The train screeched slowly round Seraglio Point. The lighthouse lit up the roofs of the dreary shacks along the railway line. With his free hand Bond took out a cigarette and lit it. He reflected that they would soon be passing the back of the great bill-board where Krilencu had lived – until less than twenty-four hours ago. Bond saw again the scene in every detail. The white cross roads, the two men in the shadows, the doomed man slipping out through the purple lips.

The girl watched his face with tenderness. What was this man thinking? What was going on behind those cold level grey-blue eyes that sometimes turned soft and sometimes, as they had done last night before his passion had burned out in her arms, blazed like diamonds. Now they were veiled in thought. Was he worrying about them both? Worrying about their safety? If only she could tell him that there was nothing to fear, that he was only her passport to England – him and the heavy case the Resident Director had given her that evening in the office. The Director had said the same thing. ‘Here is your passport to England, Corporal,’ he had said cheerfully. ‘Look.’ He had unzipped the bag: ‘A brand new Spektor. Be certain not to open the bag again or let it <a id="calibre_link-1940"></a>out of your compartment until you get to the other end. Or this Englishman will take it away from you and throw you on the dust-heap. It is this machine they want. Do not let them take it from you, or you will have failed in your duty. Understood?’

A signal box loomed up in the blue dusk outside the window. Tatiana watched Bond get up and pull down the window and crane out into the darkness. His body was close to her. She moved her knee so that it touched him. How extraordinary, this passionate tenderness that had filled her ever since she had seen him last night standing naked at the window, his arms up to hold the curtains back, his profile, under the tousled black hair, intent and pale in the moonlight. And then the extraordinary fusing of their eyes and their bodies. The flame that had suddenly lit between them – between the two secret agents, thrown together from enemy camps a whole world apart, each involved in his own plot against the country of the other, antagonists by profession, yet turned, and by the orders of their governments, into lovers.

Tatiana stretched out a hand and caught hold of the edge of the coat and tugged at it. Bond pulled up the window and turned. He smiled down at her. He read her eyes. He bent and put his hands on the fur over her breasts and kissed her hard on the lips. Tatiana leant back, dragging him with her.

<a id="calibre_link-1941"></a>There came a soft double knock on the door. Bond stood up. He pulled out his handkerchief and brusquely scrubbed the rouge off his lips. ‘That’ll be my friend Kerim,’ he said. ‘I must talk to him. I will tell the conductor to make up the beds. Stay here while he does it. I won’t be long. I shall be outside the door.’ He leant forward and touched her hand and looked at her wide eyes and at her rueful, half-open lips. ‘We shall have all the night to ourselves. First I must see that you are safe.’ He unlocked the door and slipped out.

Darko Kerim’s huge bulk was blocking the corridor. He was leaning on the brass guard-rail, smoking and gazing moodily out towards the Sea of Marmara that receded as the long train snaked away from the coast and turned inland and northwards. Bond leaned on the rail beside him. Kerim looked into the reflection of Bond’s face in the dark window. He said softly, ‘The news is not good. There are three of them on the train.’

‘Ah!’ An electric tingle ran up Bond’s spine.

‘It’s the three strangers we saw in that room. Obviously they’re on to you and the girl.’ Kerim glanced sharply sideways. ‘That makes her a double. Or doesn’t it?’

Bond’s mind was cool. So the girl had been bait. And yet, and yet. No, damn it. She couldn’t be acting. It wasn’t possible. The cipher machine? Perhaps after all it wasn’t in that bag. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said. He turned and knocked softly on the door. He heard her unlock it <a id="calibre_link-1942"></a>and slip the chain. He went in and shut the door. She looked surprised. She had thought it was the conductor come to make up the beds.

She smiled radiantly. ‘You have finished?’

‘Sit down, Tatiana. I’ve got to talk to you.’

Now she saw the coldness in his face and her smile went out. She sat down obediently with her hands in her lap.

Bond stood over her. Was there guilt in her face, or fear? No, only surprise and a coolness to match his own expression.

‘Now listen, Tatiana,’ Bond’s voice was deadly. ‘Something’s come up. I must look into that bag and see if the machine is there.’

She said indifferently, ‘Take it down and look.’ She examined the hands in her lap. So now it was going to come. What the Director had said. They were going to take the machine and throw her aside, perhaps have her put off the train. Oh God! This man was going to do that to her.

Bond reached up and hauled down the heavy case and put it on the seat. He tore the zip sideways and looked in. Yes, a grey japanned metal case with three rows of squat keys, rather like a typewriter. He held the bag open towards her. ‘Is that a Spektor?’

She glanced casually into the gaping bag. ‘Yes.’

Bond zipped the bag shut and put it back on the rack. <a id="calibre_link-1943"></a>He sat down beside the girl. ‘There are three M.G.B. men on the train. We know they are the ones who arrived at your centre on Monday. What are they doing here, Tatiana?’ Bond’s voice was soft. He watched her, searched her with all his senses.

She looked up. There were tears in her eyes. Were they the tears of a child found out? But there was no trace of guilt in her face. She only looked terrified of something.

She reached out a hand and then drew it back. ‘You aren’t going to throw me off the train now you’ve got the machine?’

‘Of course not,’ Bond said impatiently. ‘Don’t be idiotic. But we must know what these men are doing. What’s it all about? Did you know they were going to be on the train?’ He tried to read some clue in her expression. He could only see a great relief. And what else? A look of calculation? Of reserve? Yes, she was hiding something. But what?

Tatiana seemed to make up her mind. Brusquely she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes. She reached forward and put the hand on his knee. The streak of tears showed on the back of the hand. She looked into Bond’s eyes, forcing him to believe her.

‘James,’ she said. ‘I did not know these men were on the train. I was told they were leaving today. For Germany. I assumed they would fly. That is all I can tell <a id="calibre_link-1944"></a>you. Until we arrive in England, out of reach of my people, you must not ask me more. I have done what I said I would. I am here with the machine. Have faith in me. Do not be afraid for us. I am certain these men do not mean us harm. Absolutely certain. Have faith.’ (Was she so certain, wondered Tatiana? Had the Klebb woman told her all the truth? But she also must have faith – faith in the orders she had been given. These men must be the guards to see that she didn’t get off the train. They could mean no harm. Later, when they got to London, this man would hide her away out of reach of SMERSH and she would tell him everything he wanted to know. She had already decided this in the back of her mind. But God knew what would happen if she betrayed Them now. They would somehow get her, and him. She knew it. There were no secrets from these people. And They would have no mercy. So long as she played out her role, all would be well.) Tatiana watched Bond’s face for a sign that he believed her.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. He stood up. ‘I don’t know what to think, Tatiana,’ he said. ‘You are keeping something from me, but I think it’s something you don’t know is important. And I believe you think we are safe. We may be. It may be a coincidence that these men are on the train. I must talk to Kerim and decide what to do. Don’t worry. We will look after you. But now we must be very careful.’

<a id="calibre_link-1945"></a>Bond looked round the compartment. He tried the communicating door with the next coupé. It was locked. He decided to wedge it when the conductor had gone. He would do the same for the door into the passage. And he would have to stay awake. So much for the honeymoon on wheels! Bond smiled grimly to himself and rang for the conductor. Tatiana was looking anxiously up at him. ‘Don’t worry, Tania,’ he said again. ‘Don’t worry about anything. Go to bed when the man has gone. Don’t open the door unless you know it’s me. I will sit up tonight and watch. Perhaps tomorrow it will be easier. I will make a plan with Kerim. He is a good man.’

The conductor knocked. Bond let him in and went out into the corridor. Kerim was still there gazing out. The train had picked up speed and was hurtling through the night, its harsh melancholy whistle echoing back at them from the walls of a deep cutting against the sides of which the lighted carriage windows flickered and danced. Kerim didn’t move, but his eyes in the mirror of the window were watchful.

Bond told him of the conversation. It was not easy to explain to Kerim why he trusted the girl as he did. He watched the mouth in the window curl ironically as he tried to describe what he had read in her eyes and what his intuition told him.

Kerim sighed resignedly. ‘James,’ he said, ‘you are now <a id="calibre_link-1946"></a>in charge. This is your part of the operation. We have already argued most of this out today – the danger of the train, the possibility of getting the machine home in the diplomatic bag, the integrity, or otherwise, of this girl. It certainly appears that she has surrendered unconditionally to you. At the same time you admit that you have surrendered to her. Perhaps only partially. But you have decided to trust her. In this morning’s telephone talk with M. he said that he would back your decision. He left it to you. So be it. But he didn’t know we were to have an escort of three M.G.B. men. Nor did we. And I think that would have changed all our views. Yes?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the only thing to do is eliminate these three men. Get them off the train. God knows what they’re here for. I don’t believe in coincidences any more than you. But one thing is certain. We are not going to share the train with these men. Right?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then leave it to me. At least for tonight. This is still my country and I have certain powers in it. And plenty of money. I cannot afford to kill them. The train would be delayed. You and the girl might get involved. But I shall arrange something. Two of them have sleeping berths. The senior man with the moustache and the little pipe is next door to you – here, in No. 6.’ He gestured backwards with his head. ‘He is travelling on a German <a id="calibre_link-1947"></a>passport under the name of “Melchior Benz, salesman”. The dark one, the Armenian, is in No. 12. He, too, has a German passport – “Kurt Goldfarb, construction engineer”. They have through tickets to Paris. I have seen their documents. I have a police card. The conductor made no trouble. He has all the tickets and passports in his cabin. The third man, the man with a boil on the back of his neck, turns out also to have boils on his face. A stupid, ugly looking brute. I have not seen his passport. He is travelling sitting up in the first-class, in the next compartment to me. He does not have to surrender his passport until the frontier. But he has surrendered his ticket.’ Like a conjuror, Kerim flicked a yellow first-class ticket out of his coat pocket. He slipped it back. He grinned proudly at Bond.

‘How the hell?’

Kerim chuckled. ‘Before he settled down for the night, this dumb ox went to the lavatory. I was standing in the corridor and I suddenly remembered how we used to steal rides on the train when I was a boy. I gave him a minute. Then I walked up and rattled the lavatory door. I hung on to the handle very tight. “Ticket collector,” I said in a loud voice. “Tickets please.” I said it in French and again in German. There was a mumble from inside. I felt him try to open the door. I hung on tight so that he would think the door had stuck. “Do not derange yourself, Monsieur,” I said politely. “Push the ticket under <a id="calibre_link-1948"></a>the door.” There was more fiddling with the door handle and I could hear heavy breathing. Then there was a pause and a rustle under the door. There was the ticket. I said, “Merci, Monsieur” very politely. I picked up the ticket and stepped across the coupling into the next carriage.’ Kerim airily waved a hand. ‘The stupid oaf will be sleeping peacefully by now. He will think that his ticket will be given back to him at the frontier. He is mistaken. The ticket will be in ashes and the ashes will be on the four winds,’ Kerim gestured towards the darkness outside. ‘I will see that the man is put off the train, however much money he has got. He will be told that the circumstances must be investigated, his statements corroborated with the ticket agency. He will be allowed to proceed on a later train.’

Bond smiled at the picture of Kerim playing his private school trick. ‘You’re a card, Darko. What about the other two?’

Darko Kerim shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘Something will occur to me,’ he said confidently. ‘The way to catch Russians is to make them look foolish. Embarrass them. Laugh at them. They can’t stand it. We will somehow make these men sweat. Then we will leave it to the M.G.B. to punish them for failing in their duty. Doubtless they will be shot by their own people.’

While they were talking, the conductor had come out of No. 7. Kerim turned to Bond and put a hand on his <a id="calibre_link-1949"></a>shoulder. ‘Have no fear, James,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We will defeat these people. Go to your girl. We will meet again in the morning. We shall not sleep much tonight, but that cannot be helped. Every day is different. Perhaps we shall sleep tomorrow.’

Bond watched the big man move off easily down the swaying corridor. He noticed that, despite the movement of the train, Kerim’s shoulders never touched the walls of the corridor. Bond felt a wave of affection for the tough, cheerful professional spy.

Kerim disappeared into the conductor’s cabin. Bond turned and knocked softly on the door of No. 7.

<a id="calibre_link-1951"></a>22 OUT OF TURKEY

The train howled on through the night. Bond sat and watched the hurrying moonlit landscape and concentrated on keeping awake.

Everything conspired to make him sleep – the hasty metal gallop of the wheels, the hypnotic swoop of the silver telegraph wires, the occasional melancholy, reassuring moan of the steam whistle clearing their way, the drowsy metallic clatter of the couplings at each end of the corridor, the lullaby creak of the woodwork in the little room. Even the deep violet glimmer of the night-light above the door seemed to say, ‘I will watch for you. Nothing can happen while I am burning. Close your eyes and sleep, sleep.’

The girl’s head was warm and heavy on his lap. There was so obviously just room for him to slip under the single sheet and fit close up against her, the front of his <a id="calibre_link-1952"></a>thighs against the backs of hers, his head in the spread curtain of her hair on the pillow.

Bond screwed up his eyes and opened them again. He cautiously lifted his wrist. Four o’clock. Only one more hour to the Turkish frontier. Perhaps he would be able to sleep during the day. He would give her the gun and wedge the doors again and she could watch. He looked down at the beautiful sleeping profile. How innocent she looked, this girl from the Russian Secret Service – the lashes fringing the soft swell of the cheek, the lips parted and unaware, the long strand of hair that had strayed untidily across her forehead and that he wanted to brush back neatly to join the rest, the steady slow throb of the pulse in the offered neck. He felt a surge of tenderness and the impulse to gather her up in his arms and strain her tight against him. He wanted her to wake, from a dream perhaps, so that he could kiss her and tell her that everything was all right, and see her settle happily back to sleep.

The girl had insisted on sleeping like this. ‘I won’t go to sleep unless you hold me,’ she had said. ‘I must know you’re there all the time. It would be terrible to wake up and not be touching you. Please James. Please duschka.’

Bond had taken off his coat and tie and had arranged himself in the corner with his feet up on his suitcase and the Beretta under the pillow within reach of his hand. She had made no comment about the gun. She had taken <a id="calibre_link-1953"></a>off all her clothes, except the black ribbon round her throat, and had pretended not to be provocative as she scrambled impudically into bed and wriggled herself into a comfortable position. She had held up her arms to him. Bond had pulled her head back by her hair and had kissed her once, long and cruelly. Then he had told her to go to sleep and had leant back and waited icily for his body to leave him alone. Grumbling sleepily, she had settled herself, with one arm flung across his thighs. At first she had held him tightly, but her arm had gradually relaxed and then she was asleep.

Brusquely Bond closed his mind to the thought of her and focused on the journey ahead.

Soon they would be out of Turkey. But would Greece be any easier? No love lost between Greece and England. And Yugoslavia? Whose side was Tito on? Probably both. Whatever the orders of the three M.G.B. men, either they already knew Bond and Tatiana were on the train or they would soon find out. He and the girl couldn’t sit for four days in this coupé with the blinds drawn. Their presence would be reported back to Istanbul, telephoned from some station, and by the morning the loss of the Spektor would have been discovered. Then what? A hasty démarche through the Russian Embassy in Athens or Belgrade? Have the girl taken off the train as a thief? Or was that all too simple? And if it was more complicated – if all this was part of some <a id="calibre_link-1954"></a>mysterious plot, some tortuous Russian conspiracy – should he dodge it? Should he and the girl leave the train at a wayside station, on the wrong side of the track, and hire a car and somehow get a plane to London?

Outside, the luminous dawn had begun to edge the racing trees and rocks with blue. Bond looked at his watch. Five o’ clock. They would soon be at Uzunkopru. What was going on down the train behind him? What had Kerim achieved?

Bond sat back, relaxed. After all there was a simple, common-sense answer to his problem. If, between them, they could quickly get rid of the three M.G.B. agents, they would stick to the train and to their original plan. If not, Bond would get the girl and the machine off the train, somewhere in Greece, and take another route home. But, if the odds improved, Bond was for going on. He and Kerim were resourceful men. Kerim had an agent in Belgrade who was going to meet the train. There was always the Embassy.

Bond’s mind raced on, adding up the pros, dismissing the cons. Behind his reasoning, Bond calmly admitted to himself that he had an insane desire to play the game out and see what it was all about. He wanted to take these people on and solve the mystery and, if it was some sort of a plot, defeat it. M had left him in charge. He had the girl and the machine under his hand. Why panic? What was there to panic about? It <a id="calibre_link-1955"></a>would be mad to run away and perhaps only escape one trap in order to fall into another one.

The train gave a long whistle and began to slacken speed.

Now for the first round. If Kerim failed. If the three men stayed on the train …

Some goods-trucks, led by a straining engine, filed by. The silhouette of sheds showed briefly. With a jolt and a screech of couplings, the Orient Express took the points and swerved away from the through line. Four sets of rails with grass growing between them showed outside the window, and the empty length of the down platform. A cock crowed. The express slowed to walking speed and finally, with a sigh of hydraulic brakes and a noisy whoosh of let-off steam, ground to a stop. The girl stirred in her sleep. Bond softly shifted her head on to the pillow and got up and slipped out of the door.

It was a typical Balkan wayside station – a façade of dour buildings in over-pointed stone, a dusty expanse of platform, not raised, but level with the ground so that there was a long step down from the train, some chickens pecking about and a few drab officials standing idly, unshaven, not even trying to look important. Up towards the cheap half of the train, a chattering horde of peasants with bundles and wicker baskets waited for the customs and passport control so that they could clamber aboard and join the swarm inside.

<a id="calibre_link-1956"></a>Across the platform from Bond was a closed door with a sign over it which said POLIS. Through the dirty window beside the door Bond thought he caught a glimpse of the head and shoulders of Kerim.

‘Passeports. Douanes!’

A plain-clothes man and two policemen in dark green uniform with pistol holsters at their black belts entered the corridor. The wagon-lit conductor preceded them, knocking on the doors.

At the door of No. 12 the conductor made an indignant speech in Turkish, holding out the stack of tickets and passports and fanning through them as if they were a pack of cards. When he had finished, the plain-clothes man, beckoning forward the two policemen, knocked smartly on the door and, when it was opened, stepped inside. The two policemen stood guard behind him.

Bond edged down the corridor. He could hear a jumble of bad German. One voice was cold, the other was frightened and hot. The passport and ticket of Herr Kurt Goldfarb were missing. Had Herr Goldfarb removed them from the conductor’s cabin? Certainly not. Had Herr Goldfarb in truth ever surrendered his papers to the conductor? Naturally. Then the matter was unfortunate. An inquiry would have to be held. No doubt the German Legation in Istanbul would put the matter right (Bond smiled at this suggestion). Meanwhile, it was regretted that Herr Goldfarb could not continue his <a id="calibre_link-1957"></a>journey. No doubt he would be able to proceed tomorrow. Herr Goldfarb would get dressed. His luggage would be transported to the waiting-room.

The M.G.B. man who erupted into the corridor was the dark Caucasian type man, the junior of the ‘visitors’. His sallow face was grey with fear. His hair was awry and he was dressed only in the bottom half of his pyjamas. But there was nothing comical about his desperate flurry down the corridor. He brushed past Bond. At the door of No. 6 he paused and pulled himself together. He knocked with tense control. The door opened on the chain and Bond glimpsed a thick nose and part of a moustache. The chain was slipped and Goldfarb went in. There was silence, during which the plain-clothes man dealt with the papers of two elderly French women in 9 and 10, and then with Bond’s.

The officer barely glanced at Bond’s passport. He snapped it shut and handed it to the conductor. ‘You are travelling with Kerim Bey?’ he asked in French. His eyes were remote.

‘Yes.’

‘Merci, Monsieur. Bon voyage.’ The man saluted. He turned and rapped sharply on the door of No. 6. The door opened and he went in.

Five minutes later the door was flung back. The plainclothes man, now erect with authority, beckoned forward the policemen. He spoke to them harshly in Turkish. <a id="calibre_link-1958"></a>He turned back to the coupé. ‘Consider yourself under arrest, Mein Herr. Attempted bribery of officials is a grave crime in Turkey.’ There was an angry clamour in Goldfarb’s bad German. It was cut short by one hard sentence in Russian. A different Goldfarb, a Goldfarb with madman’s eyes, emerged and walked blindly down the corridor and went into No. 12. A policeman stood outside the door and waited.

‘And your papers, Mein Herr. Please step forward. I must verify this photograph.’ The plain-clothes man held the green-backed German passport up to the light. ‘Forward please.’

Reluctantly, his heavy face pale with anger, the M.G.B. man who called himself Benz stepped out into the corridor in a brilliant blue silk dressing-gown. The hard brown eyes looked straight into Bond’s, ignoring him.

The plain-clothes man slapped the passport shut and handed it to the conductor. ‘Your papers are in order, Mein Herr. And now, if you please, the baggage.’ He went in, followed by the second policeman. The M.G.B. man turned his blue back on Bond and watched the search.

Bond noticed the bulge under the left arm of the dressing-gown, and the ridge of a belt round the waist. He wondered if he should tip off the plain-clothes man. He decided it would be better to keep quiet. He might be hauled in as a witness.

<a id="calibre_link-1959"></a>The search was over. The plain-clothes man saluted coldly and moved on down the corridor. The M.G.B. man went back into No. 6 and slammed the door behind him.

Pity, thought Bond. One had got away.

Bond turned back to the window. A bulky man, wearing a grey Homburg, and with an angry boil on the back of his neck, was being escorted through the door marked POLIS. Down the corridor a door slammed. Goldfarb, escorted by the policeman, stepped down off the train. With bent head, he walked across the dusty platform and disappeared through the same door.

The engine whistled, a new kind of whistle, the brave shrill blast of a Greek engine-driver. The door of the wagon-lit carriage clanged shut. The plain-clothes man and the second policeman appeared walking over to the station. The guard at the back of the train looked at his watch and held out his flag. There was a jerk and a diminishing crescendo of explosive puffs from the engine and the front section of the Orient Express began to move. The section that would be taking the northern route through the Iron Curtain – through Dragoman on the Bulgarian frontier, only fifty miles away – was left beside the dusty platform, waiting.

Bond pulled down the window and took a last look back at the Turkish frontier, where two men would be sitting in a bare room under what amounted to sentence <a id="calibre_link-1960"></a>of death. Two birds down, he thought. Two out of three. The odds looked more respectable.

He watched the dead, dusty platform, with its chickens and the small black figure of the guard, until the long train took the points and jerked harshly on to the single main line. He looked away across the ugly, parched countryside towards the golden guinea sun climbing out of the Turkish plain. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Bond drew his head in out of the cool, sweet morning air. He pulled up the window with a bang.

He had made up his mind. He would stay on the train and see the thing through.

<a id="calibre_link-1962"></a>23 OUT OF GREECE

Hot coffee from the meagre little buffet at Pithion (there would be no restaurant car until midday), a painless visit from the Greek customs and passport control, and then the berths were folded away as the train hurried south towards the Gulf of Enez at the head of the Aegean. Outside, there was extra light and colour. The air was drier. The men at the little stations and in the fields were handsome. Sunflowers, maize, vines and racks of tobacco were ripening in the sun. It was, as Darko had said, another day.

Bond washed and shaved under the amused eyes of Tatiana. She approved of the fact that he put no oil on his hair. ‘It is a dirty habit,’ she said. ‘I was told that many Europeans have it. We would not think of doing it in Russia. It dirties the pillows. But it is odd that you in the West do not use perfume. All our men do.’

<a id="calibre_link-1963"></a>‘We wash,’ said Bond dryly.

In the heat of her protests, there came a knock on the door. It was Kerim. Bond let him in. Kerim bowed towards the girl. ‘What a charming domestic scene,’ he commented cheerfully, lowering his bulk into the corner near the door. ‘I have rarely seen a handsomer pair of spies.’

Tatiana glowered at him. ‘I am not accustomed to Western jokes,’ she said coldly.

Kerim’s laugh was disarming. ‘You’ll learn, my dear. In England, they are great people for jokes. There it is considered proper to make a joke of everything. I also have learned to make jokes. They grease the wheels. I have been laughing a lot this morning. Those poor fellows at Uzunkopru. I wish I could be there when the police telephone the German Consulate in Istanbul. That is the worst of forged passports. They are not difficult to make, but it is almost impossible to forge also their birth certificate – the files of the country which is supposed to have issued them. I fear the careers of your two comrades have come to a sad end, Mrs Somerset.’

‘How did you do it?’ Bond knotted his tie.

‘Money and influence. Five hundred dollars to the conductor. Some big talk to the police. It was lucky our friend tried a bribe. A pity that crafty Benz next door,’ he gestured at the wall, ‘didn’t get involved. I couldn’t do the passport trick twice. We will have to get him <a id="calibre_link-1964"></a>some other way. The man with the boils was easy. He knew no German and travelling without a ticket is a serious matter. Ah well, the day has started favourably. We have won the first round, but our friend next door will now be very careful. He knows what he has to reckon with. Perhaps that is for the best. It would have been a nuisance having to keep you both under cover all day. Now we can move about – even have lunch together, as long as you bring the family jewels with you. We must watch to see if he makes a telephone call at one of the stations. But I doubt if he could tackle the Greek telephone exchange. He will probably wait until we are in Yugoslavia. But there I have my machine. We can get reinforcements if we need them. It should be a most interesting journey. There is always excitement on the Orient Express,’ Kerim got to his feet. He opened the door, ‘and romance.’ He smiled across the compartment. ‘I will call for you at lunchtime! Greek food is worse than Turkish, but even my stomach is in the service of the Queen.’

Bond got up and locked the door. Tatiana snapped, ‘Your friend is not kulturny! It is disloyal to refer to your Queen in that manner.’

Bond sat down beside her. ‘Tania,’ he said patiently, ‘that is a wonderful man. He is also a good friend. As far as I am concerned he can say anything he likes. He is jealous of me. He would like to have a girl like you. <a id="calibre_link-1965"></a>So he teases you. It is a form of flirting. You should take it as a compliment.’

‘You think so?’ she turned her large blue eyes on his. ‘But what he said about his stomach and the head of your State. That was being rude to your Queen. It would be considered very bad manners to say such a thing in Russia.’

They were still arguing when the train ground to a halt in the sun-baked, fly-swarming station of Alexandropolis. Bond opened the door into the corridor and the sun poured in across a pale mirrored sea that married, almost without horizon, into a sky the colour of the Greek flag.

They had lunch, with the heavy bag under the table between Bond’s feet. Kerim quickly made friends with the girl. The M.G.B. man called Benz avoided the restaurant car. They saw him on the platform buying sandwiches and beer from a buffet on wheels. Kerim suggested they ask him to make a four at bridge. Bond suddenly felt very tired and his tiredness made him feel that they were turning this dangerous journey into a picnic. Tatiana noticed his silence. She got up and said that she must rest. As they went out of the wagon-restaurant they heard Kerim calling gaily for brandy and cigars.

Back in the compartment, Tatiana said firmly, ‘Now it is you who will sleep.’ She drew down the blind and <a id="calibre_link-1966"></a>shut out the hard afternoon light and the endless baked fields of maize and tobacco and wilting sunflowers. The compartment became a dark green underground cavern. Bond wedged the doors and gave her his gun and stretched out with his head in her lap and was immediately asleep.

The long train snaked along the north of Greece below the foothills of the Rhodope Mountains. Xanthi came, and Drama, and Serrai, and then they were in the Macedonian highlands and the line swerved due south towards Salonica.

It was dusk when Bond awoke in the soft cradle of her lap. At once, as if she had been waiting for the moment, Tatiana took his face between her hands and looked down into his eyes and said urgently, ‘Dushka, how long shall we have this for?’

‘For long.’ Bond’s thoughts were still luxurious with sleep.

‘But for how long?’

Bond gazed up into the beautiful, worried eyes. He cleared the sleep out of his mind. It was impossible to see beyond the next three days on the train, beyond their arrival in London. One had to face the fact that this girl was an enemy agent. His feelings would be of no interest to the interrogators from his Service and from the Ministries. Other intelligence services would also want to know what this girl had to tell them about the machine <a id="calibre_link-1967"></a>she had worked for. Probably at Dover she would be taken away to ‘The Cage’, that well-sentried private house near Guildford, where she would be put in a comfortable, but oh so well-wired room. And the efficient men in plain clothes would come one by one and sit and talk with her, and the recorder would spin in the room below and the records would be transcribed and sifted for their grains of new fact – and, of course, for the contradictions they would trap her into. Perhaps they would introduce a stool-pigeon – a nice Russian girl who would commiserate with Tatiana over her treatment and suggest ways of escape, of turning double, of getting ‘harmless’ information back to her parents. This might go on for weeks or months. Meanwhile Bond would be tactfully kept away from her, unless the interrogators thought he could extract further secrets by using their feelings for each other. Then what? The changed name, the offer of a new life in Canada, the thousand pounds a year she would be given from the secret funds? And where would he be when she came out of it all? Perhaps the other side of the world. Or, if he was still in London, how much of her feeling for him would have survived the grinding of the interrogation machine? How much would she hate or despise the English after going through all this? And, for the matter of that, how much would have survived of his own hot flame?

‘Dushka,’ repeated Tatiana impatiently. ‘How long?’

<a id="calibre_link-1968"></a>‘As long as possible. It will depend on us. Many people will interfere. We shall be separated. It will not always be like this in a little room. In a few days we shall have to step out into the world. It will not be easy. It would be foolish to tell you anything else.’

Tatiana’s face cleared. She smiled down at him. ‘You are right. I will not ask any more foolish questions. But we must waste no more of these days.’ She shifted his head and got up and lay down beside him.

An hour later, when Bond was standing in the corridor, Darko Kerim was suddenly beside him. He examined Bond’s face. He said slyly, ‘You should not sleep so long. You have been missing the historic landscape of northern Greece. And it is time for the premier service.’

‘All you think about is food,’ said Bond. He gestured back with his head. ‘What about our friend?’

‘He has not stirred. The conductor has been watching for me. That man will end up the richest conductor in the wagon-lit company. Five hundred dollars for Goldfarb’s papers, and now a hundred dollars a day retainer until the end of the journey.’ Kerim chuckled. ‘I have told him he may even get a medal for his services to Turkey. He believes we are after a smuggling gang. They’re always using this train for running Turkish opium to Paris. He is not surprised, only pleased that he is being paid so well. And now, have you found out anything more from this Russian princess you have in <a id="calibre_link-1969"></a>there? I still feel disquiet. Everything is too peaceful. Those two men we left behind may have been quite innocently bound for Berlin as the girl says. This Benz may be keeping to his room because he is frightened of us. All is going well with our journey. And yet, and yet …’ Kerim shook his head. ‘These Russians are great chess players. When they wish to execute a plot, they execute it brilliantly. The game is planned minutely, the gambits of the enemy are provided for. They are foreseen and countered. At the back of my mind,’ Kerim’s face in the window was gloomy, ‘I have a feeling that you and I and this girl are pawns on a very big board – that we are being allowed our moves because they do not interfere with the Russian game.’

‘But what is the object of the plot?’ Bond looked out into the darkness. He spoke to his reflection in the window. ‘What can they want to achieve? We always get back to that. Of course we have all smelt a conspiracy of some sort. And the girl may not even know that she’s involved in it. I know she’s hiding something, but I think it’s only some small secret she thinks is unimportant. She says she’ll tell me everything when we get to London. Everything? What does she mean? She only says that I must have faith – that there is no danger. You must admit, Darko,’ Bond looked up for confirmation into the slow crafty eyes, ‘that she’s lived up to her story.’

<a id="calibre_link-1970"></a>There was no enthusiasm in Kerim’s eyes. He said nothing.

Bond shrugged. ‘I admit I’ve fallen for her. But I’m not a fool, Darko. I’ve been watching for any clue, anything that would help. You know one can tell a lot when certain barriers are down. Well they are down, and I know she’s telling the truth. At any rate ninety per cent of it. And I know she thinks the rest doesn’t matter. If she’s cheating, she’s also being cheated herself. On your chess analogy, that is possible. But you still get back to the question of what it’s all in aid of.’ Bond’s voice hardened. ‘And, if you want to know, all I ask is to go on with the game until we find out.’

Kerim smiled at the obstinate look on Bond’s face. He laughed abruptly. ‘If it was me, my friend, I would slip off the train at Salonica – with the machine, and, if you like, with the girl also, though that is not so important. I would take a hired car to Athens and get on the next plane for London. But I was not brought up “to be a sport”.’ Kerim put irony into the words. ‘This is not a game to me. It is business. For you it is different. You are a gambler. M. also is a gambler. He obviously is, or he would not have given you a free hand. He also wants to know the answer to this riddle. So be it. But I like to play safe, to make certain, to leave as little as possible to chance. You think the odds look right, that they are in your favour?’ Darko Kerim turned <a id="calibre_link-1971"></a>and faced Bond. His voice became insistent. ‘Listen, my friend,’ he put a huge hand on Bond’s shoulder. ‘This is a billiard table. An easy, flat, green billiard table. And you have hit your white ball and it is travelling easily and quietly towards the red. The pocket is alongside. Fatally, inevitably, you are going to hit the red and the red is going into that pocket. It is the law of the billiard table, the law of the billiard room. But, outside the orbit of these things, a jet pilot has fainted and his plane is diving straight at that billiard room, or a gas main is about to explode, or lightning is about to strike. And the building collapses on top of you and on top of the billiard table. Then what has happened to that white ball that could not miss the red ball, and to the red ball that could not miss the pocket? The white ball could not miss according to the laws of the billiard table. But the laws of the billiard table are not the only laws, and the laws governing the progress of this train, and of you to your destination, are also not the only laws in this particular game.’

Kerim paused. He dismissed his harangue with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘You already know these things, my friend,’ he said apologetically. ‘And I have made myself thirsty talking platitudes. Hurry the girl up and we will go and eat. But watch for surprises, I beg of you.’ He made a cross with his finger over the centre of his coat. ‘I do not cross my heart. That is being too serious. <a id="calibre_link-1972"></a>But I cross my stomach, which is an important oath for me. There are surprises on the way for both of us. The gipsy said to watch out. Now I say the same. We can play the game on the billiard table, but we must both be on guard against the world outside the billiard room. My nose,’ he tapped it, ‘tells me so.’

Kerim’s stomach made an indignant noise like a forgotten telephone receiver with an angry caller on the other end. ‘There,’ he said solicitously. ‘What did I say? We must go and eat.’

They finished their dinner as the train pulled into the hideous modern junction of Thessaloniki. With Bond carrying the heavy little bag, they went back down the train and parted for the night. ‘We shall soon be disturbed again,’ warned Kerim. ‘There is the frontier at one o’clock. The Greeks will be no trouble, but those Yugoslavs like waking up anyone who is travelling soft. If they annoy you, send for me. Even in their country there are some names I can mention. I am in the second compartment in the next carriage. I have it to myself. Tomorrow I will move into our friend Goldfarb’s bed in No. 12. For the time being, the first-class is an adequate stable.’

Bond dozed wakefully as the train laboured up the moonlit valley of the Vardar towards the instep of Yugoslavia. Tatiana again slept with her head in his lap. He thought of what Darko had said. He wondered if <a id="calibre_link-1973"></a>he could not send the big man back to Istanbul when they had got safely through Belgrade. It was not fair to drag him across Europe on an adventure that was outside his territory and with which he had little sympathy. Darko obviously suspected that Bond had become infatuated with the girl and wasn’t seeing the operation straight any more. Well, there was a grain of truth in that. It would certainly be safer to get off the train and take another route home. But, Bond admitted to himself, he couldn’t bear the idea of running away from this plot, if it was a plot. If it wasn’t, he equally couldn’t bear the idea of sacrificing the three more days with Tatiana. And M. had left the decision to him. As Darko had said, M. also was curious to see the game through. Perversely, M. too wanted to see what this whole rigmarole was about. Bond dismissed the problem. The journey was going well. Once again, why panic?

Ten minutes after they had arrived at the Greek frontier station of Idomeni there was a hasty knocking on the door. It woke the girl. Bond slipped from under her head. He put his ear to the door. ‘Yes?’

‘Le conducteur, Monsieur. There has been an accident. Your friend Kerim Bey.’

‘Wait,’ said Bond fiercely. He fitted the Beretta into its holster and put on his coat. He tore open the door.

‘What is it?’

The conductor’s face was yellow under the corridor <a id="calibre_link-1974"></a>light. ‘Come.’ He ran down the corridor towards the first-class.

Officials were clustered round the open door of the second compartment. They were standing, staring.

The conductor made a path for Bond. Bond reached the door and looked in.

The hair stirred softly on his head. Along the right-hand seat were two bodies. They were frozen in a ghastly death-struggle that might have been posed for a film.

Underneath was Kerim, his knees up in a last effort to rise. The taped hilt of a dagger protruded from his neck near the jugular vein. His head was thrust back and the empty bloodshot eyes stared up at the night. The mouth was contorted into a snarl. A thin trickle of blood ran down the chin.

Half on top of him sprawled the heavy body of the M.G.B. man called Benz, locked there by Kerim’s left arm round his neck. Bond could see a corner of the Stalin moustache and the side of a blackened face. Kerim’s right arm lay across the man’s back, almost casually. The hand ended in a closed fist and the knob of a knife-hilt, and there was a wide stain on the coat under the hand.

Bond listened to his imagination. It was like watching a film. The sleeping Darko, the man slipping quietly through the door, the two steps forward and the swift stroke at the jugular. Then the last violent spasm of the dying man as he flung up an arm and clutched his <a id="calibre_link-1975"></a>murderer to him and plunged the knife down towards the fifth rib.

This wonderful man who had carried the sun with him. Now he was extinguished, totally dead.

Bond turned brusquely and walked out of sight of the man who had died for him.

He began, carefully, non-committally, to answer questions.

<a id="calibre_link-1977"></a>24 OUT OF DANGER?

The Orient Express steamed slowly into Belgrade at three o’clock in the afternoon, half an hour late. There would be an eight hours’ delay while the other section of the train came in through the Iron Curtain from Bulgaria.

Bond looked out at the crowds and waited for the knock on the door that would be Kerim’s man. Tatiana sat huddled in her sable coat beside the door, watching Bond, wondering if he would come back to her.

She had seen it all from the window – the long wicker baskets being brought out to the train, the flash of the police photographer’s bulbs, the gesticulating chef de train trying to hurry up the formalities, and the tall figure of James Bond, straight and hard and cold as a butcher’s knife, coming and going.

Bond had come back and had sat looking at her. He <a id="calibre_link-1978"></a>had asked sharp, brutal questions. She had fought desperately back, sticking coldly to her story, knowing that now, if she told him everything, told him for instance that SMERSH was involved, she would certainly lose him for ever.

Now she sat and was afraid, afraid of the web in which she was caught, afraid of what might have been behind the lies she had been told in Moscow – above all afraid that she might lose this man who had suddenly become the light in her life.

There was a knock on the door. Bond got up and opened it. A tough cheerful india-rubbery man, with Kerim’s blue eyes and a mop of tangled fair hair above a brown face, exploded into the compartment.

‘Stefan Trempo at your service,’ the big smile embraced them both. ‘They call me “Tempo”. Where is the Chef?’

‘Sit down,’ said Bond. He thought to himself, I know it. This is another of Darko’s sons.

The man looked sharply at them both. He sat down carefully between them. His face was extinguished. Now the bright eyes stared at Bond with a terrible intensity in which there was fear and suspicion. His right hand slipped casually into the pocket of his coat.

When Bond had finished, the man stood up. He didn’t ask any questions. He said, ‘Thank you, sir. Will you come, please. We will go to my apartment. There is much to be done.’ He walked into the corridor and stood with <a id="calibre_link-1979"></a>his back to them, looking out across the rails. When the girl came out he walked down the corridor without looking back. Bond followed the girl, carrying the heavy bag and his little attaché case.

They walked down the platform and into the station square. It had started to drizzle. The scene, with its sprinkling of battered taxis and vista of dull modern buildings, was depressing. The man opened the rear door of a shabby Morris Oxford saloon. He got in front and took the wheel. They bumped their way over the cobbles and on to a slippery tarmac boulevard and drove for a quarter of an hour through wide, empty streets. They saw few pedestrians and not more than a handful of other cars.

They stopped half way down a cobbled side-street. Tempo led them through a wide apartment-house door and up two flights of stairs that had the smell of the Balkans – the smell of very old sweat and cigarette smoke and cabbage. He unlocked a door and showed them into a two-roomed flat with nondescript furniture and heavy red plush curtains drawn back to show the blank windows on the other side of the street. On a sideboard stood a tray with several unopened bottles, glasses and plates of fruit and biscuits – the welcome to Darko and to Darko’s friends.

Tempo waved vaguely towards the drinks. ‘Please, sir, make yourself and Madam at home. There is a bathroom. <a id="calibre_link-1980"></a>No doubt you would both like to have a bath. If you will excuse me, I must telephone!’ The hard façade of the face was about to crumble. The man went quickly into the bedroom and shut the door behind him.

There followed two empty hours during which Bond sat and looked out of the window at the wall opposite. From time to time he got up and paced to and fro and then sat down again. For the first hour, Tatiana sat and pretended to look through a pile of magazines. Then she abruptly went into the bathroom and Bond vaguely heard water gushing into the bath.

At about 6 o’clock, Tempo came out of the bedroom. He told Bond that he was going out. ‘There is food in the kitchen. I will return at nine and take you to the train. Please treat my flat as your own.’ Without waiting for Bond’s reply, he walked out and softly shut the door. Bond heard his foot on the stairs and the click of the front door and the self-starter of the Morris.

Bond went into the bedroom and sat on the bed and picked up the telephone and talked in German to the long-distance exchange.

Half an hour later there was the quiet voice of M.

Bond spoke as a travelling salesman would speak to the managing director of Universal Export. He said that his partner had gone very sick. Were there any fresh instructions?

‘Very sick?’

<a id="calibre_link-1981"></a>‘Yes, sir, very.’

‘How about the other firm?’

‘There were three with us, sir. One of them caught the same thing. The other two didn’t feel well on the way out of Turkey. They left us at Uzunkopru – that’s the frontier.’

‘So the other firm’s packed up?’

Bond could see M.’s face as he sifted the information. He wondered if the fan was slowly revolving in the ceiling, if M. had a pipe in his hand, if the Chief-of-Staff was listening on the other wire.

‘What are your ideas? Would you and your wife like to take another way home?’

‘I’d rather you decided, sir. My wife’s all right. The sample’s in good condition. I don’t see why it should deteriorate. I’m still keen to finish the trip. Otherwise it’ll remain virgin territory. We shan’t know what the possibilities are.’

‘Would you like one of our other salesmen to give you a hand?’

‘It shouldn’t be necessary, sir. Just as you feel.’

‘I’ll think about it. So you really want to see this sales campaign through?’

Bond could see M.’s eyes glittering with the same perverse curiosity, the same rage to know, as he himself felt. ‘Yes, sir. Now that I’m half way, it seems a pity not to cover the whole route.’

<a id="calibre_link-1982"></a>‘All right then. I’ll think about giving you another salesman to lend a hand.’ There was a pause on the end of the line. ‘Nothing else on your mind?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Goodbye, then.’

‘Goodbye, sir.’

Bond put down the receiver. He sat and looked at it. He suddenly wished he had agreed with M.’s suggestion to give him reinforcements, just in case. He got up from the bed. At least they would soon be out of these damn Balkans and down into Italy. Then Switzerland, France – among friendly people, away from the furtive lands.

And the girl, what about her? Could he blame her for the death of Kerim? Bond went into the next room and stood again by the window, looking out, wondering, going back over everything, every expression and every gesture she had made since he had first heard her voice on that night in the Kristal Palas. No, he knew he couldn’t put the blame on her. If she was an agent, she was an unconscious agent. There wasn’t a girl of her age in the world who could have played this role, if it was a role she was playing, without betraying herself. And he liked her. And he had faith in his instincts. Besides, with the death of Kerim, had not the plot, whatever it was, played itself out? One day he would find out what the plot had been. For the moment he was certain. Tatiana was not a conscious part of it.

<a id="calibre_link-1983"></a>His mind made up, Bond walked over to the bathroom door and knocked.

She came out and he took her in his arms and held her to him and kissed her. She clung to him. They stood and felt the animal warmth come back between them, feeling it push back the cold memory of Kerim’s death.

Tatiana broke away. She looked up at Bond’s face. She reached up and brushed the black comma of hair away from his forehead.

Her face was alive. ‘I am glad you have come back, James,’ she said. And then, matter-of-factly, ‘And now we must eat and drink and start our lives again.’

Later, after Slivovic and smoked ham and peaches, Tempo came and took them to the station and to the waiting express under the hard lights of the arcs. He said goodbye, quickly and coldly, and vanished down the platform and back into his dark existence.

Punctually at nine the new engine gave its new kind of noise and took the long train out on its all-night run down the valley of the Sava. Bond went along to the conductor’s cabin to give him money and look through the passports of the new passengers.

Bond knew most of the signs to look for in forged passports, the blurred writing, the too exact imprints of the rubber stamps, the trace of old gum round the edges of the photograph, the slight transparencies on the pages where the fibres of the paper had been tampered with <a id="calibre_link-1984"></a>to alter a letter or a number, but the five new passports – three American and two Swiss – seemed innocent. The Swiss papers, favourites with the Russian forgers, belonged to a husband and wife, both over seventy, and Bond finally passed them and went back to the compartment and prepared for another night with Tatiana’s head on his lap.

Vincovci came and Brod and then, against a flaming dawn, the ugly sprawl of Zagreb. The train came to a stop between lines of rusting locomotives captured from the Germans and still standing forlornly amongst the grass and weeds on the sidings. Bond read the plate on one of them – BERLINER MASCHINENBAU GMBH – as they slid out through the iron cemetery. Its long black barrel had been raked with machine gun bullets. Bond heard the scream of the dive-bomber and saw the upflung arms of the driver. For a moment he thought nostalgically and unreasonably of the excitement and turmoil of the hot war, compared with his own underground skirmishings since the war had turned cold.

They hammered into the mountains of Slovenia where the apple trees and the chalets were almost Austrian. The train laboured its way through Ljubliana. The girl awoke. They had breakfast of fried eggs and hard brown bread and coffee that was mostly chicory. The restaurant car was full of cheerful English and American tourists from the Adriatic coast, and Bond <a id="calibre_link-1985"></a>thought with a lift of the heart that by the afternoon they would be over the frontier into Western Europe and that a third dangerous night was gone.

He slept until Sezana. The hard-faced Yugoslav plainclothes men came on board. Then Yugoslavia was gone and Poggioreale came and the first smell of the soft life with the happy jabbering Italian officials and the carefree upturned faces of the station crowd. The new diesel-electric engine gave a slap-happy whistle, the meadow of brown hands fluttered, and they were loping easily down into Venezia, towards the distant sparkle of Trieste and the gay blue of the Adriatic. We’ve made it, thought Bond. I really think we’ve made it. He thrust the memory of the last three days away from him. Tatiana saw the tense lines in his face relax. She reached over and took his hand. He moved and sat close beside her. They looked out at the gay villas on the Corniche and at the sailing-boats and the people water-skiing.

The train clanged across some points and slid quietly into the gleaming station of Trieste. Bond got up and pulled down the window and they stood side by side, looking out. Suddenly Bond felt happy. He put an arm around the girl’s waist and held her hard against him.

They gazed down at the holiday crowd. The sun shone through the tall clean windows of the station in golden shafts. The sparkling scene emphasized the dark and dirt of the countries the train had come from, and Bond <a id="calibre_link-1986"></a>watched with an almost sensuous pleasure the gaily dressed people pass through the patches of sunshine towards the entrance, and the sunburned people, the ones who had had their holidays, hasten up the platform to get their seats on the train.

A shaft of sun lit up the head of one man who seemed typical of this happy, playtime world. The light flashed briefly on golden hair under a cap, and on a young golden moustache. There was plenty of time to catch the train. The man walked unhurriedly. It crossed Bond’s mind that he was an Englishman. Perhaps it was the familiar shape of the dark green Kangol cap, or the beige, rather well-used mackintosh, that badge of the English tourist, or it may have been the grey-flannelled legs, or the scuffed brown shoes. But Bond’s eyes were drawn to him, as if it was someone he knew, as the man approached up the platform.

The man was carrying a battered Revelation suitcase and, under the other arm, a thick book and some newspapers. He looks like an athlete, thought Bond. He has the wide shoulders and the healthy, good-looking bronzed face of a professional tennis player going home after a round of foreign tournaments.

The man came nearer. Now he was looking straight at Bond. With recognition? Bond searched his mind. Did he know this man? No. He would have remembered those eyes that stared out so coldly under the pale lashes. <a id="calibre_link-1987"></a>They were opaque, almost dead. The eyes of a drowned man. But they had some message for him. What was it? Recognition? Warning? Or just the defensive reaction to Bond’s own stare?

The man came up with the wagon-lit. His eyes were now gazing levelly up the train. He walked past, the crêpe-soled shoes making no sound. Bond watched him reach for the rail and swing himself easily up the steps into the first-class carriage.

Suddenly Bond knew what the glance had meant, who the man was. Of course! This man was from the Service. After all M. had decided to send along an extra hand. That was the message of those queer eyes. Bond would bet anything that the man would soon be along to make contact.

How like M. to make absolutely sure!

<a id="calibre_link-1989"></a>25 A TIE WITH A WINDSOR KNOT

To make the contact easy, Bond went out and stood in the corridor. He ran over the details of the code of the day, the few harmless phrases, changed on the first of each month, that served as a simple recognition signal between English agents.

The train gave a jerk and moved slowly out into the sunshine. At the end of the corridor the communicating door slammed. There was no sound of steps, but suddenly the red and gold face was mirrored in the window.

‘Excuse me. Could I borrow a match?’

‘I use a lighter.’ Bond produced his battered Ronson and handed it over.

‘Better still.’

‘Until they go wrong.’

Bond looked up into the man’s face, expecting a smile <a id="calibre_link-1990"></a>at the completion of the childish ‘Who goes there? Pass, Friend’ ritual.

The thick lips writhed briefly. There was no light in the very pale blue eyes.

The man had taken off his mackintosh. He was wearing an old reddish-brown tweed coat with his flannel trousers, a pale yellow Viyella summer shirt, and the dark blue and red zig-zagged tie of the Royal Engineers. It was tied with a Windsor knot. Bond mistrusted anyone who tied his tie with a Windsor knot. It showed too much vanity. It was often the mark of a cad. Bond decided to forget his prejudice. A gold signet ring, with an indecipherable crest, glinted on the little finger of the right hand that gripped the guardrail. The corner of a red bandana handkerchief flopped out of the breast pocket of the man’s coat. On his left wrist there was a battered silver wrist watch with an old leather strap.

Bond knew the type – a minor public school and then caught up by the war. Field Security perhaps. No idea what to do afterwards, so he stayed with the occupation troops. At first he would have been with the military police, then, as the senior men drifted home, there came promotion into one of the security services. Moved to Trieste where he did well enough. Wanted to stay on and avoid the rigours of England. Probably had a girl friend, or had married an Italian. The Secret Service had <a id="calibre_link-1991"></a>needed a man for the small post that Trieste had become after the withdrawal. This man was available. They took him on. He would be doing routine jobs – have some low-grade sources in the Italian and Yugoslav police, and in their intelligence networks. A thousand a year. A good life, without much being expected from him. Then, out of the blue, this had come along. Must have been a shock getting one of those Most Immediate signals. He’d probably be a bit shy of Bond. Odd face. The eyes looked rather mad. But so they did in most of these men doing secret work abroad. One had to be a bit mad to take it on. Powerful chap, probably on the stupid side, but useful for this kind of guard work. M. had just taken the nearest man and told him to join the train.

All this went through Bond’s mind as he photographed an impression of the man’s clothes and general appearance. Now he said, ‘Glad to see you. How did it happen?’

‘Got a signal. Late last night. Personal from M. Shook me I can tell you, old man.’

Curious accent. What was it? A hint of brogue – cheap brogue. And something else Bond couldn’t define. Probably came from living too long abroad and talking foreign languages all the time. And that dreadful ‘old man’ at the end. Shyness.

‘Must have,’ said Bond sympathetically. ‘What did it say?’

‘Just told me to get on the Orient this morning and contact a man and a girl in the through carriage. More <a id="calibre_link-1992"></a>or less described what you look like. Then I was to stick by you and see you both through to Gay Paree. That’s all, old man.’

Was there defensiveness in the voice? Bond glanced sideways. The pale eyes swivelled to meet his. There was a quick red glare in them. It was as if the safety door of a furnace had swung open. The blaze died. The door to the inside of the man was banged shut. Now the eyes were opaque again – the eyes of an introvert, of a man who rarely looks out into the world but is for ever surveying the scene inside him.

There’s madness there all right, thought Bond, startled by the sight of it. Shell-shock perhaps, or schizophrenia. Poor chap, with that magnificent body. One day he would certainly crack. The madness would take control. Bond had better have a word to Personnel. Check up on his medical. By the way, what was his name?

‘Well I’m very glad to have you along. Probably not much for you to do. We started off with three Redland men on our tail. They’ve been got rid of, but there may be others on the train. Or some more may get on. And I’ve got to get this girl to London without trouble. If you’d just hang about. Tonight we’d better stay together and share watches. It’s the last night and I don’t want to take any chances. By the way, my name’s James Bond. Travelling as David Somerset. And that’s Caroline Somerset in there.’

<a id="calibre_link-1993"></a>The man fished in his inside pocket and produced a battered notecase which seemed to contain plenty of money. He extracted a visiting card and handed it to Bond. It said ‘Captain Norman Nash’, and, in the left-hand bottom corner, ‘Royal Automobile Club’.

As Bond put the card in his pocket he slipped his finger across it. It was engraved. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Well, Nash, come and meet Mrs. Somerset. No reason why we shouldn’t travel more or less together.’ He smiled encouragingly.

Again the red glare quickly extinguished. The lips writhed under the young golden moustache. ‘Delighted, old man.’

Bond turned to the door and knocked softly and spoke his name.

The door opened. Bond beckoned Nash in and shut the door behind him.

The girl looked surprised.

‘This is Captain Nash, Norman Nash. He’s been told to keep an eye on us.’

‘How do you do.’ The hand came out hesitantly. The man touched it briefly. His stare was fixed. He said nothing. The girl gave an embarrassed little laugh, ‘Won’t you sit down?’

‘Er, thank you.’ Nash sat stiffly on the edge of the banquette. He seemed to remember something, something one did when one had nothing to say. He groped <a id="calibre_link-1994"></a>in the side pocket of his coat and produced a packet of Players. ‘Will you have a, er, cigarette?’ He prised open the top with a fairly clean thumbnail, stripped down the silver paper and pushed out the cigarettes. The girl took one. Nash’s other hand flashed forward a lighter with the obsequious speed of a motor salesman.

Nash looked up. Bond was standing leaning against the door and wondering how to help this clumsy, embarrassed man. Nash held out the cigarettes and the lighter as if he was offering glass beads to a native chief. ‘What about you, old man?’

‘Thanks,’ said Bond. He hated Virginia tobacco, but he was prepared to do anything to help put the man at ease. He took a cigarette and lit it. They certainly had to make do with some queer fish in the Service nowadays. How the devil did this man manage to get along in the semi-diplomatic society he would have to frequent in Trieste?

Bond said lamely, ‘You look very fit, Nash. Tennis?’

‘Swimming.’

‘Been long in Trieste?’

There came the brief red glare. ‘About three years.’

‘Interesting work?’

‘Sometimes. You know how it is, old man.’

Bond wondered how he could stop Nash calling him ‘old man’. He couldn’t think of a way. Silence fell.

Nash obviously felt it was his turn again. He fished <a id="calibre_link-1995"></a>in his pocket and produced a newspaper cutting. It was the front page of the Corriere de la Sera. He handed it to Bond. ‘Seen this, old man?’ The eyes blazed and died.

It was the front page lead. The thick black lettering on the cheap newsprint was still wet. The headlines said:

TERRIBILE ESPLOSIONE IN ISTANBUL UFFICIO SOVIETICO DISTRUTTO TUTTI I PRESENTI UCCISI

Bond couldn’t understand the rest. He folded the cutting and handed it back. How much did this man know? Better treat him as a strong-man arm and nothing else. ‘Bad show,’ he said. ‘Gas main I suppose.’ Bond saw again the obscene belly of the bomb hanging down from the roof of the alcove in the tunnel, the wires that started off down the damp wall on their way back to the plunger in the drawer of Kerim’s desk. Who had pressed the plunger yesterday afternoon when Tempo had got through? The ‘Head Clerk’? Or had they drawn lots and then stood round and watched as the hand went down and the deep roar had gone up in the Street of Books on the hill above. They would all have been there, in the cool room. With eyes that glittered with hate. The tears would be reserved for the night. Revenge would have come first. And the rats? How many thousand had been blasted down the tunnel? What time would it have been? About four o’clock. Had the daily meeting been <a id="calibre_link-1996"></a>on? Three dead in the room. How many more in the rest of the building? Friends of Tatiana, perhaps. He would have to keep the story from her. Had Darko been watching? From a window in Valhalla? Bond could hear the great laugh of triumph echoing round its walls. At any rate Kerim had taken plenty with him.

Nash was looking at him. ‘Yes, I daresay it was a gas main,’ he said without interest.

A hand-bell tinkled down the corridor, coming nearer. ‘Deuxième Service. Deuxième Service. Prenez vos places, s’il vous plaît.’

Bond looked across at Tatiana. Her face was pale. In her eyes there was an appeal to be saved from any more of this clumsy, non-kulturny man. Bond said, ‘What about lunch?’ She got up at once. ‘What about you, Nash?’

Captain Nash was already on his feet. ‘Had it, thanks old man. And I’d like to have a look up and down the train. Is the conductor – you know …?’ he made a gesture of fingering money.

‘Oh yes, he’ll co-operate all right,’ said Bond. He reached up and pulled down the heavy little bag. He opened the door for Nash. ‘See you later.’

Captain Nash stepped into the corridor. He said, ‘Yes, I expect so, old man.’ He turned left and strode off down the corridor, moving easily with the swaying of the train, his hands in his trouser pockets and the light blazing on the tight golden curls at the back of his head.

<a id="calibre_link-1997"></a>Bond followed Tatiana up the train. The carriages were crowded with holiday-makers going home. In the third-class corridors people sat on their bags chattering and munching at oranges and at hard-looking rolls with bits of Salami sticking out of them. The men carefully examined Tatiana as she squeezed by. The women looked appraisingly at Bond, wondering whether he made love to her well.

In the restaurant car, Bond ordered Americanos and a bottle of Chianti Broglio. The wonderful European hors d’œuvres came. Tatiana began to look more cheerful.

‘Funny sort of man,’ Bond watched her pick about among the little dishes. ‘But I’m glad he’s come along. I’ll have a chance to get some sleep. I’m going to sleep for a week when we get home.’

‘I do not like him,’ the girl said indifferently. ‘He is not kulturny. I do not trust his eyes.’

Bond laughed. ‘Nobody’s kulturny enough for you.’

‘Did you know him before?’

‘No. But he belongs to my firm.’

‘What did you say his name is?’

‘Nash. Norman Nash.’

She spelled it out. ‘N.A.S.H.? Like that?’

‘Yes.’

The girl’s eyes were puzzled. ‘I suppose you know what that means in Russian. Nash means “ours”. In our Services, a man is nash when he is one of “our” men. He <a id="calibre_link-1998"></a>is svoi when he is one of “theirs” – when he belongs to the enemy. And this man calls himself Nash. That is not pleasant.’

Bond laughed. ‘Really, Tania. You do think of extraordinary reasons for not liking people. Nash is quite a common English name. He’s perfectly harmless. At any rate he’s tough enough for what we want him for.’

Tatiana made a face. She went on with her lunch.

Some tagliatelli verdi came, and the wine, and then a delicious escalope. ‘Oh it is so good,’ she said. ‘Since I came out of Russia I am all stomach.’ Her eyes widened. ‘You won’t let me get too fat, James. You won’t let me get so fat that I am no use for making love? You will have to be careful, or I shall just eat all day long and sleep. You will beat me if I eat too much?’

‘Certainly I will beat you.’

Tatiana wrinkled her nose. He felt the soft caress of her ankles. The wide eyes looked at him hard. The lashes came down demurely. ‘Please pay,’ she said. ‘I feel sleepy.’

The train was pulling into Maestre. There was the beginning of the canals. A cargo gondola full of vegetables was moving slowly along a straight sheet of water into the town.

‘But we shall be coming into Venice in a minute,’ protested Bond. ‘Don’t you want to see it?’

‘It will be just another station. And I can see Venice <a id="calibre_link-1999"></a>another day. Now I want you to love me. Please, James.’ Tatiana leaned forward. She put a hand over his. ‘Give me what I want. There is so little time.’

Then it was the little room again and the smell of the sea coming through the half-open window and the drawn blind fluttering with the wind of the train. Again there were the two piles of clothes on the floor, and the two whispering bodies on the banquette, and the slow searching hands. And the love-knot formed, and, as the train jolted over the points into the echoing station of Venice, there came the final lost despairing cry.

Outside the vacuum of the tiny room there sounded a confusion of echoing calls and metallic clanging and shuffling footsteps that slowly faded into sleep.

Padua came, and Vicenza, and a fabulous sunset over Verona flickered gold and red through the cracks of the blind. Again the little bell came tinkling down the corridor. They woke. Bond dressed and went into the corridor and leant against the guard rail. He looked out at the fading pink light over the Lombardy Plain and thought of Tatiana and of the future.

Nash’s face slid up alongside his in the dark glass. Nash came very close so that his elbow touched Bond’s. ‘I think I’ve spotted one of the oppo, old man,’ he said softly.

Bond was not surprised. He had assumed that, if it came, it would come tonight. Almost indifferently he said, ‘Who is he?’

<a id="calibre_link-2000"></a>‘Don’t know what his real name is, but he’s been through Trieste once or twice. Something to do with Albania. May be the Resident Director there. Now he’s on an American passport. “Wilbur Frank.” Calls himself a banker. In No. 9, right next to you. I don’t think I could be wrong about him, old man.’

Bond glanced at the eyes in the big brown face. Again the furnace door was ajar. The red glare shone out and was extinguished.

‘Good thing you spotted him. This may be a tough night. You’d better stick by us from now on. We mustn’t leave the girl alone.’

‘That’s what I thought, old man.’

They had dinner. It was a silent meal. Nash sat beside the girl and kept his eyes on his plate. He held his knife like a fountain pen and frequently wiped it on his fork. He was clumsy in his movements. Half way through the meal, he reached for the salt and knocked over Tatiana’s glass of Chianti. He apologized profusely. He made a great show of calling for another glass and filling it.

Coffee came. Now it was Tatiana who was clumsy. She knocked over her cup. She had gone very pale and her breath was coming quickly.

‘Tatiana!’ Bond half rose to his feet. But it was Captain Nash who jumped up and took charge.

‘Lady’s come over queer,’ he said shortly. ‘Allow me.’ He reached down and put an arm round the girl and <a id="calibre_link-2001"></a>lifted her to her feet. ‘I’ll take her back to the compartment. You’d better look after the bag. And there’s the bill. I can take care of her till you come.’

‘Is all right,’ protested Tatiana with the slack lips of deepening unconsciousness. ‘Don’ worry, James, I lie down.’ Her head lolled against Nash’s shoulder. Nash put one thick arm round her waist and manœuvred her quickly and efficiently down the crowded aisle and out of the restaurant car.

Bond impatiently snapped his fingers for the waiter. Poor darling. She must be dead beat. Why hadn’t he thought of the strain she was going through? He cursed himself for his selfishness. Thank heavens for Nash. Efficient sort of chap, for all his uncouthness.

Bond paid the bill. He took up the heavy little bag and walked as quickly as he could down the crowded train.

He tapped softly on the door of No. 7. Nash opened the door. He came out with his finger on his lips. He closed the door behind him. ‘Threw a bit of a faint,’ he said. ‘She’s all right now. The beds were made up. She’s gone to sleep in the top one. Been a bit much for the girl I expect, old man.’

Bond nodded briefly. He went into the compartment. A hand hung palely down from under the sable coat. Bond stood on the bottom bunk and gently tucked the hand under the corner of the coat. The hand felt very cold. The girl made no sound.

<a id="calibre_link-2002"></a>Bond stepped softly down. Better let her sleep. He went into the corridor.

Nash looked at him with empty eyes. ‘Well, I suppose we’d better settle in for the night. I’ve got my book.’ He held it up. ‘War and Peace. Been trying to plough through it for years. You take the first sleep, old man. You look pretty flaked out yourself. I’ll wake you up when I can’t keep my eyes open any longer.’ He gestured with his head at the door of No. 9. ‘Hasn’t shown yet. Don’t suppose he will if he’s up to any monkey tricks.’ He paused. ‘By the way, you got a gun, old man?’

‘Yes. Why, haven’t you?’

Nash looked apologetic. ‘’Fraid not. Got a Luger at home, but it’s too bulky for this sort of job.’

‘Oh, well,’ said Bond reluctantly. ‘You’d better take mine. Come on in.’

They went in and Bond shut the door. He took out the Beretta and handed it over. ‘Eight shots,’ he said softly. ‘Semi-automatic. It’s on safe.’

Nash took the gun and weighed it professionally in his hand. He clicked the safe on and off.

Bond hated someone else touching his gun. He felt naked without it. He said gruffly, ‘Bit on the light side, but it’ll kill if you put the bullets in the right places.’

Nash nodded. He sat down near the window at the end of the bottom bunk. ‘I’ll take this end,’ he whispered. <a id="calibre_link-2003"></a>‘Good field of fire.’ He put his book down on his lap and settled himself.

Bond took off his coat and tie and laid them on the bunk beside him. He leant back against the pillows and propped his feet on the bag with the Spektor that stood on the floor beside his attaché case. He picked up his Ambler and found his place and tried to read. After a few pages he found that his concentration was going. He was too tired. He laid the book down on his lap and closed his eyes. Could he afford to sleep? Was there any other precaution they could take?

The wedges! Bond felt for them in the pocket of his coat. He slipped off the bunk and knelt and forced them hard under the two doors. Then he settled himself again and switched off the reading light behind his head.

The violet eye of the nightlight shone softly down.

‘Thanks, old man,’ said Captain Nash softly.

The train gave a moan and crashed into a tunnel.

<a id="calibre_link-2005"></a>26 THE KILLING BOTTLE

The light nudge at his ankle woke Bond. He didn’t move. His senses came to life like an animal’s.

Nothing had changed. There were the noises of the train – the soft iron stride, pounding out the kilometres, the quiet creak of the woodwork, a tinkle from the cupboard over the washbasin where a toothglass was loose in its holder.

What had woken him? The spectral eye of the night-light cast its deep velvet sheen over the little room. No sound came from the upper bunk. By the window, Captain Nash sat in his place, his book open on his lap, a flicker of moonlight from the edge of the blind showing white on the double page.

He was looking fixedly at Bond. Bond registered the intentness of the violet eyes. The black lips parted. There was a glint of teeth.

<a id="calibre_link-2006"></a>‘Sorry to disturb you, old man. I feel in the mood for a talk!’

What was there new in the voice? Bond put his feet softly down to the floor. He sat up straighter. Danger, like a third man, was standing in the room.

‘Fine,’ said Bond easily. What had there been in those few words that had set his spine tingling? Was it the note of authority in Nash’s voice? The idea came to Bond that Nash might have gone mad. Perhaps it was madness in the room, and not danger, that Bond could smell. His instincts about this man had been right. It would be a question of somehow getting rid of him at the next station. Where had they got to? When would the frontier come?

Bond lifted his wrist to look at the time. The violet light defeated the phosphorus numerals. Bond tilted the face towards the strip of moonlight from the window.

From the direction of Nash there came a sharp click. Bond felt a violent blow on his wrist. Splinters of glass hit him in the face. His arm was flung back against the door. He wondered if his wrist had been broken. He let his arm hang and flexed his fingers. They all moved.

The book was still open on Nash’s lap, but now a thin wisp of smoke was coming out of the hole at the top of its spine and there was a faint smell of fireworks in the room.

<a id="calibre_link-2007"></a>The saliva dried in Bond’s mouth as if he had swallowed alum.

So there had been a trap all along. And the trap had closed. Captain Nash had been sent to him by Moscow. Not by M. And the M.G.B. agent in No. 9, the man with an American passport, was a myth. And Bond had given Nash his gun. He had even put wedges under the doors so that Nash would feel more secure.

Bond shivered. Not with fear. With disgust.

Nash spoke. His voice was no longer a whisper, no longer oily. It was loud and confident.

‘That will save us a great deal of argument, old man. Just a little demonstration. They think I’m pretty good with this little bag of tricks. There are ten bullets in it – .25 dum-dum, fired by an electric battery. You must admit the Russians are wonderful chaps for dreaming these things up. Too bad that book of yours is only for reading, old man.’

‘For God’s sake stop calling me “old man”.’ When there was so much to know, so much to think about, this was Bond’s first reaction to utter catastrophe. It was the reaction of someone in a burning house who picks up the most trivial object to save from the flames.

‘Sorry, old man. It’s got to be a habit. Part of trying to be a bloody gentleman. Like these clothes. All from the wardrobe department. They said I’d get by like this. <a id="calibre_link-2008"></a>And I did, didn’t I, old man? But let’s get down to business. I expect you’d like to know what this is all about. Be glad to tell you. We’ve got about half an hour before you’re due to go. It’ll give me an extra kick telling the famous Mister Bond of the Secret Service what a bloody fool he is. You see, old man, you’re not so good as you think. You’re just a stuffed dummy and I’ve been given the job of letting the sawdust out of you.’ The voice was even and flat, the sentences trailing away on a dead note. It was as if Nash was bored by the act of speaking.

‘Yes,’ said Bond. ‘I’d like to know what it’s all about. I can spare you half an hour.’ Desperately he wondered: was there any way of putting this man off his stride? Upsetting his balance?

‘Don’t kid yourself, old man,’ the voice was uninterested in Bond, or in the threat of Bond. Bond didn’t exist except as a target. ‘You’re going to die in half an hour. No mistake about it. I’ve never made a mistake or I wouldn’t have my job.’

‘What is your job?’

‘Chief Executioner of SMERSH.’ There was a hint of life in the voice, a hint of pride. The voice went flat again. ‘You know the name I believe, old man.’

SMERSH. So that was the answer – the worst answer of all. And this was their chief killer. Bond remembered the red glare that flickered in the opaque eyes. A killer. A psychopath – manic depressive, probably. A man who <a id="calibre_link-2009"></a>really enjoyed it. What a useful man for SMERSH to have found! Bond suddenly remembered what Vavra had said. He tried a long shot. ‘Does the moon have any effect on you, Nash?’

The black lips writhed. ‘Clever aren’t you, Mister Secret Service. Think I’m barmy. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t be where I am if I was barmy.’

The angry sneer in the man’s voice told Bond that he had touched a nerve. But what could he achieve by getting the man out of control? Better humour him and gain some time. Perhaps Tatiana …

‘Where does the girl come into all this?’

‘Part of the bait,’ the voice was bored again. ‘Don’t worry. She won’t butt in on our talk. Fed her a pinch of chloral hydrate when I poured her that glass of wine. She’ll be out for the night. And then for every other night. She’s to go with you.’

‘Oh really.’ Bond slowly lifted his aching hand on to his lap, flexing the fingers to get the blood moving. ‘Well, let’s hear the story.’

‘Careful, old man. No tricks. No Bulldog Drummond stuff’ll get you out of this one. If I don’t like even the smell of a move, it’ll be just one bullet through the heart. Nothing more. That’s what you’ll be getting in the end. One through the centre of the heart. If you move it’ll come a bit quicker. And don’t forget who I am. Remember your wrist watch? I don’t miss. Not ever.’

<a id="calibre_link-2010"></a>‘Good show,’ said Bond carelessly. ‘But don’t be frightened. You’ve got my gun. Remember? Get on with your story.’

‘All right, old man, only don’t scratch your ear while I’m talking. Or I’ll shoot it off. See? Well, SMERSH decided to kill you – at least I gather it was decided even higher up, right at the top. Seems they want to take one good hard poke at the Secret Service – bring them down a peg or two. Follow me?’

‘Why choose me?’

‘Don’t ask me, old man. But they say you’ve got quite a reputation in your outfit. The way you’re going to be killed is going to bust up the whole show. It’s been three months cooking, this plan, and it’s a beaut. Got to be. SMERSH has made one or two mistakes lately. That Khoklov business for one. Remember the explosive cigarette case and all that? Gave the job to the wrong man. Should have given it to me. I wouldn’t have gone over to the Yanks. However, to get back. You see, old man, we’ve got quite a planner in SMERSH. Man called Kronsteen. Great chess player. He said vanity would get you and greed and a bit of craziness in the plot. He said you’d all fall for the craziness in London. And you did, didn’t you, old man?’

Had they? Bond remembered just how much the eccentric angles of the story had aroused their curiosity. And vanity? Yes, he had to admit that the idea of this <a id="calibre_link-2011"></a>Russian girl being in love with him had helped. And there had been the Spektor. That had decided the whole thing – plain greed for it. He said non-committally: ‘We were interested.’

‘Then came the operation. Our Head of Operations is quite a character. I’d say she’s killed more people than anyone in the world – or arranged for them to be killed. Yes, it’s a woman. Name of Klebb – Rosa Klebb. Real swine of a woman. But she certainly knows all the tricks.’

Rosa Klebb. So at the top of SMERSH there was a woman! If he could somehow survive this and get after her! The fingers of Bond’s right hand curled softly.

The flat voice in the corner went on: ‘Well, she found this Romanova girl. Trained her for the job. By the way, how was she in bed? Pretty good?’

No! Bond didn’t believe it. That first night must have been staged. But afterwards? No. Afterwards had been real. He took the opportunity to shrug his shoulders. It was an exaggerated shrug. To get the man accustomed to movement.

‘Oh, well. Not interested in that sort of thing myself. But they got some nice pictures of you two.’ Nash tapped his coat pocket. ‘Whole reel of 16 millimetre. That’s going into her handbag. It’ll look fine in the papers.’ Nash laughed – a harsh, metallic laugh. ‘They’ll have to cut some of the juiciest bits, of course.’

<a id="calibre_link-2012"></a>The change of rooms at the hotel. The honeymoon suite. The big mirror behind the bed. How well it all fitted! Bond felt his hands wet with perspiration. He wiped them down his trousers.

‘Steady, old man. You nearly got it then. I told you not to move, remember?’

Bond put his hands back on the book in his lap. How much could he develop these small movements? How far could he go? ‘Get on with the story,’ he said. ‘Did the girl know these pictures were being taken? Did she know SMERSH was involved in all this?’

Nash snorted. ‘Of course she didn’t know about the pictures. Rosa didn’t trust her a yard. Too emotional. But I don’t know much about that side. We all worked in compartments. I’d never seen her until today. I only know what I picked up. Yes, of course the girl knew she was working for SMERSH. She was told she had to get to London and do a bit of spying there.’

The silly idiot, thought Bond. Why the hell hadn’t she told him that SMERSH was involved? She must have been frightened even to speak the name. Thought he would have her locked up or something. She had always said she would tell him everything when she got to England. That he must have faith and not be afraid. Faith! When she hadn’t the foggiest idea herself what was going on. Oh, well. Poor child. She had been as fooled as he had been. But any hint would have been <a id="calibre_link-2013"></a>enough – would have saved the life of Kerim, for instance. And what about hers and his own?

‘Then this Turk of yours had to be got rid of. I gather that took a bit of doing. Tough nut. I suppose it was his gang that blew up our Centre in Istanbul yesterday afternoon. That’s going to create a bit of a panic.’

‘Too bad.’

‘Doesn’t worry me, old man. My end of the job’s going to be easy.’ Nash took a quick glance at his wrist watch. ‘In about twenty minutes we go into the Simplon tunnel. That’s where they want it done. More drama for the papers. One bullet for you. As we go into the tunnel. Just one in the heart. The noise of the tunnel will help in case you’re a noisy dier – rattle and so forth. Then one in the back of the neck for her – with your gun – and out of the window she goes. Then one more for you with your gun. With your fingers wrapped round it, of course. Plenty of powder on your shirt. Suicide. That’s what it’ll look like at first. But there’ll be two bullets in your heart. That’ll come out later. More mystery! Search the Simplon again. Who was the man with the fair hair? They’ll find the film in her bag, and in your pocket there’ll be a long love letter from her to you – a bit threatening. It’s a good one. SMERSH wrote it. It says that she’ll give the film to the newspapers unless you marry her. That you promised to marry her if she stole the Spektor …’ Nash <a id="calibre_link-2014"></a>paused and added in parentheses, ‘As a matter of fact, old man, the Spektor’s booby-trapped. When your cipher experts start fiddling with it, it’s going to blow them all to glory. Not a bad dividend on the side.’ Nash chuckled dully. ‘And then the letter says that all she’s got to offer you is the machine and her body – and all about her body and what you did with it. Hot stuff, that part! Right? So what’s the story in the papers – the Left Wing ones that will be tipped off to meet the train? Old man, the story’s got everything. Orient Express. Beautiful Russian spy murdered in Simplon tunnel. Filthy pictures. Secret cipher machine. Handsome British spy with career ruined murders her and commits suicide. Sex, spies, luxury train, Mr. and Mrs. Somerset …! Old man, it’ll run for months! Talk of the Khoklov case! This’ll knock spots off it. And what a poke in the eye for the famous Intelligence Service! Their best man, the famous James Bond. What a shambles. Then bang goes the cipher machine! What’s your chief going to think of you? What’s the public going to think? And the Government? And the Americans? Talk about security! No more atom secrets from the Yanks.’ Nash paused to let it all sink in. With a touch of pride he said, ‘Old man, this is going to be the story of the century!’

Yes, thought Bond. Yes. He was certainly right about that. The French papers would give it such a send-off <a id="calibre_link-2015"></a>there’d be no stopping it. They wouldn’t mind how far they went with the pictures or anything else. There wasn’t a press in the world that wouldn’t pick it up. And the Spektor! Would M.’s people or the Deuxième have the sense to guess it was booby-trapped? How many of the best cryptographers in the West would go up with it? God, he must get out of this jam! But how?

The top of Nash’s War and Peace yawned at him. Let’s see. There would be the roar as the train went into the tunnel. Then at once the muffled click and the bullet. Bond’s eyes stared into the violet gloom, measuring the depth of the shadow in his corner under the roof of the top bunk, remembering exactly where his attaché case stood on the floor, guessing what Nash would do after he had fired.

Bond said: ‘You took a bit of a gamble on my letting you team up at Trieste. And how did you know the code of the month?’

Nash said patiently, ‘You don’t seem to get the picture, old man. SMERSH is good – really good. There’s nothing better. We know your code of the month for every year. If anyone in your show noticed these things, noticed the pattern of them, like my show does, you’d realize that every January you lose one of your small chaps somewhere – maybe Tokyo, maybe Timbuctoo. SMERSH just picks one and takes him. Then they screw <a id="calibre_link-2016"></a>the code for the year out of him. Anything else he knows, of course. But it’s the code they’re after. Then it’s passed round the Centres. Simple as falling off a log, old man.’

Bond dug his nails into the palms of his hands.

‘As for picking you up at Trieste, old man, I didn’t. Rode down with you – in the front of the train. Got out as we stopped and walked back up the platform. You see, old man, we were waiting for you in Belgrade. Knew you’d call your Chief – or the Embassy or someone. Been listening in on that Yugoslav’s telephone for weeks. Pity we didn’t understand the codeword he shot through to Istanbul. Might have stopped the firework display, or anyway saved our chaps. But the main target was you, old man, and we certainly had you sewn up all right. You were in the killing bottle from the minute you got off that plane in Turkey. It was only a question of when to stuff the cork in.’ Nash took another quick glance at his watch. He looked up. His grinning teeth glistened violet. ‘Pretty soon now, old man. It’s just cork-hour minus fifteen.’

Bond thought: we knew SMERSH was good, but we never knew they were as good as this. The knowledge was vital. Somehow he must get it back. He MUST. Bond’s mind raced round the details of his pitifully thin, pitifully desperate plan.

He said: ‘SMERSH seems to have thought things out <a id="calibre_link-2017"></a>pretty well. Must have taken a lot of trouble. There’s only one thing …’ Bond let his voice hang in the air.

‘What’s that, old man?’ Nash, thinking of his report, was alert.

The train began to slow down. Domodossola. The Italian frontier. What about customs? But Bond remembered. There were no formalities for the through carriages until they got to France, to the frontier, Vallorbes. Even then not for the sleeping cars. These expresses cut straight across Switzerland. It was only people who got out at Brigue or Lausanne who had to go through customs in the stations.

‘Well, come on, old man.’ Nash sounded hooked.

‘Not without a cigarette.’

‘Okay. Go ahead. But if there’s a move I don’t like, you’ll be dead.’

Bond slipped his right hand into his hip-pocket. He drew out his broad gunmetal cigarette case. Opened it. Took out a cigarette. Took his lighter out of his trouser pocket. Lit the cigarette and put the lighter back. He left the cigarette case on his lap beside the book. He put his left hand casually over the book and the cigarette case as if to prevent them slipping off his lap. He puffed away at his cigarette. If only it had been a trick one – magnesium flare, or anything he could throw in the man’s face! If only his Service went in for those explosive toys! But at least he had achieved <a id="calibre_link-2018"></a>his objective and hadn’t been shot in the process. That was a start.

‘You see.’ Bond described an airy circle with his cigarette to distract Nash’s attention. His left hand slipped the flat cigarette case between the pages of his book. ‘You see, it looks all right, but what about you? What are you going to do after we come out of the Simplon? The conductor knows you’re mixed up with us. They’ll be after you in a flash.’

‘Oh that,’ Nash’s voice was bored again. ‘You don’t seem to have hoisted in that the Russians think these things out. I get off at Dijon and take a car to Paris. I get lost there. A bit of “Third Man” stuff won’t do the story any harm. Anyway it’ll come out later when they dig the second bullet out of you and can’t find the second gun. They won’t catch up with me. Matter of fact, I’ve got a date at noon tomorrow – Room 204 at the Ritz Hotel, making my report to Rosa. She wants to get the kudos for this job. Then I turn into her chauffeur and we drive to Berlin. Come to think of it, old man,’ the flat voice showed emotion, became greedy, ‘I think she may have the Order of Lenin for me in her bag. Lovely grub, as they say.’

The train began to move. Bond tensed. In a few minutes it would come. What a way to die, if he was going to die. Through his own stupidity – blind, lethal stupidity. And lethal for Tatiana. Christ! At any moment <a id="calibre_link-2019"></a>he could have done something to dodge this shambles. There had been no lack of opportunity. But conceit and curiosity and four days of love had sucked him along on the easy stream down which it had been planned that he should drift. That was the damnable part of the whole business – the triumph for SMERSH, the one enemy he had always sworn to defeat wherever he met it. We will do this, and he will do that. ‘Comrades, it is easy with a vain fool like this Bond. Watch him take the bait. You will see. I tell you he’s a fool. All Englishmen are fools.’ And Tatiana, the lure – the darling lure. Bond thought of their first night. The black stockings and the velvet ribbon. And all the time SMERSH had been watching, watching him go through his conceited paces, as it had been planned that he would, so that the smear could be built up – the smear on him, the smear on M. who had sent him to Istanbul, the smear on the Service that lived on the myth of its name. God, what a mess! If only … if only his tiny grain of a plan might work!

Ahead, the rumble of the train became a deep boom.

A few more seconds. A few more yards.

The oval mouth between the white pages seemed to gape wider. In a second the dark tunnel would switch out the moonlight on the pages and the blue tongue would lick out for him.

‘Sweet dreams, you English bastard.’

The rumble became a great swift clanging roar.

<a id="calibre_link-2020"></a>The spine of the book bloomed flame.

The bullet, homing on Bond’s heart, flashed over its two quiet yards.

Bond pitched forward on to the floor and lay sprawled under the funereal violet light.

<a id="calibre_link-2022"></a>27 TEN PINTS OF BLOOD

It had all depended on the man’s accuracy. Nash had said that Bond would get one bullet through the heart. Bond had taken the gamble that Nash’s aim was as good as he said it was. And it had been.

Bond lay like a dead man lies. Before the bullet, he had recalled the corpses he had seen – how their bodies had looked in death. Now he lay totally collapsed, like a broken doll, his arms and legs carefully outflung.

He explored his sensations. Where the bullet had crashed into the book, his ribs were on fire. The bullet must have gone through the cigarette case and then through the other half of the book. He could feel the hot lead over his heart. It felt as if it was burning inside his ribs. It was only a sharp pain in his head where it had hit the woodwork, and the violet sheen on the scuffed toecaps against his nose, that said he wasn’t dead.

<a id="calibre_link-2023"></a>Like an archaeologist, Bond explored the carefully planned ruin of his body. The position of the sprawled feet. The angle of the half-bent knee that would give purchase when it was needed. The right hand that seemed to be clawing at his pierced heart, was within inches, when he could release the book, of the little attaché case – within inches of the lateral stitching that held the flat-bladed throwing-knives, two edged and sharp as razors, that he had mocked when Q Branch had demonstrated the catch that held them. And his left hand, outflung in the surrender of death, rested on the floor and would provide upward leverage when the moment came.

Above him there sounded a long, cavernous yawn. The brown toecaps shifted. Bond watched the shoe-leather strain as Nash stood up. In a minute, with Bond’s gun in his right hand, Nash would climb on to the bottom bunk and reach up and feel through the curtain of hair for the base of the girl’s neck. Then the snout of the Beretta would nuzzle in after the probing fingers, Nash would press the trigger. The roar of the train would cover the muffled boom.

It would be a near thing. Bond desperately tried to remember simple anatomy. Where were the mortal places in the lower body of a man? Where did the main artery run? The Femoral. Down the inside of the thigh. And the External Iliac, or whatever it was called, that became <a id="calibre_link-2024"></a>the Femoral? Across the centre of the groin. If he missed both, it would be bad. Bond had no illusions about being able to beat this terrific man in unarmed combat. The first violent stab of his knife had to be decisive.

The brown toecaps moved. They pointed towards the bunk. What was the man doing? There was no sound except the hollow iron clang as the great train tore through the Simplon – through the heart of the Wasenhorn and Monte Leone. The toothglass tinkled. The woodwork creaked comfortably. For a hundred yards on both sides of the little death cell rows of people were sleeping, or lying awake, thinking of their lives and loves, making little plans, wondering who would meet them at the Gare de Lyon. And, all the while, just along the corridor, death was riding with them down the same dark hole, behind the same great Diesel, on the same hot rails.

One brown shoe left the floor. It would have stepped half across Bond. The vulnerable arch would be open above Bond’s head.

Bond’s muscles coiled like a snake’s. His right hand flickered a few centimetres to the hard stitching on the edge of the case. Pressed sideways. Felt the narrow shaft of the knife. Drew it softly half way out without moving his arm.

The brown heel lifted off the ground. The toe bent and took the weight.

Now the second foot had gone.

<a id="calibre_link-2025"></a>Softly move the weight here, take the purchase there, grasp the knife hard so that it wouldn’t turn on a bone, and then …

In one violent corkscrew of motion, Bond’s body twisted up from the floor. The knife flashed.

The fist with the long steel finger, and all Bond’s arm and shoulder behind it, lunged upwards. Bond’s knuckles felt flannel. He held the knife in, forcing it further.

A ghastly wailing cry came down to him. The Beretta clattered to the floor. Then the knife was wrenched from Bond’s hand as the man gave a convulsive twist and crashed down.

Bond had planned for the fall, but, as he sidestepped towards the window, a flailing hand caught him and sent him thudding on to the lower bunk. Before he could recover himself, up from the floor rose the terrible face, its eyes shining violet, the violet teeth bared. Slowly, agonizingly, the two huge hands groped for him.

Bond, half on his back, kicked out blindly. His shoe connected; but then his foot was held and twisted and he felt himself slipping downwards.

Bond’s fingers scrabbled for a hold in the stuff of the bunk. Now the other hand had him by the thigh. Nails dug into him.

Bond’s body was being twisted and pulled down. Soon the teeth would be at him. Bond hammered out with his free leg. It made no difference. He was going.

<a id="calibre_link-2026"></a>Suddenly Bond’s scrabbling fingers felt something hard. The book! How did one work the thing? Which way up was it? Would it shoot him or Nash? Desperately Bond held it out towards the great sweating face. He pressed at the base of the cloth spine.

‘Click!’ Bond felt the recoil. ‘Click-click-click-click.’ Now Bond felt the heat under his fingers. The hands on his legs were going limp. The glistening face was drawing back. A noise came from the throat, a terrible gargling noise. Then, with a slither and a crack, the body fell forward on to the floor and the head crashed back against the woodwork.

Bond lay and panted through clenched teeth. He stared up at the violet light above the door. He noticed that the loop of the filament waxed and waned. It crossed his mind that the dynamo under the carriage must be defective. He blinked his eyes to focus the light more closely. The sweat ran into them and stung. He lay still, doing nothing about it.

The galloping boom of the train began to change. It sounded hollower. With a final echoing roar, the Orient Express sped out into the moonlight and slackened speed.

Bond lazily reached up and pulled at the edge of the blind. He saw warehouses and sidings. Lights shone <a id="calibre_link-2027"></a>brightly, cleanly on the rails. Good, powerful lights. The lights of Switzerland.

The train slid quietly to a stop.

In the steady, singing silence, a small noise came from the floor. Bond cursed himself for not having made certain. He quickly bent down, listening. He held the book forward at the ready, just in case. No movement. Bond reached and felt for the jugular vein. No pulse. The man was quite dead. The corpse had been settling.

Bond sat back and waited impatiently for the train to move again. There was a lot to be done. Even before he could see to Tatiana, there would have to be the cleaning up.

With a jerk the long express started softly rolling. Soon the train would be slaloming fast down through the foothills of the Alps into the Canton Valais. Already there was a new sound in the wheels – a hurrying lilt, as if they were glad the tunnel was past.

Bond got to his feet and stepped over the sprawling legs of the dead man and turned on the top light.

What a shambles! The place looked like a butcher’s shop. How much blood did a body contain? He remembered. Ten pints. Well, it would soon all be there. As long as it didn’t spread into the passage! Bond stripped the bedclothes off the bottom bunk and set to work.

At last the job was done – the walls swabbed down <a id="calibre_link-2028"></a>around the covered bulk on the floor, the suitcases ready for the getaway to Dijon.

Bond drank down a whole carafe of water. Then he stepped up and gently shook the shoulder of fur.

There was no response. Had the man lied? Had he killed her with the poison?

Bond thrust his hand in against her neck. It was warm. Bond felt for the lobe of an ear and pinched it hard. The girl stirred sluggishly and moaned. Again Bond pinched the ear, and again. At last a muffled voice said, ‘Don’t.’

Bond smiled. He shook her. He went on shaking until Tatiana slowly turned over on her side. Two doped blue eyes gazed into his and closed again. ‘What is it?’ The voice was sleepily angry.

Bond talked to her and bullied her and cursed her. He shook her more roughly. At last she sat up. She gazed vacantly at him. Bond pulled her legs out so that they hung down over the edge. Somehow he manhandled her down on to the bottom bunk.

Tatiana looked terrible – the slack mouth, the upturned, sleep-drunk eyes, the tangle of damp hair. Bond got to work with a wet towel and her comb.

Lausanne came and, an hour later, the French frontier at Vallorbes. Bond left Tatiana and went out and stood in the corridor, just in case. But the customs and passport men brushed past him to the conductor’s cabin, and, after five inscrutable minutes, went on down the train.

<a id="calibre_link-2029"></a>Bond stepped back into the compartment. Tatiana was asleep again. Bond looked at Nash’s watch, which was now on his own wrist. 4.30. Another hour to Dijon. Bond set to work.

At last Tatiana’s eyes opened wide. Her pupils were more or less centred. She said, ‘Stop it now, James.’ She closed her eyes again. Bond wiped the sweat off his face. He took the bags, one by one, to the end of the corridor and piled them against the exit. Then he went along to the conductor and told him that Madame was not well and that they would be leaving the train at Dijon.

Bond gave the conductor a final tip. ‘Do not derange yourself,’ he said. ‘I have taken the luggage out so as not to disturb Madame. My friend, the one with fair hair, is a doctor. He has been sitting up with us all night. I have put him to sleep in my bunk. The man was exhausted. It would be kind not to waken him until ten minutes before Paris.’

‘Certainement, Monsieur.’ The conductor had not been showered with money like this since the good days of travelling millionaires. He handed over Bond’s passport and tickets. The train began to slacken speed. ‘Voilà que nous y sommes.’

Bond went back to the compartment. He dragged Tatiana to her feet and out into the corridor and shut the door on the white pile of death beside the bunk.

<a id="calibre_link-2030"></a>At last they were down the steps and on to the hard, wonderful, motionless platform. A blue-smocked porter took their luggage.

The sun was beginning to rise. At that hour of the morning there were very few passengers awake. Only a handful in the third class, who had ridden ‘hard’ through the night, saw a young man help a young girl away from the dusty carriage with the romantic names on its side towards the drab door that said ‘SORTIE’.

<a id="calibre_link-2032"></a>28 LA TRICOTEUSE

The taxi drew up at the Rue Cambon entrance to the Ritz Hotel.

Bond looked at Nash’s watch. 11.45. He must be dead punctual. He knew that if a Russian spy was even a few minutes early or late for a rendezvous the rendezvous was automatically cancelled. He paid off the taxi and went through the door on the left that leads into the Ritz bar.

Bond ordered a double vodka martini. He drank it half down. He felt wonderful. Suddenly the last four days, and particularly last night, were washed off the calendar. Now he was on his own, having his private adventure. All his duties had been taken care of. The girl was sleeping in a bedroom at the Embassy. The Spektor, still pregnant with explosive, had been taken away by the bomb-disposal squad of the Deuxième Bureau. He had <a id="calibre_link-2033"></a>spoken to his old friend René Mathis, now head of the Deuxième, and the concierge at the Cambon entrance to the Ritz had been told to give him a pass-key and to ask no questions.

René had been delighted to find himself again involved with Bond in une affaire noire. ‘Have confidence, cher James,’ he had said. ‘I will execute your mysteries. You can tell me the story afterwards. Two laundry-men with a large laundry basket will come to Room 204 at 12.15. I shall accompany them dressed as the driver of their camion. We are to fill the laundry basket and take it to Orly and await an R.A.F. Canberra which will arrive at two o’clock. We hand over the basket. Some dirty washing which was in France will be in England. Yes?’

Head of Station F had spoken to M. on the scrambler. He had passed over a short written report from Bond. He had asked for the Canberra. No, he had no idea what it was for. Bond had only shown up to deliver the girl and the Spektor. He had eaten a huge breakfast and had left the Embassy saying he would be back after lunch.

Bond looked again at the time. He finished his martini. He paid for it and walked out of the bar and up the steps to the concierge’s lodge.

The concierge looked sharply at him and handed over a key. Bond walked over to the lift and got in and went up to the third floor.

<a id="calibre_link-2034"></a>The lift door clanged behind him. Bond walked softly down the corridor, looking at the numbers.

204. Bond put his right hand inside his coat and on to the taped butt of the Beretta. It was tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He could feel the metal of the silencer warm across his stomach.

He knocked once with his left hand.

‘Come in.’

It was a quavering voice. An old woman’s voice.

Bond tried the handle of the door. It was unlocked. He slipped the pass-key into his coat-pocket. He pushed the door open with one swift motion and stepped in and shut it behind him.

It was a typical Ritz sitting-room, extremely elegant, with good Empire furniture. The walls were white and the curtains and chair covers were of a small patterned chintz of red roses on white. The carpet was wine-red and close-fitted.

In a pool of sunshine, in a low armed chair beside a Directoire writing desk, a little old woman sat knitting.

The tinkle of the steel needles continued. The eyes behind light-blue tinted bi-focals examined Bond with polite curiosity.

‘Oui, Monsieur?’ The voice was deep and hoarse. The thickly powdered, rather puffy face under the white hair showed nothing but well-bred interest.

<a id="calibre_link-2035"></a>Bond’s hand on the gun under his coat was taut as a steel spring. His half-closed eyes flickered round the room and back to the little old woman in the chair.

Had he made a mistake? Was this the wrong room? Should he apologize and get out? Could this woman possibly belong to SMERSH? She looked so exactly like the sort of respectable rich widow one would expect to find sitting by herself in the Ritz, whiling the time away with her knitting. The sort of woman who would have her own table, and her favourite waiter, in a corner of the restaurant downstairs – not, of course, the grill room. The sort of woman who would doze after lunch and then be fetched by an elegant black limousine with white side-walled tyres and be driven to the tea-room in the rue de Berri to meet some other rich crone. The old-fashioned black dress with the touch of lace at the throat and wrists, the thin gold chain that hung down over the shapeless bosom and ended in a folding lorgnette, the neat little feet in the sensible black-buttoned boots that barely touched the floor. It couldn’t be Klebb! Bond had got the number of the room wrong. He could feel the perspiration under his arms. But now he would have to play the scene through.

‘My name is Bond, James Bond.’

‘And I, Monsieur, am the Comtesse Metterstein. What can I do for you?’ The French was rather thick. <a id="calibre_link-2036"></a>She might be German Swiss. The needles tinkled busily.

‘I am afraid Captain Nash has met with an accident. He won’t be coming today. So I came instead.’

Did the eyes narrow a fraction behind the pale blue spectacles?

‘I have not the pleasure of the Captain’s acquaintance, Monsieur. Nor of yours. Please sit down and state your business.’ The woman inclined her head an inch towards the high-backed chair beside the writing desk.

One couldn’t fault her. The graciousness of it all was devastating. Bond walked across the room and sat down. Now he was about six feet away from her. The desk held nothing but a tall old-fashioned telephone with a receiver on a hook, and, within reach of her hand, an ivory-buttoned bellpush. The black mouth of the telephone yawned at Bond politely.

Bond stared rudely into the woman’s face, examining it. It was an ugly face, toadlike, under the powder and under the tight cottage-loaf of white hair. The eyes were so light brown as to be almost yellow. The pale lips were wet and blubbery below the fringe of nicotine-stained moustache. Nicotine? Where were her cigarettes? There was no ashtray – no smell of smoke in the room.

Bond’s hand tightened again on his gun. He glanced down at the bag of knitting, at the shapeless length of small-denier beige wool the woman was working on. <a id="calibre_link-2037"></a>The steel needles. What was there odd about them? The ends were discoloured as if they had been held in fire. Did knitting needles ever look like that?

‘Eh bien, Monsieur?’ Was there an edge to the voice? Had she read something in his face?

Bond smiled. His muscles were tense, waiting for any movement, any trick. ‘It’s no use,’ he said cheerfully, gambling. ‘You are Rosa Klebb. And you are Head of Otdyel II of SMERSH. You are a torturer and a murderer. You wanted to kill me and the Romanov girl. I am very glad to meet you at last.’

The eyes had not changed. The harsh voice was patient and polite. The woman reached out her left hand towards the bellpush. ‘Monsieur, I am afraid you are deranged. I must ring for the valet de chambre and have you shown to the door.’

Bond never knew what saved his life. Perhaps it was the flash of realization that no wires led from the bellpush to the wall or into the carpet. Perhaps it was the sudden memory of the English ‘Come in’ when the expected knock came on the door. But, as her finger reached the ivory knob, he hurled himself sideways out of the chair.

As Bond hit the ground there was a sharp noise of tearing calico. Splinters from the back of his chair sprayed around him. The chair crashed to the floor.

Bond twisted over, tugging at his gun. Out of the <a id="calibre_link-2038"></a>corner of his eye he noticed a curl of blue smoke coming from the mouth of the ‘telephone’. Then the woman was on him, the knitting needles glinting in her clenched fists.

She stabbed downwards at his legs. Bond lashed out with his feet and hurled her sideways. She had aimed at his legs! As he got to one knee, Bond knew what the coloured tips of the needles meant. It was poison. Probably one of those German nerve poisons. All she had to do was scratch him, even through his clothes.

Bond was on his feet. She was coming at him again. He tugged furiously at his gun. The silencer had caught. There was a flash of light. Bond dodged. One of the needles rattled against the wall behind him and the dreadful chunk of woman, the white bun of wig askew on her head, the slimy lips drawn back from her teeth, was on top of him.

Bond, not daring to use his naked fists against the needles, vaulted sideways over the desk.

Panting and talking to herself in Russian, Rosa Klebb scuttled round the desk, the remaining needle held forward like a rapier. Bond backed away, working at the stuck gun. The back of his legs came against a small chair. He let go the gun and reached behind him and snatched it up. Holding it by the back, with its legs pointing like horns, he went round the desk to meet her. But she was beside the bogus telephone. She swept <a id="calibre_link-2039"></a>it up and aimed it. Her hand went to the button. Bond leapt forward. He crashed the chair down. Bullets sprayed into the ceiling and plaster pattered down on his head.

Bond lunged again. The legs of the chair clutched the woman round the waist and over her shoulders. God she was strong! She gave way, but only to the wall. There she held her ground, spitting at Bond over the top of the chair, while the knitting needle quested towards him like a long scorpion’s sting.

Bond stood back a little, holding the chair at arms’ length. He took aim and high-kicked at the probing wrist. The needle sailed away into the room and pinged down behind him.

Bond came in closer. He examined the position. Yes, the woman was held firmly against the wall by the four legs of the chair. There was no way she could get out of the cage except by brute force. Her arms and legs and head were free, but the body was pinned to the wall.

The woman hissed something in Russian. She spat at him over the chair. Bond bent his head and wiped his face against his sleeve. He looked up and into the mottled face.

‘That’s all, Rosa,’ he said. ‘The Deuxième will be here in a minute. In an hour or so you’ll be in London. You won’t be seen leaving the hotel. You won’t be seen going into England. In fact very few people will see you again. <a id="calibre_link-2040"></a>From now on you’re just a number on a secret file. By the time we’ve finished with you you’ll be ready for the lunatic asylum.’

The face, a few feet away, was changing. Now the blood had drained out of it, and it was yellow. But not, thought Bond, with fear. The pale eyes looked levelly into his. They were not defeated.

The wet, shapeless mouth lengthened in a grin.

‘And where will you be when I am in the asylum, Mister Bond?’

‘Oh, getting on with my life.’

‘I think not, Angliski spion.’

Bond hardly noticed the words. He had heard the click of the door opening. A burst of laughter came from the room behind him.

‘Eh bien,’ it was the voice of delight that Bond remembered so well. ‘The 70th position! Now, at last, I have seen everything. And invented by an Englishman! James, this really is an insult to my countrymen.’

‘I don’t recommend it,’ said Bond over his shoulder. ‘It’s too strenuous. Anyway, you can take over now. I’ll introduce you. Her name’s Rosa. You’ll like her. She’s a big noise in SMERSH – she looks after the murdering, as a matter of fact.’

Mathis came up. There were two laundry-men with him. The three of them stood and looked respectfully into the dreadful face.

<a id="calibre_link-2041"></a>‘Rosa,’ said Mathis thoughtfully. ‘But, this time, a Rosa Malheur. Well, well! But I am sure she is uncomfortable in that position. You two, bring along the panier de fleurs – she will be more comfortable lying down.’

The two men walked to the door. Bond heard the creak of the laundry basket.

The woman’s eyes were still locked in Bond’s. She moved a little, shifting her weight. Out of Bond’s sight, and not noticed by Mathis, who was still examining her face, the toe of one shiny buttoned boot pressed under the instep of the other. From the point of its toe there slid forward half an inch of thin knife blade. Like the knitting needles, the steel had a dirty bluish tinge.

The two men came up and put the big square basket down beside Mathis.

‘Take her,’ said Mathis. He bowed slightly to the woman. ‘It has been an honour.’

‘Au revoir, Rosa,’ said Bond.

The yellow eyes blazed briefly.

‘Farewell, Mister Bond.’

The boot, with its tiny steel tongue, flashed out.

Bond felt a sharp pain in his right calf. It was only the sort of pain you would get from a kick. He flinched and stepped back. The two men seized Rosa Klebb by the arms.

<a id="calibre_link-2042"></a>Mathis laughed. ‘My poor James,’ he said. ‘Count on SMERSH to have the last word.’

The tongue of dirty steel had withdrawn into the leather. Now it was only a harmless bundle of old woman that was being lifted into the basket.

Mathis watched the lid being secured. He turned to Bond. ‘It is a good day’s work you have done, my friend,’ he said. ‘But you look tired. Go back to the Embassy and have a rest because this evening we must have dinner together. The best dinner in Paris. And I will find the loveliest girl to go with it.’

Numbness was creeping up Bond’s body. He felt very cold. He lifted his hand to brush back the comma of hair over his right eyebrow. There was no feeling in his fingers. They seemed as big as cucumbers. His hand fell heavily to his side.

Breathing became difficult. Bond sighed to the depth of his lungs. He clenched his jaws and half closed his eyes, as people do when they want to hide their drunkenness.

Through his eyelashes he watched the basket being carried to the door. He prised his eyes open. Desperately he focused on Mathis.

‘I shan’t need a girl, René,’ he said thickly.

Now he had to gasp for breath. Again his hand moved up towards his cold face. He had an impression of Mathis starting towards him.

<a id="calibre_link-2043"></a>Bond felt his knees begin to buckle.

He said, or thought he said, ‘I’ve already got the loveliest …’

Bond pivoted slowly on his heel and crashed headlong to the wine-red floor.

DR NO

<a id="calibre_link-2045"></a>1 HEAR YOU LOUD AND CLEAR

Punctually at six o’clock the sun set with a last yellow flash behind the Blue Mountains, a wave of violet shadow poured down Richmond Road, and the crickets and tree frogs in the fine gardens began to zing and tinkle.

Apart from the background noise of the insects, the wide empty street was quiet. The wealthy owners of the big, withdrawn houses – the bank managers, company directors and top civil servants – had been home since five o’clock and they would be discussing the day with their wives or taking a shower and changing their clothes. In half an hour the street would come to life again with the cocktail traffic, but now this very superior half mile of ‘Rich Road’, as it was known to the tradesmen of Kingston, held nothing but the suspense of an empty stage and the heavy perfume of night-scented jasmine.

Richmond Road is the ‘best’ road in all Jamaica. It is <a id="calibre_link-2046"></a>Jamaica’s Park Avenue, its Kensington Palace Gardens, its Avenue D’Iéna. The ‘best’ people live in its big old-fashioned houses, each in an acre or two of beautiful lawn set, too trimly, with the finest trees and flowers from the Botanical Gardens at Hope. The long, straight road is cool and quiet and withdrawn from the hot, vulgar sprawl of Kingston where its residents earn their money, and, on the other side of the T-intersection at its top, lie the grounds of King’s House, where the Governor and Commander-in-Chief of Jamaica lives with his family. In Jamaica, no road could have a finer ending.

On the eastern corner of the top intersection stands No. 1 Richmond Road, a substantial two-storey house with broad white-painted verandas running round both floors. From the road a gravel path leads up to the pillared entrance through wide lawns marked out with tennis courts on which this evening, as on all evenings, the sprinklers are at work. This mansion is the social Mecca of Kingston. It is Queen’s Club, which, for fifty years, has boasted the power and frequency of its blackballs.

Such stubborn retreats will not long survive in modern Jamaica. One day Queen’s Club will have its windows smashed and perhaps be burned to the ground, but for the time being it is a useful place to find in a sub-tropical island – well run, well staffed and with the finest cuisine and cellar in the Caribbean.

At that time of day, on most evenings of the year, you <a id="calibre_link-2047"></a>would find the same four motor cars standing in the road outside the club. They were the cars belonging to the high bridge game that assembled punctually at five and played until around midnight. You could almost set your watch by these cars. They belonged, reading from the order in which they now stood against the kerb, to the Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force, to Kingston’s leading criminal lawyer, and to the Mathematics Professor from Kingston University. At the tail of the line stood the black Sunbeam Alpine of Commander John Strangways, R.N. (Ret.), Regional Control Officer for the Caribbean – or, less discreetly, the local representative of the British Secret Service.

Just before six-fifteen, the silence of Richmond Road was softly broken. Three blind beggars came round the corner of the intersection and moved slowly down the pavement towards the four cars. They were Chigroes – Chinese negroes – bulky men, but bowed as they shuffled along, tapping at the kerb with their white sticks. They walked in file. The first man, who wore blue glasses and could presumably see better than the others, walked in front holding a tin cup against the crook of the stick in his left hand. The right hand of the second man rested on his shoulder and the right hand of the third on the shoulder of the second. The eyes of the second and third <a id="calibre_link-2048"></a>men were shut. The three men were dressed in rags and wore dirty jippa-jappa baseball caps with long peaks. They said nothing and no noise came from them except the soft tapping of their sticks as they came slowly down the shadowed pavement towards the group of cars.

The three blind men would not have been incongruous in Kingston, where there are many diseased people on the streets, but, in this quiet rich empty street, they made an unpleasant impression. And it was odd that they should all be Chinese negroes. This is not a common mixture of bloods.

In the cardroom, the sunburned hand reached out into the green pool of the centre table and gathered up the four cards. There was a quiet snap as the trick went to join the rest. ‘Hundred honours,’ said Strangways, ‘and ninety below!’ He looked at his watch and stood up. ‘Back in twenty minutes. Your deal, Bill. Order some drinks. Usual for me. Don’t bother to cook a hand for me while I’m gone. I always spot them.’

Bill Templar, the Brigadier, laughed shortly. He pinged the bell by his side and raked the cards in towards him. He said, ‘Hurry up, blast you. You always let the cards go cold just as your partner’s in the money.’

Strangways was already out of the door. The three men sat back resignedly in their chairs. The coloured steward came in and they ordered drinks for themselves and a whisky and water for Strangways.

<a id="calibre_link-2049"></a>There was this maddening interruption every evening at six-fifteen, about halfway through their second rubber. At this time precisely, even if they were in the middle of a hand, Strangways had to go to his ‘office’ and ‘make a call’. It was a damned nuisance. But Strangways was a vital part of their four and they put up with it. It was never explained what ‘the call’ was, and no one asked. Strangways’s job was ‘hush’ and that was that. He was rarely away for more than twenty minutes and it was understood that he paid for his absence with a round of drinks.

The drinks came and the three men began to talk racing.

In fact, this was the most important moment in Strangways’s day – the time of his duty radio contact with the powerful transmitter on the roof of the building in Regent’s Park that is the headquarters of the Secret Service. Every day, at eighteen-thirty local time, unless he gave warning the day before that he would not be on the air – when he had business on one of the other islands in his territory, for instance, or was seriously ill – he would transmit his daily report and receive his orders. If he failed to come on the air precisely at six-thirty, there would be a second call, the ‘Blue’ call, at seven, and, finally, the ‘Red’ call at seven-thirty. After <a id="calibre_link-2050"></a>this, if his transmitter remained silent, it was ‘Emergency’, and Section III, his controlling authority in London, would urgently get on the job of finding out what had happened to him.

Even a ‘Blue’ call means a bad mark for an agent unless his ‘Reasons in Writing’ are unanswerable. London’s radio schedules round the world are desperately tight and their minute disruption by even one extra call is a dangerous nuisance. Strangways had never suffered the ignominy of a ‘Blue’ call, let alone a ‘Red’, and was as certain as could be that he never would do so. Every evening, at precisely six-fifteen, he left Queen’s Club, got into his car and drove for ten minutes up into the foothills of the Blue Mountains to his neat bungalow with the fabulous view over Kingston harbour. At six twenty-five he walked through the hall to the office at the back. He unlocked the door and locked it again behind him. Miss Trueblood, who passed as his secretary, but was in fact his No. 2 and a former Chief Officer W.R.N.S., would already be sitting in front of the dials inside the dummy filing cabinet. She would have the earphones on and would be making first contact, tapping out his call-sign, WXN, on 14 megacycles. There would be a shorthand pad on her elegant knees. Strangways would drop into the chair beside her and pick up the other pair of headphones and, at exactly six twenty-eight, he would take over from her and wait for the sudden <a id="calibre_link-2051"></a>hollowness in the ether that meant that WWW in London was coming in to acknowledge.

It was an iron routine. Strangways was a man of iron routine. Unfortunately, strict patterns of behaviour can be deadly if they are read by an enemy.

Strangways, a tall lean man with a black patch over the right eye and the sort of aquiline good looks you associate with the bridge of a destroyer, walked quickly across the mahogany panelled hallway of Queen’s Club and pushed through the light mosquito-wired doors and ran down the three steps to the path.

There was nothing very much on his mind except the sensual pleasure of the clean fresh evening air and the memory of the finesse that had given him his three spades. There was this case, of course, the case he was working on, a curious and complicated affair that M. had rather nonchalantly tossed over the air at him two weeks earlier. But it was going well. A chance lead into the Chinese community had paid off. Some odd angles had come to light – for the present the merest shadows of angles – but if they jelled, thought Strangways as he strode down the gravel path and into Richmond Road, he might find himself involved in something very odd indeed.

Strangways shrugged his shoulders. Of course it wouldn’t turn out like that. The fantastic never materialized in his line of business. There would be some drab <a id="calibre_link-2052"></a>solution that had been embroidered by overheated imaginations and the usual hysteria of the Chinese.

Automatically, another part of Strangways’s mind took in the three blind men. They were tapping slowly towards him down the sidewalk. They were about twenty yards away. He calculated that they would pass him a second or two before he reached his car. Out of shame for his own health and gratitude for it, Strangways felt for a coin. He ran his thumbnail down its edge to make sure it was a florin and not a penny. He took it out. He was parallel with the beggars. How odd, they were all Chigroes! How very odd! Strangways’s hand went out. The coin clanged in the tin cup.

‘Bless you, Master,’ said the leading man. ‘Bless you,’ echoed the other two.

The car key was in Strangways’s hand. Vaguely he registered the moment of silence as the tapping of the white sticks ceased. It was too late.

As Strangways had passed the last man, all three had swivelled. The back two had fanned out a step to have a clear field of fire. Three revolvers, ungainly with their sausage-shaped silencers, whipped out of holsters concealed among the rags. With disciplined precision the three men aimed at different points down Strangways’s spine – one between the shoulders, one in the small of the back, one at the pelvis.

The three heavy coughs were almost one. Strangways’s <a id="calibre_link-2053"></a>body was hurled forward as if it had been kicked. It lay absolutely still in the small puff of dust from the sidewalk.

It was six-seventeen. With a squeal of tyres, a dingy motor hearse with black plumes flying from the four corners of its roof took the T-intersection into Richmond Road and shot down towards the group on the pavement. The three men had just had time to pick up Strangways’s body when the hearse slid to a stop abreast of them. The double doors at the back were open. So was the plain deal coffin inside. The three men manhandled the body through the doors and into the coffin. They climbed in. The lid was put on and the doors pulled shut. The three negroes sat down on three of the four little seats at the corners of the coffin and unhurriedly laid their white sticks beside them. Roomy black alpaca coats hung over the backs of the seats. They put the coats on over their rags. Then they took off their baseball caps and reached down to the floor and picked up black top hats and put them on their heads.

The driver, who also was a Chinese negro, looked nervously over his shoulder.

‘Go, man. Go!’ said the biggest of the killers. He glanced down at the luminous dial of his wrist watch. It said six-twenty. Just three minutes for the job. Dead on time.

The hearse made a decorous U-turn and moved at a <a id="calibre_link-2054"></a>sedate speed up to the intersection. There it turned right and at thirty miles an hour it cruised genteelly up the tarmac highway towards the hills, its black plumes streaming the doleful signal of its burden and the three mourners sitting bolt upright with their arms crossed respectfully over their hearts.

‘WXN calling WWW.… WXN calling WWW.… WXN … WXN … WXN …’

The centre finger of Mary Trueblood’s right hand stabbed softly, elegantly, at the key. She lifted her left wrist. Six twenty-eight. He was a minute late. Mary Trueblood smiled at the thought of the little open Sunbeam tearing up the road towards her. Now, in a second, she would hear the quick step, then the key in the lock and he would be sitting beside her. There would be the apologetic smile as he reached for the earphones. ‘Sorry, Mary. Damned car wouldn’t start.’ Or, ‘You’d think the blasted police knew my number by now. Stopped me at Halfway Tree.’ Mary Trueblood took the second pair of earphones off their hook and put them on his chair to save him half a second.

‘WXN calling WWW.… WXN calling WWW.’ She tuned the dial a hair’s breadth and tried again. Her watch said six-twenty-nine. She began to worry. In a matter of seconds, London would be coming in. Suddenly she <a id="calibre_link-2055"></a>thought, God, what could she do if Strangways wasn’t on time! It was useless for her to acknowledge London and pretend she was him – useless and dangerous. Radio Security would be monitoring the call, as they monitored every call from an agent. Those instruments which measured the minute peculiarities in an operator’s ‘fist’ would at once detect it wasn’t Strangways at the key. Mary Trueblood had been shown the forest of dials in the quiet room on the top floor at headquarters, had watched as the dancing hands registered the weight of each pulse, the speed of each cipher group, the stumble over a particular letter. The Controller had explained it all to her when she had joined the Caribbean station five years before – how a buzzer would sound and the contact be automatically broken if the wrong operator had come on the air. It was the basic protection against a Secret Service transmitter falling into enemy hands. And, if an agent had been captured and was being forced to contact London under torture, he had only to add a few hair-breadth peculiarities to his usual ‘fist’ and they would tell the story of his capture as clearly as if he had announced it en clair.

Now it had come! Now she was hearing the hollowness in the ether that meant London was coming in. Mary Trueblood glanced at her watch. Six-thirty. Panic! But now, at last, there were the footsteps in the hall. Thank God! In a second he would come in. She must <a id="calibre_link-2056"></a>protect him! Desperately she decided to take a chance and keep the circuit open.

‘WWW calling WXN.… WWW calling WXN.… Can you hear me? … can you hear me?’ London was coming over strong, searching for the Jamaica station.

The footsteps were at the door.

Coolly, confidently, she tapped back: ‘Hear you loud and clear.… Hear you loud and clear.… Hear you …’

Behind her there was an explosion. Something hit her on the ankle. She looked down. It was the lock of the door.

Mary Trueblood swivelled sharply on her chair. A man stood in the doorway. It wasn’t Strangways. It was a big negro with yellowish skin and slanting eyes. There was a gun in his hand. It ended in a thick black cylinder.

Mary Trueblood opened her mouth to scream.

The man smiled broadly. Slowly, lovingly, he lifted the gun and shot her three times in and around the left breast.

The girl slumped sideways off her chair. The earphones slipped off her golden hair on to the floor. For perhaps a second the tiny chirrup of London sounded out into the room. Then it stopped. The buzzer at the Controller’s desk in Radio Security had signalled that something was wrong on WXN.

The killer walked out of the door. He came back <a id="calibre_link-2057"></a>carrying a box with a coloured label on it that said PRESTO FIRE, and a big sugar-sack marked TATE & LYLE. He put the box down on the floor and went to the body and roughly forced the sack over the head and down to the ankles. The feet stuck out. He bent them and crammed them in. He dragged the bulky sack out into the hall and came back. In the corner of the room the safe stood open, as he had been told it would, and the cipher books had been taken out and laid on the desk ready for work on the London signals. The man threw these and all the papers in the safe into the centre of the room. He tore down the curtains and added them to the pile. He topped it up with a couple of chairs. He opened the box of Presto firelighters and took out a handful and tucked them into the pile and lit them. Then he went out into the hall and lit similar bonfires in appropriate places. The tinder-dry furniture caught quickly and the flames began to lick up the panelling. The man went to the front door and opened it. Through the hibiscus hedge he could see the glint of the hearse. There was no noise except the zing of crickets and the soft tick-over of the car’s engine. Up and down the road there was no other sign of life. The man went back into the smoke-filled hall and easily shouldered the sack and came out again, leaving the door open to make a draught. He walked swiftly down the path to the road. The back doors of the hearse were open. He handed in the sack <a id="calibre_link-2058"></a>and watched the two men force it into the coffin on top of Strangways’s body. Then he climbed in and shut the doors and sat down and put on his top hat.

As the first flames showed in the upper windows of the bungalow, the hearse moved quietly from the sidewalk and went on its way up towards the Mona Reservoir. There the weighted coffin would slip down into its fifty-fathom grave and, in just forty-five minutes, the personnel and records of the Caribbean station of the Secret Service would have been utterly destroyed.

<a id="calibre_link-2060"></a>2 CHOICE OF WEAPONS

Three weeks later, in London, March came in like a rattlesnake.

From first light on March 1st, hail and icy sleet, with a Force 8 gale behind them, lashed at the city and went on lashing as the people streamed miserably to work, their legs whipped by the wet hems of their macintoshes and their faces blotching with the cold.

It was a filthy day and everybody said so – even M., who rarely admitted the existence of weather even in its extreme forms. When the old black Silver Wraith Rolls with the nondescript number-plate stopped outside the tall building in Regent’s Park and he climbed stiffly out on to the pavement, hail hit him in the face like a whiff of small-shot. Instead of hurrying inside the building, he walked deliberately round the car to the window beside the chauffeur.

<a id="calibre_link-2061"></a>‘Won’t be needing the car again today, Smith. Take it away and go home. I’ll use the tube this evening. No weather for driving a car. Worse than one of those PQ convoys.’

Ex-Leading Stoker Smith grinned gratefully. ‘Aye-aye, sir. And thanks.’ He watched the elderly erect figure walk round the bonnet of the Rolls and across the pavement and into the building. Just like the old boy. He’d always see the men right first. Smith clicked the gear lever into first and moved off, peering forward through the streaming windscreen. They didn’t come like that any more.

M. went up in the lift to the eighth floor and along the thick-carpeted corridor to his office. He shut the door behind him, took off his overcoat and scarf and hung them behind the door. He took out a large blue silk bandanna handkerchief and brusquely wiped it over his face. It was odd, but he wouldn’t have done this in front of the porters or the liftman. He went over to his desk and sat down and bent towards the intercom. He pressed a switch. ‘I’m in, Miss Moneypenny. The signals, please, and anything else you’ve got. Then get me Sir James Molony. He’ll be doing his rounds at St Mary’s about now. Tell the Chief of Staff I’ll see 007 in half an hour. And let me have the Strangways file.’ M. waited for the metallic ‘Yes, sir’ and released the switch.

He sat back and reached for his pipe and began filling <a id="calibre_link-2062"></a>it thoughtfully. He didn’t look up when his secretary came in with the stack of papers and he even ignored the half dozen pink Most Immediates on top of the signal file. If they had been vital he would have been called during the night.

A yellow light winked on the intercom. M. picked up the black telephone from the row of four. ‘That you, Sir James? Have you got five minutes?’

‘Six, for you.’ At the other end of the line the famous neurologist chuckled. ‘Want me to certify one of Her Majesty’s Ministers?’

‘Not today.’ M. frowned irritably. The old Navy had respected governments. ‘It’s about that man of mine you’ve been handling. We won’t bother about the name. This is an open line. I gather you let him out yesterday. Is he fit for duty?’

There was a pause on the other end. Now the voice was professional, judicious. ‘Physically he’s as fit as a fiddle. Leg’s healed up. Shouldn’t be any after-effects. Yes, he’s all right.’ There was another pause. ‘Just one thing, M. There’s a lot of tension there, you know. You work these men of yours pretty hard. Can you give him something easy to start with? From what you’ve told me he’s been having a tough time for some years now.’

M. said gruffly, ‘That’s what he’s paid for. It’ll soon show if he’s not up to the work. Won’t be the first one that’s cracked. From what you say, he sounds in perfectly <a id="calibre_link-2063"></a>good shape. It isn’t as if he’d really been damaged like some of the patients I’ve sent you – men who’ve been properly put through the mangle.’

‘Of course, if you put it like that. But pain’s an odd thing. We know very little about it. You can’t measure it – the difference in suffering between a woman having a baby and a man having a renal colic. And, thank God, the body seems to forget fairly quickly. But this man of yours has been in real pain, M. Don’t think that just because nothing’s been broken …’

‘Quite, quite.’ Bond had made a mistake and he had suffered for it. In any case M. didn’t like being lectured, even by one of the most famous doctors in the world, on how he should handle his agents. There had been a note of criticism in Sir James Molony’s voice. M. said abruptly, ‘Ever hear of a man called Steincrohn – Dr Peter Steincrohn?’

‘No, who’s he?’

‘American doctor. Written a book my Washington people sent over for our library. This man talks about how much punishment the human body can put up with. Gives a list of the bits of the body an average man can do without. Matter of fact, I copied it out for future reference. Care to hear the list?’ M. dug into his coat pocket and put some letters and scraps of paper on the desk in front of him. With his left hand he selected a piece of paper and unfolded it. He wasn’t put out by the <a id="calibre_link-2064"></a>silence on the other end of the line, ‘Hullo, Sir James! Well, here they are: “Gall bladder, spleen, tonsils, appendix, one of his two kidneys, one of his two lungs, two of his four or five quarts of blood, two-fifths of his liver, most of his stomach, four of his twenty-three feet of intestines and half of his brain.” ’ M. paused. When the silence continued at the other end, he said, ‘Any comments, Sir James?’

There was a reluctant grunt at the other end of the telephone. ‘I wonder he didn’t add an arm and a leg, or all of them. I don’t see quite what you’re trying to prove.’

M. gave a curt laugh. ‘I’m not trying to prove anything, Sir James. It just struck me as an interesting list. All I’m trying to say is that my man seems to have got off pretty lightly compared with that sort of punishment. But,’ M. relented, ‘don’t let’s argue about it.’ He said in a milder voice, ‘As a matter of fact I did have it in mind to let him have a bit of a breather. Something’s come up in Jamaica.’ M. glanced at the streaming windows. ‘It’ll be more of a rest cure than anything. Two of my people, a man and a girl, have gone off together. Or that’s what it looks like. Our friend can have a spell at being an inquiry agent – in the sunshine too. How’s that?’

‘Just the ticket. I wouldn’t mind the job myself on a day like this.’ But Sir James Molony was determined to get his message through. He persisted mildly. ‘Don’t think I wanted to interfere, M., but there are limits to a <a id="calibre_link-2065"></a>man’s courage. I know you have to treat these men as if they were expendable, but presumably you don’t want them to crack at the wrong moment. This one I’ve had here is tough. I’d say you’ll get plenty more work out of him. But you know what Moran has to say about courage in that book of his.’

‘Don’t recall.’

‘He says that courage is a capital sum reduced by expenditure. I agree with him. All I’m trying to say is that this particular man seems to have been spending pretty hard since before the war. I wouldn’t say he’s overdrawn – not yet, but there are limits.’

‘Just so.’ M. decided that was quite enough of that. Nowadays, softness was everywhere. ‘That’s why I’m sending him abroad. Holiday in Jamaica. Don’t worry, Sir James. I’ll take care of him. By the way, did you ever discover what the stuff was that Russian woman put into him?’

‘Got the answer yesterday.’ Sir James Molony also was glad the subject had been changed. The old man was as raw as the weather. Was there any chance that he had got his message across into what he described to himself as M.’s thick skull? ‘Taken us three months. It was a bright chap at the School of Tropical Medicine who came up with it. The drug was fugu poison. The Japanese use it for committing suicide. It comes from the sex organs of the Japanese globe-fish. Trust the Russians to use <a id="calibre_link-2066"></a>something no one’s ever heard of. They might just as well have used curare. It has much the same effect – paralysis of the central nervous system. Fugu’s scientific name is Tetrodotoxin. It’s terrible stuff and very quick. One shot of it like your man got and in a matter of seconds the motor and respiratory muscles are paralysed. At first the chap sees double and then he can’t keep his eyes open. Next he can’t swallow. His head falls and he can’t raise it. Dies of respiratory paralysis.’

‘Lucky he got away with it.’

‘Miracle. Thanks entirely to that Frenchman who was with him. Got your man on the floor and gave him artificial respiration as if he was drowning. Somehow kept his lungs going until the doctor came. Luckily the doctor had worked in South America. Diagnosed curare and treated him accordingly. But it was a chance in a million. By the same token, what happened to the Russian woman?’

M. said shortly, ‘Oh, she died. Well, many thanks, Sir James. And don’t worry about your patient. I’ll see he has an easy time of it. Goodbye.’

M. hung up. His face was cold and blank. He pulled over the signal file and went quickly through it. On some of the signals he scribbled a comment. Occasionally he made a brief telephone call to one of the Sections. When he had finished he tossed the pile into his Out basket and reached for his pipe and the tobacco jar made out of the <a id="calibre_link-2067"></a>base of a fourteen-pounder shell. Nothing remained in front of him except a buff folder marked with the Top Secret red star. Across the centre of the folder was written in block capitals: CARIBBEAN STATION, and underneath, in italics, Strangways and Trueblood.

A light winked on the intercom. M. pressed down the switch, ‘Yes?’

‘007’s here, sir.’

‘Send him in. And tell the Armourer to come up in five minutes.’

M. sat back. He put his pipe in his mouth and set a match to it. Through the smoke he watched the door to his secretary’s office. His eyes were very bright and watchful.

James Bond came through the door and shut it behind him. He walked over to the chair across the desk from M. and sat down.

‘Morning, 007.’

‘Good morning, sir.’

There was silence in the room except for the rasping of M.’s pipe. It seemed to be taking a lot of matches to get it going. In the background the fingernails of the sleet slashed against the two broad windows.

It was all just as Bond had remembered it through the months of being shunted from hospital to hospital, the weeks of dreary convalescence, the hard work of getting his body back into shape. To him this represented <a id="calibre_link-2068"></a>stepping back into life. Sitting here in this room opposite M. was the symbol of normality he had longed for. He looked across through the smoke clouds into the shrewd grey eyes. They were watching him. What was coming? A post-mortem on the shambles which had been his last case? A curt relegation to one of the home sections for a spell of desk work? Or some splendid new assignment M. had been keeping on ice while waiting for Bond to get back to duty?

M. threw the box of matches down on the red leather desk. He leant back and clasped his hands behind his head.

‘How do you feel? Glad to be back?’

‘Very glad, sir. And I feel fine.’

‘Any final thoughts about your last case? Haven’t bothered you with it till you got well. You heard I ordered an inquiry. I believe the Chief of Staff took some evidence from you. Anything to add?’

M.’s voice was businesslike, cold. Bond didn’t like it. Something unpleasant was coming. He said, ‘No, sir. It was a mess. I blame myself for letting that woman get me. Shouldn’t have happened.’

M. took his hands from behind his neck and slowly leant forward and placed them flat on the desk in front of him. His eyes were hard. ‘Just so.’ The voice was velvet, dangerous. ‘Your gun got stuck, if I recall. This Beretta of yours with the silencer. Something wrong <a id="calibre_link-2069"></a>there, 007. Can’t afford that sort of mistake if you’re to carry an 00 number. Would you prefer to drop it and go back to normal duties?’

Bond stiffened. His eyes looked resentfully into M.’s. The licence to kill for the Secret Service, the double-0 prefix, was a great honour. It had been earned hardly. It brought Bond the only assignments he enjoyed, the dangerous ones. ‘No, I wouldn’t, sir.’

‘Then we’ll have to change your equipment. That was one of the findings of the Court of Inquiry. I agree with it. D’you understand?’

Bond said obstinately, ‘I’m used to that gun, sir. I like working with it. What happened could have happened to anyone. With any kind of gun.’

‘I don’t agree. Nor did the Court of Inquiry. So that’s final. The only question is what you’re to use instead.’ M. bent forward to the intercom.’ Is the Armourer there? Send him in.’

M. sat back. ‘You may not know it, 007, but Major Boothroyd’s the greatest small-arms expert in the world. He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t. We’ll hear what he has to say.’

The door opened. A short slim man with sandy hair came in and walked over to the desk and stood beside Bond’s chair. Bond looked up into his face. He hadn’t often seen the man before, but he remembered the very wide apart clear grey eyes that never seemed to flicker. <a id="calibre_link-2070"></a>With a non-committal glance down at Bond, the man stood relaxed, looking across at M. He said ‘Good morning, sir,’ in a flat, unemotional voice.

‘Morning, Armourer. Now I want to ask you some questions.’ M.’s voice was casual. ‘First of all, what do you think of the Beretta, the .25?’

‘Ladies’ gun, sir.’

M. raised ironic eyebrows at Bond. Bond smiled thinly.

‘Really! And why do you say that?’

‘No stopping power, sir. But it’s easy to operate. A bit fancy looking too, if you know what I mean, sir. Appeals to the ladies.’

‘How would it be with a silencer?’

‘Still less stopping power, sir. And I don’t like silencers. They’re heavy and get stuck in your clothing when you’re in a hurry. I wouldn’t recommend anyone to try a combination like that, sir. Not if they were meaning business.’

M. said pleasantly to Bond, ‘Any comment, 007?’

Bond shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t agree. I’ve used the .25 Beretta for fifteen years. Never had a stoppage and I haven’t missed with it yet. Not a bad record for a gun. It just happens that I’m used to it and I can point it straight. I’ve used bigger guns when I’ve had to – the .45 Colt with the long barrel, for instance. But for close-up work and concealment I like the Beretta.’ Bond paused. He felt he should give way somewhere. ‘I’d agree <a id="calibre_link-2071"></a>about the silencer, sir. They’re a nuisance. But sometimes you have to use them.’

‘We’ve seen what happens when you do,’ said M. drily. ‘And as for changing your gun, it’s only a question of practice. You’ll soon get the feel of a new one.’ M. allowed a trace of sympathy to enter his voice. ‘Sorry, 007. But I’ve decided. Just stand up a moment. I want the Armourer to get a look at your build.’

Bond stood up and faced the other man. There was no warmth in the two pairs of eyes. Bond’s showed irritation. Major Boothroyd’s were indifferent, clinical. He walked round Bond. He said ‘Excuse me’ and felt Bond’s biceps and forearms. He came back in front of him and said, ‘Might I see your gun?’

Bond’s hand went slowly into his coat. He handed over the taped Beretta with the sawn barrel. Boothroyd examined the gun and weighed it in his hand. He put it down on the desk. ‘And your holster?’

Bond took off his coat and slipped off the chamois leather holster and harness. He put his coat on again.

With a glance at the lips of the holster, perhaps to see if they showed traces of snagging, Boothroyd tossed the holster down beside the gun with a motion that sneered. He looked across at M. ‘I think we can do better than this, sir.’ It was the sort of voice Bond’s first expensive tailor had used.

Bond sat down. He just stopped himself gazing <a id="calibre_link-2072"></a>rudely at the ceiling. Instead he looked impassively across at M.

‘Well, Armourer, what do you recommend?’

Major Boothroyd put on the expert’s voice. ‘As a matter of fact, sir,’ he said modestly, ‘I’ve just been testing most of the small automatics. Five thousand rounds each at twenty-five yards. Of all of them, I’d choose the Walther PPK 7.65 mm. It only came fourth after the Japanese M-14, the Russian Tokarev and the Sauer M-38. But I like its light trigger pull and the extension spur of the magazine gives a grip that should suit 007. It’s a real stopping gun. Of course it’s about a .32 calibre as compared with the Beretta’s .25, but I wouldn’t recommend anything lighter. And you can get ammunition for the Walther anywhere in the world. That gives it an edge on the Japanese and the Russian guns.’

M. turned to Bond. ‘Any comments?’

‘It’s a good gun, sir,’ Bond admitted. ‘Bit more bulky than the Beretta. How does the Armourer suggest I carry it?’

‘Berns Martin Triple-draw holster,’ said Major Boothroyd succinctly. ‘Best worn inside the trouser band to the left. But it’s all right below the shoulder. Stiff saddle leather. Holds the gun in with a spring. Should make for a quicker draw than that,’ he gestured towards the desk. ‘Three-fifths of a second to hit a man at twenty feet would be about right.’

<a id="calibre_link-2073"></a>‘That’s settled then.’ M.’s voice was final. ‘And what about something bigger?’

‘There’s only one gun for that, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd stolidly. ‘Smith & Wesson Centennial Airweight. Revolver. 38 calibre. Hammerless, so it won’t catch in clothing. Overall length of six and a half inches and it only weighs thirteen ounces. To keep down the weight, the cylinder holds only five cartridges. But by the time they’re gone,’ Major Boothroyd allowed himself a wintry smile, ‘somebody’s been killed. Fires the .38 S & W Special. Very accurate cartridge indeed. With standard loading it has a muzzle velocity of eight hundred and sixty feet per second and muzzle energy of two hundred and sixty foot-pounds. There are various barrel lengths, three and a half inch, five inch …’

‘All right, all right.’ M.’s voice was testy. ‘Take it as read. If you say it’s the best I’ll believe you. So it’s the Walther and the Smith & Wesson. Send up one of each to 007. With the harness. And arrange for him to fire them in. Starting today. He’s got to be expert in a week. All right? Then thank you very much, Armourer. I won’t detain you.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Major Boothroyd. He turned and marched stiffly out of the room.

There was a moment’s silence. The sleet tore at the windows. M. swivelled his chair and watched the streaming panes. Bond took the opportunity to glance <a id="calibre_link-2074"></a>at his watch. Ten o’clock. His eyes slid to the gun and holster on the desk. He thought of his fifteen years’ marriage to the ugly bit of metal. He remembered the times its single word had saved his life – and the times when its threat alone had been enough. He thought of the days when he had literally dressed to kill – when he had dismantled the gun and oiled it and packed the bullets carefully into the springloaded magazine and tried the action once or twice, pumping the cartridges out on to the bedspread in some hotel bedroom somewhere round the world. Then the last wipe of a dry rag and the gun into the little holster and a pause in front of the mirror to see that nothing showed. And then out of the door and on his way to the rendezvous that was to end with either darkness or light. How many times had it saved his life? How many death sentences had it signed? Bond felt unreasonably sad. How could one have such ties with an inanimate object, an ugly one at that, and, he had to admit it, with a weapon that was not in the same class as the ones chosen by the Armourer? But he had the ties and M. was going to cut them.

M. swivelled back to face him.’ Sorry, James,’ he said, and there was no sympathy in his voice. ‘I know how you like that bit of iron. But I’m afraid it’s got to go. Never give a weapon a second chance – any more than a man. I can’t afford to gamble with the double-o section. <a id="calibre_link-2075"></a>They’ve got to be properly equipped. You understand that? A gun’s more important than a hand or a foot in your job.’

Bond smiled thinly. ‘I know, sir. I shan’t argue. I’m just sorry to see it go.’

‘All right then. We’ll say no more about it. Now I’ve got some more news for you. There’s a job come up. In Jamaica. Personnel problem. Or that’s what it looks like. Routine investigation and report. The sunshine’ll do you good and you can practise your new guns on the turtles or whatever they have down there. You can do with a bit of holiday. Like to take it on?’

Bond thought: He’s got it in for me over the last job. Feels I let him down. Won’t trust me with anything tough. Wants to see. Oh well! He said: ‘Sounds rather like the soft life, sir. I’ve had almost too much of that lately. But if it’s got to be done … If you say so, sir …’

‘Yes,’ said M. ‘I say so.’

<a id="calibre_link-2077"></a>3 HOLIDAY TASK

It was getting dark. Outside the weather was thickening. M. reached over and switched on the green-shaded desk-light. The centre of the room became a warm yellow pool in which the leather top of the desk glowed blood-red.

M. pulled the thick file towards him. Bond noticed it for the first time. He read the reversed lettering without difficulty. What had Strangways been up to? Who was Trueblood?

M. pressed a button on his desk. ‘I’ll get the Chief of Staff in on this,’ he said. ‘I know the bones of the case, but he can fill in the flesh. It’s a drab little story, I’m afraid.’

The Chief of Staff came in. He was a colonel in the Sappers, a man of about Bond’s age, but his hair was prematurely grey at the temples from the endless grind <a id="calibre_link-2078"></a>of work and responsibility. He was saved from a nervous breakdown by physical toughness and a sense of humour. He was Bond’s best friend at headquarters. They smiled at each other.

‘Bring up a chair, Chief of Staff. I’ve given 007 the Strangways case. Got to get the mess cleared up before we make a new appointment there. 007 can be acting Head of Station in the meantime. I want him to leave in a week. Would you fix that with the Colonial Office and the Governor? And now let’s go over the case.’ He turned to Bond. ‘I think you knew Strangways, 007. See you worked with him on that treasure business about five years ago. What did you think of him?’

‘Good man, sir. Bit highly strung. I’d have thought he’d have been relieved by now. Five years is a long time in the tropics.’

M. ignored the comment. ‘And his number two, this girl Trueblood, Mary Trueblood. Ever come across her?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I see she’s got a good record. Chief Officer W.R.N.S. and then came to us. Nothing against her on her Confidential Record. Good-looker to judge from her photographs. That probably explains it. Would you say Strangways was a bit of a womanizer?’

‘Could have been,’ said Bond carefully, not wanting to say anything against Strangways, but remembering the dashing good looks. ‘But what’s happened to them, sir?’

<a id="calibre_link-2079"></a>‘That’s what we want to find out,’ said M. ‘They’ve gone, vanished into thin air. Both went on the same evening about three weeks ago. Left Strangways’s bungalow burned to the ground – radio, codebooks, files. Nothing left but a few charred scraps. The girl left all her things intact. Must have taken only what she stood up in. Even her passport was in her room. But it would have been easy for Strangways to cook up two passports. He had plenty of blanks. He was Passport Control Officer for the island. Any number of planes they could have taken – to Florida or South America or one of the other islands in his area. Police are still checking the passenger lists. Nothing’s come up yet, but they could always have gone to ground for a day or two and then done a bunk. Dyed the girl’s hair and so forth. Airport security doesn’t amount to much in that part of the world. Isn’t that so, Chief of Staff?’

‘Yes, sir.’ The Chief of Staff sounded dubious. ‘But I still can’t understand that last radio contact.’ He turned to Bond. ‘You see, they began to make their routine contact at eighteen-thirty Jamaican time. Someone, Radio Security thinks it was the girl, acknowledged our WWW and then went off the air. We tried to regain contact but there was obviously something fishy and we broke off. No answer to the Blue Call, or to the Red. So that was that. Next day Section III sent 258 down from Washington. By that time the police had taken over and <a id="calibre_link-2080"></a>the Governor had already made up his mind and was trying to get the case hushed up. It all seemed pretty obvious to him. Strangways has had occasional girl trouble down there. Can’t blame the chap myself. It’s a quiet station. Not much to occupy his time. The Governor jumped to the obvious conclusions. So, of course, did the local police. Sex and machete fights are about all they understand. 258 spent a week down there and couldn’t turn up a scrap of contrary evidence. He reported accordingly and we sent him back to Washington. Since then the police have been scraping around rather ineffectually and getting nowhere.’ The Chief of Staff paused. He looked apologetically at M. ‘I know you’re inclined to agree with the Governor, sir, but that radio contact sticks in my throat. I just can’t see where it fits into the runaway-couple picture. And Strangways’s friends at his club say he was perfectly normal. Left in the middle of a rubber of bridge – always did, when he was getting close to his deadline. Said he’d be back in twenty minutes. Ordered drinks all round – again just as he always did – and left the club dead on six-fifteen, exactly to schedule. Then he vanished into thin air. Even left his car in front of the club. Now, why should he set the rest of his bridge four looking for him if he wanted to skip with the girl? Why not leave in the morning, or better still, late at night, after they’d made their radio call and tidied up their lives? It just doesn’t make sense to me.’

<a id="calibre_link-2081"></a>M. grunted non-committally. ‘People in – er – love do stupid things,’ he said gruffly. ‘Act like lunatics sometimes. And anyway, what other explanation is there? Absolutely no trace of foul play – no reason for it that anyone can see. It’s a quiet station down there. Same routines every month - an occasional communist trying to get into the island from Cuba, crooks from England thinking they can hide away just because Jamaica’s so far from London. I don’t suppose Strangways has had a big case since 007 was there.’ He turned to Bond. ‘On what you’ve heard, what do you think, 007? There’s not much else to tell you.’

Bond was definite. ‘I just can’t see Strangways flying off the handle like that, sir. I daresay he was having an affair with the girl, though I wouldn’t have thought he was a man to mix business with pleasure. But the Service was his whole life. He’d never have let it down. I can see him handing in his papers, and the girl doing the same, and then going off with her after you’d sent out reliefs. But I don’t believe it was in him to leave us in the air like this. And from what you say of the girl, I’d say it would be much the same with her. Chief Officers W.R.N.S. don’t go out of their senses.’

‘Thank you, 007.’ M.’s voice was controlled. ‘These considerations had also crossed my mind. No one’s been jumping to conclusions without weighing all the possibilities. Perhaps you can suggest another solution.’

<a id="calibre_link-2082"></a>M. sat back and waited. He reached for his pipe and began filling it. The case bored him. He didn’t like personnel problems, least of all messy ones like this. There were plenty of other worries waiting to be coped with round the world. It was only to give Bond the pretence of a job, mixed with a good rest, that he had decided to send him out to Jamaica to close the case. He put the pipe in his mouth and reached for the matches. ‘Well?’

Bond wasn’t going to be put off his stride. He had liked Strangways and he was impressed by the points the Chief of Staff had made. He said: ‘Well, sir. For instance, what was the last case Strangways was working on? Had he reported anything, or was there anything Section III had asked him to look into. Anything at all in the last few months?’

‘Nothing whatsoever.’ M. was definite. He took the pipe out of his mouth and cocked it at the Chief of Staff. ‘Right?’

‘Right, sir,’ said the Chief of Staff. ‘Only that damned business about the birds.’

‘Oh that,’ said M. contemptuously. ‘Some rot from the Zoo or somebody. Got wished on us by the Colonial Office. About six weeks ago, wasn’t it?’

That’s right, sir. But it wasn’t the Zoo. It was some people in America called the Audubon Society. They protect rare birds from extinction or something like that. <a id="calibre_link-2083"></a>Got on to our Ambassador in Washington, and the F.O. passed the buck to the Colonial Office. They shoved it on to us. Seems these bird people are pretty powerful in America. They even got an atom bombing range shifted on the West Coast because it interfered with some birds’ nests.’

M. snorted. ‘Damned thing called a Whooping Crane. Read about it in the papers.’

Bond persisted. ‘Could you tell me about it, sir? What did the Audubon people want us to do?’

M. waved his pipe impatiently. He picked up the Strangways file and tossed it down in front of the Chief of Staff. ‘You tell him, Chief of Staff,’ he said wearily. ‘It’s all in there.’

The Chief of Staff took the file and riffled through the pages towards the back. He found what he wanted and bent the file in half. There was silence in the room while he ran his eye over three pages of typescript which Bond could see were headed with the blue and white cipher of the Colonial Office. Bond sat quietly, trying not to feel M.’s coiled impatience radiating across the desk.

The Chief of Staff slapped the file shut. He said, ‘Well, this is the story as we passed it to Strangways on January 20th. He acknowledged receipt, but after that we heard nothing from him.’ The Chief of Staff sat back in his chair. He looked at Bond. ‘It seems there’s a bird called a Roseate <a id="calibre_link-2084"></a>Spoonbill. There’s a coloured photograph of it in here. Looks like a sort of pink stork with an ugly flat bill which it uses for digging for food in the mud. Not many years ago these birds were dying out. Just before the war there were only a few hundred left in the world, mostly in Florida and thereabouts. Then somebody reported a colony of them on an island called Crab Key between Jamaica and Cuba. It’s British territory – a dependency of Jamaica. Used to be a guano island, but the quality of the guano was too low for the cost of digging it. When the birds were found there, it had been uninhabited for about fifty years. The Audubon people went there and ended up by leasing a corner as a sanctuary for these spoonbills. Put two wardens in charge and persuaded the airlines to stop flying over the island and disturbing the birds. The birds flourished and at the last count there were about five thousand of them on the island. Then came the war. The price of guano went up and some bright chap had the idea of buying the island and starting to work it again. He negotiated with the Jamaican Government and bought the place for ten thousand pounds with the condition that he didn’t disturb the lease of the sanctuary. That was in 1943. Well, this man imported plenty of cheap labour and soon had the place working at a profit and it’s gone on making a profit until recently. Then the price of guano took a dip and it’s thought that he must be having a hard time making both ends meet.’

<a id="calibre_link-2085"></a>‘Who is this man?’

‘Chinaman, or rather half Chinese and half German. Got a daft name. Calls himself Doctor No – Doctor Julius No.’

‘No? Spelt like Yes?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Any facts about him?’

‘Nothing except that he keeps very much to himself. Hasn’t been seen since he made his deal with the Jamaican Government. And there’s no traffic with the island. It’s his and he keeps it private. Says he doesn’t want people disturbing the guanay birds who turn out his guano. Seems reasonable. Well, nothing happened until just before Christmas when one of the Audubon wardens, a Barbadian, good solid chap apparently, arrived on the north shore of Jamaica in a canoe. He was very sick. He was terribly burned – died in a few days. Before he died he told some crazy story about their camp having been attacked by a dragon with flames coming out of its mouth. This dragon had killed his pal and burned up the camp and gone roaring off into the bird sanctuary belching fire among the birds and scaring them off God knows where. He had been badly burned but he’d escaped to the coast and stolen a canoe and sailed all one night to Jamaica. Poor chap was obviously off his rocker. And that was that, except that a routine report had to be sent off to the Audubon Society. And they weren’t satisfied. Sent down two of their big <a id="calibre_link-2086"></a>brass in a Beechcraft from Miami to investigate. There’s an airstrip on the island. This Chinaman’s got a Grumman Amphibian for bringing in supplies …’

M. interjected sourly, ‘All these people seem to have a hell of a lot of money to throw about on their damned birds.’

Bond and the Chief of Staff exchanged smiles. M. had been trying for years to get the Treasury to give him an Auster for the Caribbean Station.

The Chief of Staff continued: ‘And the Beechcraft crashed on landing and killed the two Audubon men. Well, that aroused these bird people to a fury. They got a corvette from the U.S. Training Squadron in the Caribbean to make a call on Doctor No. That’s how powerful these people are. Seems they’ve got quite a lobby in Washington. The captain of the corvette reported that he was received very civilly by Doctor No but was kept well away from the guano workings. He was taken to the airstrip and examined the remains of the plane. Smashed to pieces, but nothing suspicious – came in to land too fast probably. The bodies of the two men and the pilot had been reverently embalmed and packed in handsome coffins which were handed over with quite a ceremony. The captain was very impressed by Doctor No’s courtesy. He asked to see the wardens’ camp and he was taken out there and shown the remains of it. Doctor No’s theory was that the two men had gone <a id="calibre_link-2087"></a>mad because of the heat and the loneliness, or at any rate that one of them had gone mad and burned down the camp with the other inside it. This seemed possible to the captain when he’d seen what a godforsaken bit of marsh the men had been living in for ten years or more. There was nothing else to see and he was politely steered back to his ship and sailed away.’ The Chief of Staff spread his hands. ‘And that’s the lot except that the captain reported that he saw only a handful of roseate spoonbills. When his report got back to the Audubon Society it was apparently the loss of their blasted birds that infuriated these people most of all, and ever since then they’ve been nagging at us to have an inquiry into the whole business. Of course nobody at the Colonial Office or in Jamaica’s in the least interested. So in the end the whole fairy story was dumped in our lap.’ The Chief of Staff shrugged his shoulders with finality. ‘And that’s how this pile of bumf,’ he waved the file, ‘or at any rate the guts of it, got landed on Strangways.’

M. looked morosely at Bond. ‘See what I mean, 007? Just the sort of mares’ nest these old women’s societies are always stirring up. People start preserving something – churches, old houses, decaying pictures, birds – and there’s always a hullabaloo of some sort. The trouble is these sort of people get really worked up about their damned birds or whatever it is. They get the politicians involved. And somehow they all seem to have stacks of <a id="calibre_link-2088"></a>money. God knows where it comes from. Other old women, I suppose. And then there comes a point when someone has to do something to keep them quiet. Like this case. It gets shunted off on to me because the place is British territory. At the same time it’s private land. Nobody wants to interfere officially. So I’m supposed to do what? Send a submarine to the island? For what? To find out what’s happened to a covey of pink storks.’ M. snorted. ‘Anyway, you asked about Strangways’s last case and that’s it.’ M. leant forward belligerently. ‘Any questions? I’ve got a busy day ahead.’

Bond grinned. He couldn’t help it. M.’s occasional outbursts of rage were so splendid. And nothing set him going so well as any attempt to waste the time and energies and slim funds of the Secret Service. Bond got to his feet. ‘Perhaps if I could have the file, sir,’ he said placatingly. ‘It just strikes me that four people seem to have died more or less because of these birds. Perhaps two more did – Strangways and the Trueblood girl. I agree it sounds ridiculous, but we’ve got nothing else to go on.’

‘Take it, take it,’ said M. impatiently. ‘And hurry up and get your holiday over. You may not have noticed it, but the rest of the world happens to be in a bit of a mess.’

Bond reached across and picked up the file. He also made to pick up his Beretta and the holster. ‘No,’ said M. sharply. ‘Leave that. And mind you’ve got the hang of the other two guns by the time I see you again.’

<a id="calibre_link-2089"></a>Bond looked across into M.’s eyes. For the first time in his life he hated the man. He knew perfectly well why M. was being tough and mean. It was deferred punishment for having nearly got killed on his last job. Plus getting away from this filthy weather into the sunshine. M. couldn’t bear his men to have an easy time. In a way Bond felt sure he was being sent on this cushy assignment to humiliate him. The old bastard.

With the anger balling up inside him like cats’ fur, Bond said, ‘I’ll see to it, sir,’ and turned and walked out of the room.

<a id="calibre_link-2091"></a>4 RECEPTION COMMITTEE

The sixty-eight tons deadweight of the Super-Constellation hurtled high above the green and brown chequerboard of Cuba and, with only another hundred miles to go, started its slow declining flight towards Jamaica.

Bond watched the big green turtle-backed island grow on the horizon and the water below him turn from the dark blue of the Cuba Deep to the azure and milk of the inshore shoals. Then they were over the North Shore, over its rash of millionaire hotels, and crossing the high mountains of the interior. The scattered dice of smallholdings showed on the slopes and in clearings in the jungle, and the setting sun flashed gold on the bright worms of tumbling rivers and streams. ‘Xaymaca’ the Arawak Indians had called it – ‘The Land of Hills and Rivers’. Bond’s heart lifted with the beauty of one of the most fertile islands in the world.

<a id="calibre_link-2092"></a>The other side of the mountains was in deep violet shadow. Lights were already twinkling in the foothills and spangling the streets of Kingston, but, beyond, the far arm of the harbour and the airport were still touched with the sun against which the Port Royal lighthouse blinked ineffectually. Now the Constellation was getting its nose down into a wide sweep beyond the harbour. There was a slight thump as the tricycle landing gear extended under the aircraft and locked into position, and a shrill hydraulic whine as the brake flaps slid out of the trailing edge of the wings. Slowly the great aircraft turned in again towards the land and for a moment the setting sun poured gold into the cabin. Then, the plane had dipped below the level of the Blue Mountains and was skimming down towards the single north–south runway. There was a glimpse of a road and telephone wires. Then the concrete, scarred with black skid-marks, was under the belly of the plane and there was the soft double thump of a perfect landing and the roar of reversing props as they taxied in towards the low white airport buildings.

The sticky fingers of the tropics brushed Bond’s face as he left the aircraft and walked over to Health and Immigration. He knew that by the time he had got through Customs he would be sweating. He didn’t mind. After the rasping cold of London, the stuffy, velvet heat was easily bearable.

<a id="calibre_link-2093"></a>Bond’s passport described him as ‘Import and Export Merchant’.

‘What company, sir?’

‘Universal Export.’

‘Are you here on business or pleasure, sir?’

‘Pleasure.’

‘I hope you enjoy your stay, sir.’ The negro immigration officer handed Bond his passport with indifference.

‘Thank you.’

Bond walked out into the Customs hall. At once he saw the tall brown-skinned man against the barrier. He was wearing the same old faded blue shirt and probably the same khaki twill trousers he had been wearing when Bond first met him five years before.

‘Quarrel!’

From behind the barrier the Cayman Islander gave a broad grin. He lifted his right forearm across his eyes in the old salute of the West Indians. ‘How you, cap’n?’ he called delightedly.

‘I’m fine,’ said Bond. ‘Just wait till I get my bag through. Got the car?’

‘Sure, cap’n.’

The Customs officer who, like most men from the waterfront, knew Quarrel, chalked Bond’s bag without opening it and Bond picked it up and went out through the barrier. Quarrel took it from him and held out his right hand. Bond took the warm dry calloused paw and <a id="calibre_link-2094"></a>looked into the dark grey eyes that showed descent from a Cromwellian soldier or a pirate of Morgan’s time. ‘You haven’t changed, Quarrel,’ he said affectionately. ‘How’s the turtle fishing?’

‘Not so bad, cap’n, an’ not so good. Much de same as always.’ He looked critically at Bond. ‘Yo been sick, or somepun?’

Bond was surprised. ‘As a matter of fact I have. But I’ve been fit for weeks. What made you say that?’

Quarrel was embarrassed. ‘Sorry, cap’n,’ he said, thinking he might have offended Bond. ‘Dere some pain lines in yo face since de las’ time.’

‘Oh well,’ said Bond. ‘It was nothing much. But I could do with a spell of your training. I’m not as fit as I ought to be.’

‘Sho ting, cap’n.’

They were moving towards the exit when there came the sharp crack and flash of a press camera. A pretty Chinese girl in Jamaican dress was lowering her Speed Graphic. She came up to them. She said with synthetic charm, ‘Thank you, gentlemen. I am from the Daily Gleaner.’ She glanced down at a list in her hand. ‘Mister Bond, isn’t it? And how long will you be with us, Mister Bond?’

Bond was offhand. This was a bad start. ‘In transit,’ he said shortly. ‘I think you’ll find there were more interesting people on the plane.’

<a id="calibre_link-2095"></a>‘Oh no, I’m sure not, Mister Bond. You look very important. And what hotel will you be staying at?’

Damn, thought Bond. He said ‘Myrtle Bank’ and moved on.

‘Thank you, Mister Bond,’ said the tinkling voice. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy …’

They were outside. As they walked towards the parking place Bond said, ‘Ever seen that girl at the airport before?’

Quarrel reflected. ‘Reck’n not, cap’n. But de Gleaner have plenty camera gals.’

Bond was vaguely worried. There was no earthly reason why his picture should be wanted by the Press. It was five years since his last adventures on the island, and anyway his name had been kept out of the papers.

They got to the car. It was a black Sunbeam Alpine. Bond looked sharply at it and then at the number plate. Strangways’s car. What the hell? ‘Where did you get this, Quarrel?’

‘A.D.C. tell me fe to take him, cap’n. Him say hit de only spare car dey have. Why, cap’n? Him no good?’

‘Oh, it’s all right, Quarrel,’ said Bond resignedly. ‘Come on, let’s get going.’

Bond got into the passenger seat. It was entirely his fault. He might have guessed at the chance of getting this car. But it would certainly put the finger on him and on what he was doing in Jamaica if anyone happened to be interested.

<a id="calibre_link-2096"></a>They moved off down the long cactus-fringed road towards the distant lights of Kingston. Normally, Bond would have sat and enjoyed the beauty of it all – the steady zing of the crickets, the rush of warm, scented air, the ceiling of stars, the necklace of yellow lights shimmering across the harbour – but now he was cursing his carelessness and knowing what he shouldn’t have done.

What he had done was to send one signal through the Colonial Office to the Governor. In it he had first asked that the A.D.C. should get Quarrel over from the Cayman Islands for an indefinite period on a salary of ten pounds a week. Quarrel had been with Bond on his last adventure in Jamaica. He was an invaluable handyman with all the fine seaman’s qualities of the Cayman Islander, and he was a passport into the lower strata of coloured life which would otherwise be closed to Bond. Everybody loved him and he was a splendid companion. Bond knew that Quarrel was vital if he was to get anywhere on the Strangways case – whether it was a case or just a scandal. Then Bond had asked for a single room and shower at the Blue Hills Hotel, for the loan of a car and for Quarrel to meet him with the car at the airport. Most of this had been wrong. In particular Bond should have taken a taxi to his hotel and made contact with Quarrel later. Then he would have seen the car and had a chance to change it.

<a id="calibre_link-2097"></a>As it was, reflected Bond, he might just as well have advertised his visit and its purpose in the Gleaner. He sighed. It was the mistakes one made at the beginning of a case that were the worst. They were the irretrievable ones, the ones that got you off on the wrong foot, that gave the enemy the first game. But was there an enemy? Wasn’t he being over-cautious? On an impulse Bond turned in his seat. A hundred yards behind were two dim sidelights. Most Jamaicans drive with their headlights full on. Bond turned back. He said, ‘Quarrel. At the end of the Palisadoes, where the left fork goes to Kingston and right to Morant, I want you to turn quickly down the Morant road and stop at once and turn your lights off. Right? And now go like hell.’

‘Okay, cap’n.’ Quarrel’s voice sounded pleased. He put his foot down to the floorboards. The little car gave a deep growl and tore off down the white road.

Now they were at the end of the straight. The car skidded round the curve where the corner of the harbour bit into the land. Another five hundred yards and they would be at the intersection. Bond looked back. There was no sign of the other car. Here was the signpost. Quarrel did a racing change and hurled the car round on a tight lock. He pulled in to the side and dowsed his lights. Bond turned and waited. At once he heard the roar of a big car at speed. Lights blazed on, looking for them. Then the car was past and tearing on towards <a id="calibre_link-2098"></a>Kingston. Bond had time to notice that it was a big American type taxicab and that there was no one in it but the driver. Then it was gone.

The dust settled slowly. They sat for ten minutes saying nothing. Then Bond told Quarrel to turn the car and take the Kingston road. He said, ‘I think that car was interested in us, Quarrel. You don’t drive an empty taxi back from the airport. It’s an expensive run. Keep a watch out. He may find we’ve fooled him and be waiting for us.’

‘Sho ting, cap’n,’ said Quarrel happily. This was just the sort of life he had hoped for when he got Bond’s message.

They came into the stream of Kingston traffic – buses, cars, horsedrawn carts, pannier-laden donkeys down from the hills, and the hand-drawn barrows selling violent coloured drinks. In the crush it was impossible to say if they were being followed. They turned off to the right and up towards the hills. There were many cars behind them. Any one of them could have been the American taxi. They drove for a quarter of an hour up to Halfway Tree and then on to the Junction Road, the main road across the island. Soon there was a neon sign of a green palm tree and underneath ‘Blue Hills. THE hotel’. They drove in and up the drive lined with neatly rounded bushes of bougainvillaea.

A hundred yards higher up the road the black taxi waved the following drivers on and pulled in to the left. <a id="calibre_link-2099"></a>It made a U-turn in a break in the traffic and swept back down the hill towards Kingston.

The Blue Hills was a comfortable old-fashioned hotel with modern trimmings. Bond was welcomed with deference because his reservation had been made by King’s House. He was shown to a fine corner room with a balcony looking out over the distant sweep of Kingston harbour. Thankfully he took off his London clothes, now moist with perspiration, and went into the glass-fronted shower and turned the cold water full on and stood under it for five minutes during which he washed his hair to remove the last dirt of big-city life. Then he pulled on a pair of Sea Island cotton shorts and, with sensual pleasure at the warm soft air on his nakedness, unpacked his things and rang for the waiter.

Bond ordered a double gin and tonic and one whole green lime. When the drink came he cut the lime in half, dropped the two squeezed halves into the long glass, almost filled the glass with ice cubes and then poured in the tonic. He took the drink out on to the balcony, and sat and looked out across the spectacular view. He thought how wonderful it was to be away from headquarters, and from London, and from hospitals, and to be here, at this moment, doing what he was doing and knowing, as all his senses told him, that he was on a good tough case again.

<a id="calibre_link-2100"></a>He sat for a while, luxuriously, letting the gin relax him. He ordered another and drank it down. It was seven-fifteen. He had arranged for Quarrel to pick him up at seven-thirty. They were going to have dinner together. Bond had asked Quarrel to suggest a place. After a moment of embarrassment, Quarrel had said that whenever he wanted to enjoy himself in Kingston he went to a waterfront nightspot called the Joy Boat. ‘Hit no great shakes, cap’n,’ he had said apologetically, ‘but da food an’ drinks an’ music is good and I got a good fren’ dere. Him owns de joint. Dey calls him “Pus-Feller” seein’ how him once fought wit’ a big hoctopus.’

Bond smiled to himself at the way Quarrel, like most West Indians, added an ‘h’ where it wasn’t needed and took it off when it was. He went into his room and dressed in his old dark blue tropical worsted suit, a sleeveless white cotton shirt and a black knitted tie, looked in the glass to see that the Walther didn’t show under his armpit and went down and out to where the car was waiting.

They swooped down quietly through the soft singing dusk into Kingston and turned to the left along the harbour side. They passed one or two smart restaurants and night clubs from which came the throb and twang of calypso music. There was a stretch of private houses that dwindled into a poor-class shopping centre and then <a id="calibre_link-2101"></a>into shacks. Then, where the road curved away from the sea, there was a blaze of golden neon in the shape of a Spanish galleon above green lettering that said ‘The Joy Boat’. They pulled into a parking place and Bond followed Quarrel through the gate into a small garden of palm trees growing out of lawn. At the end was the beach and the sea. Tables were dotted about under the palms, and in the centre was a small deserted cement dance floor to one side of which a calypso trio in sequined scarlet shirts was softly improvising on ‘Take her to Jamaica where the rum comes from’.

Only half the tables were filled, mostly by coloured people. There was a sprinkling of British and American sailors with their girls. An immensely fat negro in a smart white dinner jacket left one of the tables and came to meet them.

‘Hi, Mister Q. Long time no see. Nice table for two?’

‘That’s right, Pus-Feller. Closer to da kitchen dan da music.’

The big man chuckled. He led them down towards the sea and placed them at a quiet table under a palm tree that grew out of the base of the restaurant building. ‘Drinks gemmun?’

Bond ordered his gin and tonic with a lime, and Quarrel a Red Stripe beer. They scanned the menu and both decided on broiled lobster followed by a rare steak with native vegetables.

<a id="calibre_link-2102"></a>The drinks came. The glasses were dripping with condensation. The small fact reminded Bond of other times in hot climates. A few yards away the sea lisped on the flat sand. The three-piece began playing ‘Kitch’. Above them the palm fronds clashed softly in the night breeze. A gecko chuckled somewhere in the garden. Bond thought of the London he had left the day before. He said, ‘I like this place, Quarrel.’

Quarrel was pleased. ‘Him a good fren of mine, da Pus-Feller. Him knows mostly what goes hon hin Kingston case you got hany questions, cap’n. Him come from da Caymans. Him an’ me once share a boat. Then him go hoff one day catching boobies’ heggs hat Crab Key. Went swimmin’ to a rock for more heggs an’ dis big hoctopus get him. Dey mos’ly small fellers roun’ here but dey come bigger at da Crab seein’ how its alongside de Cuba Deep, da deepest waters roun’ dese parts. Pus-Feller have himself a bad time wit dis hanimal. Bust one lung cuttin’ hisself free. Dat scare him an’ him sell me his half of da boat an’ come to Kingston. Dat were ’fore da war. Now him rich man whiles I go hon fishin’.’ Quarrel chuckled at the quirk of fate.

‘Crab Key,’ said Bond. ‘What sort of a place is that?’

Quarrel looked at him sharply. ‘Dat a bad luck place now, cap’n,’ he said shortly. ‘Chinee gemmun buy hit durin’ da war and bring in men and dig bird-dirt. Don’ <a id="calibre_link-2103"></a>let nobody land dere and don’ let no one get hoff. We gives it a wide bert’.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Him have plenty watchmen. An’ guns – machine guns. An’ a radar. An’ a spottin’ plane. Frens o’ mine have landed dere and him never been seen again. Dat Chinee keep him island plenty private. Tell da trut’, cap’n,’ Quarrel was apologetic, ‘dat Crab Key scare me plenty.’

Bond said thoughtfully, ‘Well, well.’

The food came. They ordered another round of drinks and ate. While they ate, Bond gave Quarrel an outline of the Strangways case. Quarrel listened carefully, occasionally asking questions. He was particularly interested in the birds on Crab Key, and what the watchmen had said, and how the plane was supposed to have crashed. Finally he pushed his plate away. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He took out a cigarette and lit it. He leant forward. ‘Cap’n,’ he said softly, ‘I no mind if hit was birds or butterflies or bees. If dey was on Crab Key and da Commander was stickin’ his nose into da business, yo kin bet yo bottom dollar him been mashed. Him and him girl. Da Chinee mash dem for sho.’

Bond looked carefully into the urgent grey eyes. ‘What makes you so certain?’

Quarrel spread his hands. To him the answer was simple. ‘Dat Chinee love him privacy. Him want be left <a id="calibre_link-2104"></a>alone. I know him kill ma frens order keep folk away from da Crab. Him a mos’ powerful man. Him kill hanyone what hinterfere with him.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’ rightly know, cap’n,’ said Quarrel indifferently. ‘People dem want different tings in dis world. An’ what dem want sufficient dem gits.’

A glint of light caught the corner of Bond’s eye. He turned quickly. The Chinese girl from the airport was standing in the nearby shadows. Now she was dressed in a tight-fitting sheath of black satin slashed up one side almost to her hip. She had a Leica with a flash attachment in one hand. The other was in a leather case at her side. The hand came out holding a flashbulb. The girl slipped the base into her mouth to wet it and improve the contact and made to screw it into the reflector.

‘Get that girl,’ said Bond quickly.

In two strides Quarrel was up with her. He held out his hand. ‘Evenin’, missy,’ he said softly.

The girl smiled. She let the Leica hang on the thin strap round her neck. She took Quarrel’s hand. Quarrel swung her round like a ballet dancer. Now he had her hand behind her back and she was in the crook of his arm.

She looked up at him angrily. ‘Don’t. You’re hurting.’

Quarrel smiled down into the flashing dark eyes in <a id="calibre_link-2105"></a>the pale, almond-shaped face. ‘Cap’n like you take a drink wit’ we,’ he said soothingly. He came back to the table, moving the girl along with him. He hooked a chair out with his foot and sat her down beside him, keeping the grip on her wrist behind her back. They sat bolt upright, like quarrelling lovers.

Bond looked into the pretty, angry little face. ‘Good evening. What are you doing here? Why do you want another picture of me?’

‘I’m doing the nightspots,’ the Cupid’s bow of a mouth parted persuasively. ‘The first picture of you didn’t come out. Tell this man to leave me alone.’

‘So you work for the Gleaner? What’s your name?’

‘I won’t tell you.’

Bond cocked an eyebrow at Quarrel.

Quarrel’s eyes narrowed. His hand behind the girl’s back turned slowly. The girl struggled like an eel, her teeth clenched on her lower lip. Quarrel went on twisting. Suddenly she said ‘Ow!’ sharply and gasped, ‘I’ll tell!’ Quarrel eased his grip. The girl looked furiously at Bond: ‘Annabel Chung.’

Bond said to Quarrel, ‘Call the Pus-Feller.’

Quarrel picked up a fork with his free hand and clanged it against a glass. The big negro hurried up.

Bond looked up at him. ‘Ever seen this girl before?’

‘Yes, boss. She come here sometimes. She bein’ a nuisance? Want for me to send her away?’

<a id="calibre_link-2106"></a>‘No. We like her,’ said Bond amiably, ‘but she wants to take a studio portrait of me and I don’t know if she’s worth the money. Would you call up the Gleaner and ask if they’ve got a photographer called Annabel Chung? If she really is one of their people she ought to be good enough.’

‘Sure, boss.’ The man hurried away.

Bond smiled at the girl. ‘Why didn’t you ask that man to rescue you?’

The girl glowered at him.

‘I’m sorry to have to exert pressure,’ said Bond, ‘but my export manager in London said that Kingston was full of shady characters. I’m sure you’re not one of them, but I really can’t understand why you’re so anxious to get my picture. Tell me why.’

‘What I told you,’ said the girl sulkily. ‘It’s my job.’

Bond tried other questions. She didn’t answer them.

The Pus-Feller came up. ‘That’s right, boss. Annabel Chung. One of their freelance girls. They say she takes fine pictures. You’ll be okay with her.’ He looked bland. Studio portrait! Studio bed, more like.

‘Thanks,’ said Bond. The negro went away. Bond turned back to the girl. ‘Freelance,’ he said softly. ‘That still doesn’t explain who wanted my picture.’ His face went cold. ‘Now give!’

‘No,’ said the girl sullenly.

‘All right, Quarrel. Go ahead.’ Bond sat back. His <a id="calibre_link-2107"></a>instincts told him that this was the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If he could get the answer out of the girl he might be saved weeks of legwork.

Quarrel’s right shoulder started to dip downwards. The girl squirmed towards him to ease the pressure, but he held her body away with his free hand. The girl’s face strained towards Quarrel’s. Suddenly she spat full in his eyes. Quarrel grinned and increased the twist. The girl’s feet kicked wildly under the table. She hissed out words in Chinese. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

‘Tell,’ said Bond softly. ‘Tell and it will stop and we’ll be friends and have a drink.’ He was getting worried. The girl’s arm must be on the verge of breaking.

‘–you.’ Suddenly the girl’s left hand flew up and into Quarrel’s face. Bond was too slow to stop her. Something glinted and there was a sharp explosion. Bond snatched at her arm and dragged it back. Blood was streaming down Quarrel’s cheek. Glass and metal tinkled on to the table. She had smashed the flashbulb on Quarrel’s face. If she had been able to reach an eye it would have been blinded.

Quarrel’s free hand went up and felt his cheek. He put it in front of his eyes and looked at the blood. ‘Aha!’ There was nothing but admiration and a feline pleasure in his voice. He said equably to Bond, ‘We get nuthen out of dis gal, cap’n. She plenty tough. You want fe me to break she’s arm?’

<a id="calibre_link-2108"></a>‘Good God, no.’ Bond let go the arm he was holding. ‘Let her go.’ He felt angry with himself for having hurt the girl and still failed. But he had learned something. Whoever was behind her held his people by a steel chain.

Quarrel brought the girl’s right arm from behind her back. He still held on to the wrist. Now he opened the girl’s hand. He looked into her eyes. His own were cruel. ‘You mark me, Missy. Now I mark you.’ He brought up his other hand and took the Mount of Venus, the soft lozenge of flesh in the palm below her thumb, between his thumb and forefinger. He began to squeeze it. Bond could see his knuckles go white with the pressure. The girl gave a yelp. She hammered at Quarrel’s hand and then at his face. Quarrel grinned and squeezed harder. Suddenly he let go. The girl shot to her feet and backed away from the table, her bruised hand at her mouth. She took her hand down and hissed furiously. ‘He’ll get you, you bastards!’ Then, her Leica dangling, she ran off through the trees.

Quarrel laughed shortly. He took a napkin and wiped it down his cheek and threw it on the ground and took up another. He said to Bond, ‘She’s Love Moun’ be sore long after ma face done get healed. Dat a fine piece of a woman, de Love Moun’. When him fat like wit’ dat girl you kin tell her’ll be good in bed. You know dat, cap’n?’

‘No,’ said Bond. ‘That’s new to me.’

‘Sho ting. Dat piece of da han’ most hindicative. Don’ <a id="calibre_link-2109"></a>you worry ’bout she,’ he added, noticing the dubious expression on Bond’s face. ‘Hers got nuttin but a big bruise on she’s Love Moun’. But boy, was dat a fat Love Moun’! I come back after dat girl sometime, see if ma teory is da troof.’

Appropriately the band started playing ‘Don’ touch me tomato’. Bond said, ‘Quarrel, it’s time you married and settled down. And you leave that girl alone or you’ll get a knife between your ribs. Now come on. We’ll get the check and go. It’s three o’clock in the morning in London where I was yesterday. I need a night’s sleep. You’ve got to start getting me into training. I think I’m going to need it. And it’s about time you put some plaster on that cheek of yours. She’s written her name and address on it.’

Quarrel grunted reminiscently. He said with quiet pleasure, ‘Dat were some tough baby.’ He picked up a fork and clanged it against his glass.

<a id="calibre_link-2111"></a>5 FACTS AND FIGURES

‘He’ll get you.… He’ll get you.… He’ll get you, you bastards.’

The words were still ringing in Bond’s brain the next day as he sat on his balcony and ate a delicious breakfast and gazed out across the riot of tropical gardens to Kingston, five miles below him.

Now he was sure that Strangways and the girl had been killed. Someone had needed to stop them looking any further into his business, so he had killed them and destroyed the records of what they were investigating. The same person knew or suspected that the Secret Service would follow up Strangways’s disappearance. Somehow he had known that Bond had been given the job. He had wanted a picture of Bond and he had wanted to know where Bond was staying. He would be keeping an eye on Bond to see if Bond picked up any of the leads <a id="calibre_link-2112"></a>that had led to Strangways’s death. If Bond did so, Bond would also have to be eliminated. There would be a car smash or a street fight or some other innocent death. And how, Bond wondered, would this person react to their treatment of the Chung girl? If he was as ruthless as Bond supposed, that would be enough. It showed that Bond was on to something. Perhaps Strangways had made a preliminary report to London before he was killed. Perhaps someone had leaked. The enemy would be foolish to take chances. If he had any sense, after the Chung incident, he would deal with Bond and perhaps also with Quarrel without delay.

Bond lit his first cigarette of the day – the first Royal Blend he had smoked for five years – and let the smoke come out between his teeth in a luxurious hiss. That was his ‘Enemy Appreciation’. Now, who was this enemy?

Well, there was only one candidate, and a pretty insubstantial one at that, Doctor No, Doctor Julius No, the German Chinese who owned Crab Key and made his money out of guano. There had been nothing on this man in Records and a signal to the F.B.I, had been negative. The affair of the roseate spoonbills and the trouble with the Audubon Society meant precisely nothing except, as M. had said, that a lot of old women had got excited about some pink storks. All the same, four people had died because of these storks and, most significant of all to Bond, Quarrel was scared of Doctor No and his <a id="calibre_link-2113"></a>island. That was very odd indeed. Cayman Islanders, least of all Quarrel, did not scare easily. And why had Doctor No got this mania for privacy? Why did he go to such expense and trouble to keep people away from his guano island? Guano – bird dung. Who wanted the stuff? How valuable was it? Bond was due to call on the Governor at ten o’clock. After he had made his number he would get hold of the Colonial Secretary and try and find out all about the damned stuff and about Crab Key and, if possible, about Doctor No.

There was a double knock on the door. Bond got up and unlocked it. It was Quarrel, his left cheek decorated with a piratical cross of sticking-plaster. ‘Mornin’, cap’n. Yo said eight-tirty.’

‘Yes, come on in, Quarrel. We’ve got a busy day. Had some breakfast?’

‘Yes, tank you, cap’n. Salt fish an’ ackee an’ a tot of rum.’

‘Good God,’ said Bond. ‘That’s tough stuff to start the day on.’

‘Mos’ refreshin’,’ said Quarrel stolidly.

They sat down outside on the balcony. Bond offered Quarrel a cigarette and lit one himself. ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be spending most of the day at King’s House and perhaps at the Jamaica Institute. I shan’t need you till tomorrow morning, but there are some things for you to do downtown. All right?’

<a id="calibre_link-2114"></a>‘Okay, cap’n. Jes’ yo say.’

‘First of all, that car of ours is hot. We’ve got to get rid of it. Go down to Motta’s or one of the other hire people and pick up the newest and best little self-drive car you can find, the one with the least mileage. Saloon. Take it for a month. Right? Then hunt around the waterfront and find two men who look as near as possible like us. One must be able to drive a car. Buy them both clothes, at least for their top halves, that look like ours. And the sort of hats we might wear. Say we want a car taken over to Montego tomorrow morning – by the Spanish Town, Ocho Rios road. To be left at Levy’s garage there. Ring up Levy and tell him to expect it and keep it for us. Right?’

Quarrel grinned. ‘Yo want fox someone?’

‘That’s right. They’ll get ten pounds each. Say I’m a rich American and I want my car to arrive in Montego Bay driven by a respectable couple of men. Make me out a bit mad. They must be here at six o’clock tomorrow morning. You’ll be here with the other car. See they look the part and send them off in the Sunbeam with the roof down. Right?’

‘Okay, cap’n.’

‘What’s happened to that house we had on the North Shore last time – Beau Desert at Morgan’s Harbour? Do you know if it’s let?’

‘Couldn’t say, cap’n. Hit’s well away from de tourist places and dey askin’ a big rent for it.’

<a id="calibre_link-2115"></a>‘Well, go to Graham Associates and see if you can rent it for a month, or another bungalow near by. I don’t mind what you pay. Say it’s for a rich American, Mr James. Get the keys and pay the rent and say I’ll write and confirm. I can telephone them if they want more details.’ Bond reached into his hip pocket and brought out a thick wad of notes. He handed half of it to Quarrel. ‘Here’s two hundred pounds. That should cover all this. Get in touch if you want some more. You know where I’ll be.’

‘Tanks, cap’n,’ said Quarrel, awestruck by the big sum. He stowed it away inside his blue shirt and buttoned the shirt up to his neck. ‘Anyting helse?’

‘No, but take a lot of trouble about not being followed. Leave the car somewhere downtown and walk to these places. And watch out particularly for any Chinese near you.’ Bond got up and they went to the door. ‘See you tomorrow morning at six-fifteen and we’ll get over to the North Coast. As far as I can see that’s going to be our base for a while.’

Quarrel nodded. His face was enigmatic. He said ‘Okay, cap’n’ and went off down the corridor.

Half an hour later Bond went downstairs and took a taxi to King’s House. He didn’t sign the Governor’s book in the cool hall. He was put in a waiting room for the quarter of an hour necessary to show him that he was unimportant. Then the A.D.C. came for him and took him up to the Governor’s study on the first floor.

<a id="calibre_link-2116"></a>It was a large cool room smelling of cigar smoke. The Acting Governor, in a cream tussore suit and an inappropriate wing collar and spotted bow tie, was sitting at a broad mahogany desk on which there was nothing but the Daily Gleaner, the Times Weekly and a bowl of hibiscus blossoms. His hands lay flat on the desk in front of him. He was sixtyish with a red, rather petulant face and bright, bitter blue eyes. He didn’t smile or get up. He said, ‘Good morning, Mr – er – Bond. Please sit down.’

Bond took the chair across the desk from the Governor and sat down. He said, ‘Good morning, sir,’ and waited. A friend at the Colonial Office had told him his reception would be frigid. ‘He’s nearly at retiring age. Only an interim appointment. We had to find an Acting Governor to take over at short notice when Sir Hugh Foot was promoted. Foot was a great success. This man’s not even trying to compete. He knows he’s only got the job for a few months while we find someone to replace Foot. This man’s been passed over for the Governor Generalship of Rhodesia. Now all he wants is to retire and get some directorships in the City. Last thing he wants is any trouble in Jamaica. He keeps on trying to close this Strangways case of yours. Won’t like you ferreting about.’

The Governor cleared his throat. He recognized that Bond wasn’t one of the servile ones. ‘You wanted to see me?’

<a id="calibre_link-2117"></a>‘Just to make my number, sir,’ said Bond equably. ‘I’m here on the Strangways case. I think you had a signal from the Secretary of State.’ This was a reminder that the people behind Bond were powerful people. Bond didn’t like attempts to squash him or his Service.

‘I recall the signal. And what can I do for you? So far as we’re concerned here the case is closed.’

‘In what way “closed”, sir?’

The Governor said roughly, ‘Strangways obviously did a bunk with the girl. Unbalanced sort of fellow at the best of times. Some of your – er – colleagues, don’t seem to be able to leave women alone.’ The Governor clearly included Bond. ‘Had to bail the chap out of various scandals before now. Doesn’t do the Colony any good, Mr – er – Bond. Hope your people will be sending us a rather better type of man to take his place. That is,’ he added coldly, ‘if a Regional Control man is really needed here. Personally I have every confidence in our police.’

Bond smiled sympathetically. ‘I’ll report your views, sir. I expect my Chief will like to discuss them with the Minister of Defence and the Secretary of State. Naturally, if you would like to take over these extra duties it will be a saving in manpower so far as my Service is concerned. I’m sure the Jamaican Constabulary is most efficient.’

The Governor looked at Bond suspiciously. Perhaps he had better handle this man a bit more carefully. ‘This <a id="calibre_link-2118"></a>is an informal discussion, Mr Bond. When I have decided on my views I will communicate them myself to the Secretary of State. In the meantime, is there anyone you wish to see on my staff?’

‘I’d like to have a word with the Colonial Secretary, sir.’

‘Really? And why, pray?’

‘There’s been some trouble on Crab Key. Something about a bird sanctuary. The case was passed to us by the Colonial Office. My Chief asked me to look into it while I’m here.’

The Governor looked relieved. ‘Certainly, certainly. I’ll see that Mr Pleydell-Smith receives you straight away. So you feel we can leave the Strangways case to sort itself out? They’ll turn up before long, never fear.’ He reached over and rang a bell. The A.D.C. came in. ‘This gentleman would like to see the Colonial Secretary, A.D.C. Take him along, would you? I’ll call Mr Pleydell-Smith myself and ask him to make himself available.’ He got up and came round the desk. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye then, Mr Bond. And I’m so glad we see eye to eye. Crab Key, eh? Never been there myself, but I’m sure it would repay a visit.’

Bond shook hands. ‘That was what I was thinking. Goodbye, sir.’

‘Goodbye, goodbye.’ The Governor watched Bond’s back retreating out of the door and himself returned <a id="calibre_link-2119"></a>well satisfied to his desk. ‘Young whippersnapper,’ he said to the empty room. He sat down and said a few peremptory words down the telephone to the Colonial Secretary. Then he picked up the Times Weekly and turned to the Stock Exchange prices.

The Colonial Secretary was a youngish shaggy-haired man with bright, boyish eyes. He was one of those nervous pipe smokers who are constantly patting their pockets for matches, shaking the box to see how many are left in it, or knocking the dottle out of their pipes. After he had gone through this routine two or three times in his first ten minutes with Bond, Bond wondered if he ever got any smoke into his lungs at all.

After pumping energetically at Bond’s hand and waving vaguely at a chair, Pleydell-Smith walked up and down the room scratching his temple with the stem of his pipe. ‘Bond. Bond. Bond! Rings a bell. Now let me see. Yes, by jove! You were the chap who was mixed up in that treasure business here. By jove, yes! Four, five years ago. Found the file lying around only the other day. Splendid show. What a lark! I say, wish you’d start another bonfire like that here. Stir the place up a bit. All they think of nowadays is Federation and their bloody self-importance. Self-determination indeed! They can’t even run a bus service. And the colour problem! My dear chap, there’s far more colour problem between the straight-haired and the crinkly-haired Jamaicans than <a id="calibre_link-2120"></a>there is between me and my black cook. However,’ Pleydell-Smith came to rest beside his desk. He sat down opposite Bond and draped one leg over the arm of his chair. Reaching for a tobacco jar with the arms of King’s College, Cambridge, on it, he dug into it and started filling his pipe. ‘I mean to say I don’t want to bore you with all that. You go ahead and bore me. What’s your problem? Glad to help. I bet it’s more interesting than this muck,’ he waved at the pile of papers in his In tray.

Bond grinned at him. This was more like it. He had found an ally, and an intelligent one at that. ‘Well,’ he said seriously, ‘I’m here on the Strangways case. But first of all I want to ask you a question that may sound odd. Exactly how did you come to be looking at that other case of mine? You say you found the file lying about. How was that? Had someone asked for it? I don’t want to be indiscreet, so don’t answer if you don’t want to. I’m just inquisitive.’

Pleydell-Smith cocked an eye at him. ‘I suppose that’s your job.’ He reflected, gazing at the ceiling. ‘Well, now I come to think of it I saw it on my secretary’s desk. She’s a new girl. Said she was trying to get up to date with the files. Mark you,’ the Colonial Secretary hastened to exonerate his girl, ‘there were plenty of other files on her desk. It was just this one that caught my eye.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Bond. ‘It was like that.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, but various people seem to be <a id="calibre_link-2121"></a>rather interested in me being here. What I really wanted to talk to you about was Crab Key. Anything you know about the place. And about this Chinaman, Doctor No, who bought it. And anything you can tell me about his guano business. Rather a tall order, I’m afraid, but any scraps will help.’

Pleydell-Smith laughed shortly through the stem of his pipe. He jerked the pipe out of his mouth and talked while he tamped down the burning tobacco with his matchbox. ‘Bitten off a bit more than you can chew on guano. Talk to you for hours about it. Started in the Consular before I transferred to the Colonial Office. First job was in Peru. Had a lot to do with their people who administer the whole trade – Compania Aministradora del Guano. Nice people.’ The pipe was going now and Pleydell-Smith threw his matchbox down on the table. ‘As for the rest, it’s just a question of getting the file.’ He rang a bell. In a minute the door opened behind Bond. ‘Miss Taro, the file on Crab Key, please. The one on the sale of the place and the other one on that warden fellow who turned up before Christmas. Miss Longfellow will know where to find them.’

A soft voice said, ‘Yes, sir.’ Bond heard the door close.

‘Now then, guano.’ Pleydell-Smith tilted his chair back. Bond prepared to be bored. ‘As you know, it’s bird dung. Comes from the rear end of two birds, the masked booby and the guanay. So far as Crab Key is concerned, <a id="calibre_link-2122"></a>it’s only the guanay, otherwise known as the green cormorant, same bird as you find in England. The guanay is a machine for converting fish into guano. They mostly eat anchovies. Just to show you how much fish they eat, they’ve found up to seventy anchovies inside one bird!’ Pleydell-Smith took out his pipe and pointed it impressively at Bond. ‘The whole population of Peru eats four thousand tons of fish a year. The sea birds of the country eat five hundred thousand tons!’

Bond pursed his lips to show he was impressed. ‘Really.’

‘Well, now,’ continued the Colonial Secretary, ‘every day each one of these hundreds of thousands of guanays eat a pound or so of fish and deposit an ounce of guano on the guanera – that’s the guano island.’

Bond interrupted, ‘Why don’t they do it in the sea?’

‘Don’t know.’ Pleydell-Smith took the question and turned it over in his mind. ‘Never occurred to me. Anyway they don’t. They do it on the land and they’ve been doing it since before Genesis. That makes the hell of a lot of bird dung – millions of tons of it on the Pescadores and the other guanera. Then, around 1850 someone discovered it was the greatest natural fertilizer in the world – stuffed with nitrates and phosphates and what have you. And the ships and the men came to the guaneras and simply ravaged them for twenty years or more. It’s a time known as the “Saturnalia” in Peru. It <a id="calibre_link-2123"></a>was like the Klondyke. People fought over the muck, hi-jacked each other’s ships, shot the workers, sold phoney maps of secret guano islands – anything you like. And people made fortunes out of the stuff.’

‘Where does Crab Key come in?’ Bond wanted to get down to cases.

‘That was the only worthwhile guanera so far north. It was worked too, God knows who by. But the stuff had a low nitrate content. Water’s not as rich round here as it is down along the Humboldt Current. So the fish aren’t so rich in chemicals. So the guano isn’t so rich either. Crab Key got worked on and off when the price was high enough, but the whole industry went bust, with Crab Key and the other poor-quality deposits in the van, when the Germans invented artificial chemical manure. By this time Peru had realized that she had squandered a fantastic capital asset and she set about organizing the remains of the industry and protecting the guanera. She nationalized the industry and protected the birds, and slowly, very slowly, the supplies built up again. Then people found that there were snags about the German stuff, it impoverishes the soil, which guano doesn’t do, and gradually the price of guano improved and the industry staggered back to its feet. Now it’s going fine, except that Peru keeps most of the guano to herself, for her own agriculture. And that was where Crab Key came in again.’

<a id="calibre_link-2124"></a>‘Ah.’

‘Yes,’ said Pleydell-Smith, patting his pockets for the matches, finding them on the desk, shaking them against his ear, and starting his pipe-filling routine, ‘at the beginning of the war, this Chinaman, who must be a wily devil, by the way, got the idea that he could make a good thing out of the old guanera on Crab Key. The price was about fifty dollars a ton on this side of the Atlantic and he bought the island from us, for about ten thousand pounds as I recall it, brought in labour and got to work. Been working it ever since. Must have made a fortune. He ships direct to Europe, to Antwerp. They send him a ship once a month. He’s installed the latest crushers and separators. Sweats his labour, I daresay. To make a decent profit, he’d have to. Particularly now. Last year I heard he was only getting about thirty-eight to forty dollars a ton c.i.f. Antwerp. God knows what he must pay his labour to make a profit at that price. I’ve never been able to find out. He runs that place like a fortress – sort of forced labour camp. No one ever gets off it. I’ve heard some funny rumours, but no one’s ever complained. It’s his island, of course, and he can do what he likes on it.’

Bond hunted for clues. ‘Would it really be so valuable to him, this place? What do you suppose it’s worth?’

Pleydell-Smith said, ‘The guanay is the most valuable bird in the world. Each pair produces about two dollars’ <a id="calibre_link-2125"></a>worth of guano in a year without any expense to the owner. Each female lays an average of three eggs and raises two young. Two broods a year. Say they’re worth fifteen dollars a pair, and say there are one hundred thousand birds on Crab Key, which is a reasonable guess on the old figures we have. That makes his birds worth a million and a half dollars. Pretty valuable property. Add the value of the installations, say another million, and you’ve got a small fortune on that hideous little place. Which reminds me,’ Pleydell-Smith pressed the bell, ‘what the hell has happened to those files? You’ll find all the dope you want in them.’

The door opened behind Bond.

Pleydell-Smith said irritably, ‘Really, Miss Taro. What about those files?’

‘Very sorry, sir,’ said the soft voice. ‘But we can’t find them anywhere.’

‘What do you mean “can’t find them”? Who had them last?’

‘Commander Strangways, sir.’

‘Well, I remember distinctly him bringing them back to this room. What happened to them then?’

‘Can’t say, sir,’ the voice was unemotional. ‘The covers are there but there’s nothing inside them.’

Bond turned in his chair. He glanced at the girl and turned back. He smiled grimly to himself. He knew where the files had gone. He also knew why the old file <a id="calibre_link-2126"></a>on himself had been out on the Secretary’s desk. He also guessed how the particular significance of ‘James Bond, Import and Export Merchant’ seemed to have leaked out of King’s House, the only place where the significance was known.

Like Doctor No, like Miss Annabel Chung, the demure, efficient-looking little secretary in the horn-rimmed glasses was a Chinese.

<a id="calibre_link-2128"></a>6 THE FINGER ON THE TRIGGER

The Colonial Secretary gave Bond lunch at Queen’s Club. They sat in a corner of the elegant mahogany-panelled dining-room with its four big ceiling fans and gossiped about Jamaica. By the time coffee came, Pleydell-Smith was delving well below the surface of the prosperous, peaceful island the world knows.

‘It’s like this.’ He began his antics with the pipe. ‘The Jamaican is a kindly lazy man with the virtues and vices of a child. He lives on a very rich island but he doesn’t get rich from it. He doesn’t know how to and he’s too lazy. The British come and go and take the easy pickings, but for about two hundred years no Englishman has made a fortune out here. He doesn’t stay long enough. He takes a fat cut and leaves. It’s the Portuguese Jews who make the most. They came here with the British <a id="calibre_link-2129"></a>and they’ve stayed. But they’re snobs and they spend too much of their fortunes on building fine houses and giving dances. They’re the names that fill the social column in the Gleaner when the tourists have gone. They’re in rum and tobacco and they represent the big British firms over here – motor cars, insurance and so forth. Then come the Syrians, very rich too, but not such good businessmen. They have most of the stores and some of the best hotels. They’re not a very good risk. Get overstocked and have to have an occasional fire to get liquid again. Then there are the Indians with their usual flashy trade in soft goods and the like. They’re not much of a lot. Finally there are the Chinese, solid, compact, discreet – the most powerful clique in Jamaica. They’ve got the bakeries and the laundries and the best food stores. They keep to themselves and keep their strain pure.’ Pleydell-Smith laughed. ‘Not that they don’t take the black girls when they want them. You can see the result all over Kingston – Chigroes – Chinese negroes and negresses. The Chigroes are a tough, forgotten race. They look down on the negroes and the Chinese look down on them. One day they may become a nuisance. They’ve got some of the intelligence of the Chinese and most of the vices of the black man. The police have a lot of trouble with them.’

Bond said, ‘That secretary of yours. Would she be one of them?’

<a id="calibre_link-2130"></a>‘That’s right. Bright girl and very efficient. Had her for about six months. She was far the best of the ones that answered our advertisement.’

‘She looks bright,’ said Bond non-committally. ‘Are they organized, these people? Is there some head of the Chinese negro community?’

‘Not yet. But someone’ll get hold of them one of these days. They’d be a useful little pressure group.’ Pleydell-Smith glanced at his watch. ‘That reminds me. Must be getting along. Got to go and read the riot act about those files. Can’t think what happened to them. I distinctly remember …’ He broke off. ‘However, main point is that I haven’t been able to give you much dope about Crab Key and this doctor fellow. But I can tell you there wasn’t much you’d have found out from the files. He seems to have been a pleasant spoken chap. Very businesslike. Then there was that argument with the Audubon Society. I gather you know all about that. As for the place itself, there was nothing on the files but one or two pre-war reports and a copy of the last ordnance survey. Godforsaken bloody place it sounds. Nothing but miles of mangrove swamps and a huge mountain of bird dung at one end. But you said you were going down to the Institute. Why don’t I take you there and introduce you to the fellow who runs the map section?’

An hour later Bond was ensconced in a corner of a sombre room with the ordnance survey map of Crab <a id="calibre_link-2131"></a>Key, dated 1910, spread out on a table in front of him. He had a sheet of the Institute’s writing-paper and had made a rough sketch-map and was jotting down the salient points.

The overall area of the island was about fifty square miles. Three-quarters of this, to the east, was swamp and shallow lake. From the lake a flat river meandered down to the sea and came out halfway along the south coast into a small sandy bay. Bond guessed that somewhere at the headwaters of the river would be a likely spot for the Audubon wardens to have chosen for their camp. To the west, the island rose steeply to a hill stated to be five hundred feet high and ended abruptly with what appeared to be a sheer drop to the sea. A dotted line led from this hill to a box in the corner of the map which contained the words ‘Guano deposits. Last workings 18801.’

There was no sign of a road, or even of a track on the island, and no sign of a house. The relief map showed that the island looked rather like a swimming water rat – a flat spine rising sharply to the head – heading west. It appeared to be about thirty miles due north of Galina Point on the north shore of Jamaica and about sixty miles south of Cuba.

Little else could be gleaned from the map. Crab Key was surrounded by shoal water except below the western cliff where the nearest marking was five <a id="calibre_link-2132"></a>hundred fathoms. After that came the plunge into the Cuba Deep. Bond folded the map and handed it in to the librarian.

Suddenly he felt exhausted. It was only four o’clock, but it was roasting in Kingston and his shirt was sticking to him. Bond walked out of the Institute and found a taxi and went back up into the cool hills to his hotel. He was well satisfied with his day, but nothing else could be done on this side of the island. He would spend a quiet evening at his hotel and be ready to get up early next morning and be away.

Bond went to the reception desk to see if there was a message from Quarrel. ‘No messages, sir,’ said the girl. ‘But a basket of fruit came from King’s House. Just after lunch. The messenger took it up to your room.’

‘What sort of a messenger?’

‘Coloured man, sir. Said he was from the A.D.C.’s office.’

‘Thank you.’ Bond took his key and went up the stairs to the first floor. It was ridiculously improbable. His hand on the gun under his coat, Bond softly approached his door. He turned the key and kicked the door open. The empty room yawned at him. Bond shut and locked the door. On his dressing table was a large, ornate basket of fruit – tangerines, grapefruit, pink bananas, soursop, star-apples and even a couple of hot-house nectarines.

<a id="calibre_link-2133"></a>Attached to a broad ribbon on the handle was a white envelope. Bond removed it and held it up to the light. He opened it. On a plain sheet of expensive white writing paper was typed ‘With the Compliments of His Excellency the Governor’.

Bond snorted. He stood looking at the fruit. He bent his ear to it and listened. He then took the basket by the handle and tipped its contents out on to the floor. The fruit bounced and rolled over the coconut matting. There was nothing but fruit in the basket. Bond grinned at his precautions. There was a last possibility. He picked up one of the nectarines, the most likely for a greedy man to choose first, and took it into the bathroom. He dropped it in the washbasin and went back to the bedroom and, after inspecting the lock, unlocked the wardrobe. Gingerly he lifted out his suitcase and stood it in the middle of the room. He knelt down and looked for the traces of talcum powder he had dusted round the two locks. They were smeared and there were minute scratches round the keyholes. Bond sourly examined the marks. These people were not as careful as some others he had had to deal with. He unlocked the case and stood it up on end. There were four innocent copper studs in the welting at the front right-hand corner of the lid. Bond prised at the top one of these studs with his nail and it eased out. He took hold of it and pulled out three feet of thick steel <a id="calibre_link-2134"></a>wire and put it on the floor beside him. This wire threaded through small wire loops inside the lid and sewed the case shut. Bond lifted the lid and verified that nothing had been disturbed. From his ‘tool case’ he took out a jeweller’s glass and went back into the bathroom and switched on the light over the shaving mirror. He screwed the glass into his eye and gingerly picked the nectarine out of the washbasin and revolved it slowly between finger and thumb.

Bond stopped turning the nectarine. He had come to a minute pinhole, its edges faintly discoloured brown. It was in the crevice of the fruit, invisible except under a magnifying glass. Bond put the nectarine carefully down in the washbasin. He stood for a moment and looked thoughtfully into his eyes in the mirror.

So it was war! Well, well. How very interesting. Bond felt the slight tautening of the skin at the base of his stomach. He smiled thinly at his reflection in the mirror. So his instincts and his reasoning had been correct. Strangways and the girl had been murdered and their records destroyed because they had got too hot on the trail. Then Bond had come on the scene and, thanks to Miss Taro, they had been waiting for him. Miss Chung, and perhaps the taxi driver, had picked up the scent. He had been traced to the Blue Hills hotel. The first shot had been fired. There would be others. And whose finger was on the trigger? Who had got him so accurately <a id="calibre_link-2135"></a>in his sights? Bond’s mind was made up. The evidence was nil. But he was certain of it. This was long range fire, from Crab Key. The man behind the gun was Doctor No.

Bond walked back into the bedroom. One by one he picked up the fruit and took each piece back to the bathroom and examined it through his glass. The pinprick was always there, concealed in the stalk-hole or a crevice. Bond rang down and asked for a cardboard box and paper and string. He packed the fruit carefully in the box and picked up the telephone and called King’s House. He asked for the Colonial Secretary. ‘That you, Pleydell-Smith? James Bond speaking. Sorry to bother you. Got a bit of a problem. Is there a public analyst in Kingston? I see. Well, I’ve got something I want analysed. If I sent the box down to you, would you be very kind and pass it on to this chap? I don’t want my name to come into this. All right? I’ll explain later. When you get his report would you send me a short telegram telling me the answer? I’ll be at Beau Desert, over at Morgan’s Harbour, for the next week or so. Be glad if you’d keep that to yourself too. Sorry to be so damned mysterious. I’ll explain everything when I see you next. I expect you’ll get a clue when you see what the analyst has to say. And by the way, tell him to handle the specimens carefully, would you. Warn him there’s more in them than <a id="calibre_link-2136"></a>meets the eye. Very many thanks. Lucky I met you this morning. Goodbye.’

Bond addressed the parcel and went down and paid a taxi to deliver it at once to Kings House. It was six o’clock. He went back to his room and had a shower and changed and ordered his first drink. He was about to take it out on the balcony when the telephone rang. It was Quarrel.

‘Everyting fixed, cap’n.’

‘Everything? That’s wonderful. That house all right?’

‘Everyting okay,’ Quarrel repeated, his voice careful. ‘See yo as yo done said, cap’n.’

‘Fine,’ said Bond. He was impressed with Quarrel’s efficiency and a sense of security. He put down the telephone and went out on to the balcony.

The sun was just setting. The wave of violet shadow was creeping down towards the town and the harbour. When it hits the town, thought Bond, the lights will go on. It happened as he had expected. Above him there was the noise of a plane. It came into sight, a Super Constellation, the same flight that Bond had been on the night before. Bond watched it sweep out over the sea and then turn and come in to land at the Palisadoes airport. What a long way he had come since that moment, only twenty-four hours before, when the door of the plane had clanged open and the loudspeaker had said, ‘This is Kingston, Jamaica. Will passengers please remain <a id="calibre_link-2137"></a>seated until the aircraft has been cleared by the Health Authorities.’

Should he tell M. how the picture had changed? Should he make a report to the Governor? Bond thought of the Governor and dismissed that idea. But what about M.? Bond had his own cipher. He could easily send M. a signal through the Colonial Office. What would he say to M.? That Doctor No had sent him some poisoned fruit? But he didn’t even know that it was poisoned, or, for the matter of that, that it had come from Doctor No. Bond could see M.’s face as he read the signal. He saw him press down the lever on the intercom: ‘Chief of Staff, 007’s gone round the bend. Says someone’s been trying to feed him a poisoned banana. Fellow’s lost his nerve. Been in hospital too long. Better call him home.’

Bond smiled to himself. He got up and rang down for another drink. It wouldn’t be quite like that, of course. But still … No, he’d wait until he had something more to show. Of course if something went badly wrong, and he hadn’t sent a warning, he’d be in trouble. It was up to him to see that nothing did go wrong.

Bond drank his second drink and thought over the details of his plan. Then he went down and had dinner in the half-deserted dining-room and read the Handbook of the West Indies. By nine o’clock he was half asleep. He went back to his room and packed his bag ready for the <a id="calibre_link-2138"></a>morning. He telephoned down and arranged to be called at five-thirty. Then he bolted the door on the inside, and also shut and bolted the slatted jalousies across the windows. It would mean a hot, stuffy night. That couldn’t be helped. Bond climbed naked under the single cotton sheet and turned over on his left side and slipped his right hand on to the butt of the Walther PPK under the pillow. In five minutes he was asleep.

The next thing Bond knew was that it was three o’clock in the morning. He knew it was three o’clock because the luminous dial of his watch was close to his face. He lay absolutely still. There was not a sound in the room. He strained his ears. Outside, too, it was deathly quiet. Far in the distance a dog started to bark. Other dogs joined in and there was a brief hysterical chorus which stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Then it was quite quiet again. The moon coming through the slats in the jalousies threw black and white bars across the corner of the room next to his bed. It was as if he was lying in a cage. What had woken him up? Bond moved softly, preparing to slip out of bed.

Bond stopped moving. He stopped as dead as a live man can.

Something had stirred on his right ankle. Now it was moving up the inside of his shin. Bond could feel the hairs on his leg being parted. It was an insect of some sort. A very big one. It was long, five or six inches – as <a id="calibre_link-2139"></a>long as his hand. He could feel dozens of tiny feet lightly touching his skin. What was it?

Then Bond heard something he had never heard before – the sound of the hair on his head rasping up on the pillow. Bond analysed the noise. It couldn’t be! It simply couldn’t! Yes, his hair was standing on end. Bond could even feel the cool air reaching his scalp between the hairs. How extraordinary! How very extraordinary! He had always thought it was a figure of speech. But why? Why was it happening to him?

The thing on his leg moved. Suddenly Bond realized that he was afraid, terrified. His instincts, even before they had communicated with his brain, had told his body that he had a centipede on him.

Bond lay frozen. He had once seen a tropical centipede in a bottle of spirit on the shelf in a museum. It had been pale brown and very flat and five or six inches long – about the length of this one. On either side of the blunt head there had been curved poison claws. The label on the bottle had said that its poison was mortal if it hit an artery. Bond had looked curiously at the corkscrew of dead cuticle and had moved on.

The centipede had reached his knee. It was starting up his thigh. Whatever happened he mustn’t move, mustn’t even tremble. Bond’s whole consciousness had drained down to the two rows of softly creeping feet. Now they had reached his flank. God, it was turning <a id="calibre_link-2140"></a>down towards his groin! Bond set his teeth! Supposing it liked the warmth there! Supposing it tried to crawl into the crevices! Could he stand it? Supposing it chose that place to bite? Bond could feel it questing amongst the first hairs. It tickled. The skin on Bond’s belly fluttered. There was nothing he could do to control it. But now the thing was turning up and along his stomach. Its feet were gripping tighter to prevent it falling. Now it was at his heart. If it bit there, surely it would kill him. The centipede trampled steadily on through the thin hairs on Bond’s right breast up to his collarbone. It stopped. What was it doing? Bond could feel the blunt head questing blindly to and fro. What was it looking for? Was there room between his skin and the sheet for it to get through? Dare he lift the sheet an inch to help it. No. Never! The animal was at the base of his jugular. Perhaps it was intrigued by the heavy pulse there. Christ, if only he could control the pumping of his blood. Damn you! Bond tried to communicate with the centipede. It’s nothing. It’s not dangerous, that pulse. It means you no harm. Get on out into the fresh air!

As if the beast had heard, it moved on up the column of the neck and into the stubble on Bond’s chin. Now it was at the corner of his mouth, tickling madly. On it went, up along the nose. Now he could feel its whole weight and length. Softly Bond closed his eyes. Two by two the pairs of feet, moving alternately, trampled <a id="calibre_link-2141"></a>across his right eyelid. When it got off his eye, should he take a chance and shake it off – rely on its feet slipping in his sweat? No, for God’s sake! The grip of the feet was endless. He might shake one lot off, but not the rest.

With incredible deliberation the huge insect ambled across Bond’s forehead. It stopped below the hair. What the hell was it doing now? Bond could feel it nuzzling at his skin. It was drinking! Drinking the beads of salt sweat. Bond was sure of it. For minutes it hardly moved. Bond felt weak with the tension. He could feel the sweat pouring off the rest of his body on to the sheet. In a second his limbs would start to tremble. He could feel it coming on. He would start to shake with an ague of fear. Could he control it, could he? Bond lay and waited, the breath coming softly through his open, snarling mouth.

The centipede started to move again. It walked into the forest of hair. Bond could feel the roots being pushed aside as it forced its way along. Would it like it there? Would it settle down? How did centipedes sleep? Curled up, or at full length? The tiny millipedes he had known as a child, the ones that always seemed to find their way up the plughole into the empty bath, curled up when you touched them. Now it had come to where his head lay against the sheet.

Would it walk out on to the pillow or would it stay <a id="calibre_link-2142"></a>on in the warm forest? The centipede stopped. Out! OUT! Bond’s nerves screamed at it.

The centipede stirred. Slowly it walked out of his hair on to the pillow.

Bond waited a second. Now he could hear the rows of feet picking softly at the cotton. It was a tiny scraping noise, like soft fingernails.

With a crash that shook the room Bond’s body jack-knifed out of bed and on to the floor.

At once Bond was on his feet and at the door. He turned on the light. He found he was shaking uncontrollably. He staggered to the bed. There it was crawling out of sight over the edge of the pillow. Bond’s first instinct was to twitch the pillow on to the floor. He controlled himself, waiting for his nerves to quieten. Then softly, deliberately, he picked up the pillow by one corner and walked into the middle of the room and dropped it. The centipede came out from under the pillow. It started to snake swiftly away across the matting. Now Bond was uninterested. He looked round for something to kill it with. Slowly he went and picked up a shoe and came back. The danger was past. His mind was now wondering how the centipede had got into his bed. He lifted the shoe and slowly, almost carelessly, smashed it down. He heard the crack of the hard carapace.

Bond lifted the shoe.

<a id="calibre_link-2143"></a>The centipede was whipping from side to side in its agony – five inches of grey-brown, shiny death. Bond hit it again. It burst open, yellowly.

Bond dropped the shoe and ran for the bathroom and was violently sick.

<a id="calibre_link-2145"></a>7 NIGHT PASSAGE

‘By the way, Quarrel –’ Bond dared a bus with ‘Brown Bomber’ painted above its windshield. The bus pulled over and roared on down the hill towards Kingston sounding a furious chord on its triple windhorn to restore the driver’s ego, ‘– what do you know about centipedes?’

‘Centipedes, cap’n?’ Quarrel squinted sideways for a clue to the question. Bond’s expression was casual. ‘Well, we got some bad ones here in Jamaica. Tree, fo, five inches long. Dey kills folks. Dey mos’ly lives in de old houses in Kingston. Dey loves de rotten wood an’ de mouldy places. Dey hoperates mos’ly at night. Why, cap’n? Yo seen one?’

Bond dodged the question. He had also not told Quarrel about the fruit. Quarrel was a tough man, but there was no reason to sow the seeds of fear. ‘Would you <a id="calibre_link-2146"></a>expect to find one in a modern house, for instance? In your shoe, or in a drawer, or in your bed?’

‘Nossir.’ Quarrel’s voice was definite. ‘Not hunless dem put dere a purpose. Dese hinsecks love de holes and de crannies. Dey not love de clean places. Dey dirty-livin’ hinsecks. Mebbe yo find dem in de bush, under logs an’ stones. But never in de bright places.’

‘I see.’ Bond changed the subject. ‘By the way, did those two men get off all right in the Sunbeam?’

‘Sho ting, cap’n. Dey plenty happy wid de job. An’ dey look plenty like yo an’ me, cap’n.’ Quarrel chuckled. He glanced at Bond and said hesitantly, ‘I fears dey weren’t very good citizens, cap’n. Had to find de two men wheres I could. Me, I’m a beggarman, cap’n. An’ fo you, cap’n, I get a misrable no-good whiteman from Betsy’s.’

‘Who’s Betsy?’

‘She done run de lousiest brothel in town, cap’n.’ Quarrel spat emphatically out of the window. ‘Dis whiteman, he does de book-keepin’.’

Bond laughed. ‘So long as he can drive a car. I only hope they get to Montego all right.’

‘Don’ yo worry,’ Quarrel misunderstood Bond’s concern. ‘I say I tell de police dey stole de car if dey don’.’

They were at the saddleback at Stony Hill where the Junction Road dives down through fifty S-bends towards <a id="calibre_link-2147"></a>the North Coast. Bond put the little Austin A.30 into second gear and let it coast. The sun was coming up over the Blue Mountain peak and dusty shafts of gold lanced into the plunging valley. There were few people on the road – an occasional man going off to his precipitous smallholding on the flank of a hill, his three-foot steel cutlass dangling from his right hand, chewing at his breakfast, a foot of raw sugar cane held in his left, or a woman sauntering up the road with a covered basket of fruit or vegetables for Stony Hill market, her shoes on her head, to be donned when she got near the village. It was a savage, peaceful scene that had hardly changed, except for the surface of the road, for two hundred years or more. Bond almost smelled the dung of the mule train in which he would have been riding over from Port Royal to visit the garrison at Morgan’s Harbour in 1750.

Quarrel interrupted his thoughts, ‘Cap’n,’ he said apologetically, ‘beggin’ yo pardon, but kin yo tell me what yo have in mind for we? I’se bin puzzlin’ an’ Ah caint seem to figger hout yo game.’

‘I’ve hardly figured it out myself, Quarrel.’ Bond changed up into top and dawdled through the cool, beautiful glades of Castleton Gardens. ‘I told you I’m here because Commander Strangways and his secretary have disappeared. Most people think they’ve gone off together. I think they’ve been murdered.’

<a id="calibre_link-2148"></a>‘Dat so?’ said Quarrel unemotionally. ‘Who yo tink done hit?’

‘I’ve come to agree with you. I think Doctor No, that Chinaman on Crab Key, had it done. Strangways was poking his nose into this man’s affairs – something to do with the bird sanctuary. Doctor No has this mania for privacy. You were telling me so yourself. Seems he’ll do anything to stop people climbing over his wall. Mark you, it’s not more than a guess about Doctor No. But some funny things happened in the last twenty-four hours. That’s why I sent the Sunbeam over to Montego, to lay a false scent. And that’s why we’re going to hide out at the Beau Desert for a few days.’

‘Den what, cap’n?’

‘First of all I want you to get me absolutely fit – the way you trained me the last time I was here. Remember?’

‘Sho, cap’n. Ah kin do dat ting.’

‘And then I was thinking you and me might go and take a look at Crab Key.’

Quarrel whistled. The whistle ended on a downward note.

‘Just sniff around. We needn’t get too close to Doctor No’s end. I want to take a look at this bird sanctuary. See for myself what happened to the wardens’ camp. If we find anything wrong, we’ll get away again and come back by the front door – with some soldiers to help. <a id="calibre_link-2149"></a>Have a full-dress inquiry. Can’t do that until we’ve got something to go on. What do you think?’

Quarrel dug into his hip pocket for a cigarette. He made a fuss about lighting it. He blew a cloud of smoke through his nostrils and watched it whip out of the window. He said, ‘Cap’n, Ah tink yo’se plumb crazy to trespass hon dat island.’ Quarrel had wound himself up. He paused. There was no comment. He looked sideways at the quiet profile. He said more quietly, in an embarrassed voice, ‘Jess one ting, cap’n. Ah have some folks back in da Caymans. Would yo consider takin’ hout a life hinsurance hon me afore we sail?’

Bond glanced affectionately at the strong brown face. It had a deep cleft of worry between the eyes. ‘Of course, Quarrel. I’ll fix it at Port Maria tomorrow. We’ll make it big, say five thousand pounds. Now then, how shall we go? Canoe?’

‘Dat’s right, cap’n.’ Quarrel’s voice was reluctant. ‘We need a calm sea an’ a light wind. Come hin on de Nor-easterly Trades. Mus’ be a dark night. Dey startin’ right now. By end of da week we git da secon’ moon quarter. Where yo reckon to land, cap’n?’

‘South shore near the mouth of the river. Then we’ll go up the river to the lake. I’m sure that’s where the wardens’ camp was. So as to have fresh water and be able to get down to the sea to fish.’

Quarrel grunted without enthusiasm. ‘How long we <a id="calibre_link-2150"></a>staying’, cap’n? Caint take a whole lot of food wit us. Bread, cheese, salt pork. No tobacco – caint risk da smoke an’ light. Dat’s mighty rough country, cap’n. Marsh an’ mangrove.’

Bond said: ‘Better plan for three days. Weather may break and stop us getting off for a night or two. Couple of good hunting knives. I’ll take a gun. You never can tell.’

‘No, sir,’ said Quarrel emphatically. He relapsed into a brooding silence which lasted until they got to Port Maria.

They went through the little town and on round the headland to Morgan’s Harbour. It was just as Bond remembered – the sugar-loaf of the Isle of Surprise rising out of the calm bay, the canoes drawn up beside the mounds of empty conch shells, the distant boom of the surf on the reef which had so nearly been his grave. Bond, his mind full of memories, took the car down the little side road and through the cane fields in the middle of which the gaunt ruin of the old Great House of Beau Desert Plantation stood up like a stranded galleon.

They came to the gate leading to the bungalow. Quarrel got out and opened the gate, and Bond drove through and pulled up in the yard behind the white single-storeyed house. It was very quiet. Bond walked round the house and across the lawn to the edge of the sea. Yes, there it was, the stretch of deep, silent water <a id="calibre_link-2151"></a>– the submarine path he had taken to the Isle of Surprise. It sometimes came back to him in nightmares.

Bond stood looking at it and thinking of Solitaire, the girl he had brought back, torn and bleeding, from that sea. He had carried her across the lawn to the house. What had happened to her? Where was she? Brusquely Bond turned and walked back into the house, driving the phantoms away from him.

It was eight-thirty. Bond unpacked his few things and changed into sandals and shorts. Soon there was the delicious smell of coffee and frying bacon. They ate their breakfast while Bond fixed his training routine – up at seven, swim a quarter of a mile, breakfast, an hour’s sunbathing, run a mile, swim again, lunch, sleep, sunbathe, swim a mile, hot bath and massage, dinner and asleep by nine.

After breakfast the routine began.

Nothing interrupted the grinding week except a brief story in the Daily Gleaner and a telegram from Pleydell-Smith. The Gleaner said that a Sunbeam Talbot, H. 2473, had been involved in a fatal accident on the Devil’s Racecourse, a stretch of winding road between Spanish Town and Ocho Rios – on the Kingston–Montego route. A runaway lorry, whose driver was being traced, had crashed into the Sunbeam as it came round a bend. Both vehicles had left the road and hurtled into the ravine below. The two occupants of the Sunbeam, Ben Gibbons <a id="calibre_link-2152"></a>of Harbour Street, and Josiah Smith, no address, had been killed. A Mr Bond, an English visitor, who had been lent the car, was asked to contact the nearest police station.

Bond burned that copy of the Gleaner. He didn’t want to upset Quarrel.

With only one day to go, the telegram came from Pleydell-Smith. It said:

EACH OBJECT CONTAINED ENOUGH CYANIDE TO KILL A HORSE STOP SUGGEST YOU CHANGE YOUR GROCER STOP GOOD LUCK SMITH

Bond also burned the telegram.

Quarrel hired a canoe and they spent three days sailing it. It was a clumsy shell cut out of a single giant cotton tree. It had two thin thwarts, two heavy paddles and a small sail of dirty canvas. It was a blunt instrument. Quarrel was pleased with it.

‘Seven, eight hours, cap’n,’ he said. ‘Den we bring down de sail an’ use de paddles. Less target for de radar to see.’

The weather held. The forecast from Kingston radio was good. The nights were as black as sin. The two men got in their stores. Bond fitted himself out with cheap black canvas jeans and a dark blue shirt and rope-soled shoes.

The last evening came. Bond was glad he was on his Way. He had only once been out of the training camp <a id="calibre_link-2153"></a>– to get the stores and arrange Quarrel’s insurance – and he was chafing to get out of the stable and on to the track. He admitted to himself that this adventure excited him. It had the right ingredients – physical exertion, mystery, and a ruthless enemy. He had a good companion. His cause was just. There might also be the satisfaction of throwing the ‘holiday in the sun’ back in M’s teeth. That had rankled. Bond didn’t like being coddled.

The sun blazed beautifully into its grave.

Bond went into his bedroom and took out his two guns and looked at them. Neither was a part of him as the Beretta had been – an extension of his right hand – but he already knew them as better weapons. Which should he take? Bond picked up each in turn, hefting them in his hand. It had to be the heavier Smith & Wesson. There would be no close shooting, if there was any shooting, on Crab Key. Heavy, long-range stuff – if anything. The brutal, stumpy revolver had an extra twenty-five yards over the Walther. Bond fitted the holster into the waistband of his jeans and clipped in the gun. He put twenty spare rounds in his pocket. Was it over-insurance to take all this metal on what might only be a tropical picnic?

Bond went to the icebox and took a pint of Canadian Club Blended Rye and some ice and soda-water and went and sat in the garden and watched the last light flame and die.

<a id="calibre_link-2154"></a>The shadows crept from behind the house and marched across the lawn and enveloped him. The Undertaker’s Wind that blows at night from the centre of the island, clattered softly in the tops of the palm trees. The frogs began to tinkle among the shrubs. The fireflies, the ‘blink-a-blinks’, as Quarrel called them, came out and began flashing their sexual morse. For a moment the melancholy of the tropical dusk caught at Bond’s heart. He picked up the bottle and looked at it. He had drunk a quarter of it. He poured another big slug into his glass and added some ice. What was he drinking for? Because of the thirty miles of black sea he had to cross tonight? Because he was going into the unknown? Because of Doctor No?

Quarrel came up from the beach. ‘Time, cap’n.’

Bond swallowed his drink and followed the Cayman Islander down to the canoe. It was rocking quietly in the water, its bows on the sand. Quarrel went aft and Bond climbed into the space between the forrard thwart and the bows. The sail, wrapped round the short mast, was at his back, Bond took up his paddle and pushed off, and they turned slowly and headed out for the break in the softly creaming waves that was the passage through the reef. They paddled easily, in unison, the paddles turning in their hands so that they did not leave the water on the forward stroke. The small waves slapped softly against the bows. Otherwise they made no noise. <a id="calibre_link-2155"></a>It was dark. Nobody saw them go. They just left the land and went off across the sea.

Bond’s only duty was to keep paddling. Quarrel did the steering. At the opening through the reef there was a swirl and suck of conflicting currents and they were in amongst the jagged niggerheads and coral trees, bared like fangs by the swell. Bond could feel the strength of Quarrel’s great sweeps with the paddle as the heavy craft wallowed and plunged. Again and again Bond’s own paddle thudded against rock, and once he had to hold on as the canoe hit a buried mass of brain coral and slid off again. Then they were through, and far below the boat there were indigo patches of sand and around them the solid oily feel of deep water.

‘Okay, cap’n,’ said Quarrel softly. Bond shipped his paddle and got down off one knee and sat with his back to the thwart. He heard the scratching of Quarrel’s nails against canvas as he unwrapped the sail and then the sharp flap as it caught the breeze. The canoe straightened and began to move. It tilted slowly. There was a soft hiss under the bows. A handful of spray tossed up into Bond’s face. The wind of their movement was cool and would soon get cold. Bond hunched up his knees and put his arms round them. The wood was already beginning to bite into his buttocks and his back. It crossed his mind that it was going to be the hell of a long and uncomfortable night.

In the darkness ahead Bond could just make out the <a id="calibre_link-2156"></a>rim of the world. Then came a layer of black haze above which the stars began, first sparsely and then merging into a dense bright carpet. The Milky Way soared overhead. How many stars? Bond tried counting a finger’s length and was soon past the hundred. The stars lit the sea into a faint grey road and then arched away over the tip of the mast towards the black silhouette of Jamaica. Bond looked back. Behind the hunched figure of Quarrel there was a faraway cluster of lights which would be Port Maria. Already they were a couple of miles out. Soon they would be a tenth of the way, then a quarter, then half. That would be around midnight when Bond would take over. Bond sighed and put his head down to his knees and closed his eyes.

He must have slept because he was awakened by the clonk of a paddle against the boat. He lifted his arm to show that he had heard and glanced at the luminous blaze of his watch. Twelve-fifteen. Stiffly he unbent his legs and turned and scrambled over the thwart.

‘Sorry, Quarrel,’ he said, and it was odd to hear his voice. ‘You ought to have shaken me up before.’

‘Hit don signify, cap’n,’ said Quarrel with a grey glint of teeth. ‘Do yo good to sleep.’

Gingerly they slipped past each other and Bond settled in the stern and picked up the paddle. The sail was secured to a bent nail beside him. It was flapping. Bond brought the bows into the wind and edged them round <a id="calibre_link-2157"></a>so that the North Star was directly over Quarrel’s bent head in the bows. For a time this would be fun. There was something to do.

There was no change in the night except that it seemed darker and emptier. The pulse of the sleeping sea seemed slower. The heavy swell was longer and the troughs deeper. They were running through a patch of phosphorescence that winked at the bows and dripped jewels when Bond lifted the paddle out of the water. How safe it was, slipping through the night in this ridiculously vulnerable little boat. How kind and soft the sea could be. A covey of flying fish broke the surface in front of the bows and scattered like shrapnel. Some kept going for a time beside the canoe, flying as much as twenty yards before they dived into the wall of the swell. Was some bigger fish after them or did they think the canoe was a fish, or were they just playing? Bond thought of what was going on in the hundreds of fathoms below the boat, the big fish, the shark and barracuda and tarpon and sailfish quietly cruising, the shoals of kingfish and mackerel and bonito and, far below in the grey twilight of the great depths, the phosphorous jellied boneless things that were never seen, the fifty-foot squids, with eyes a foot wide, that streamed along like zeppelins, the last real monsters of the sea, whose size was only known from the fragments found inside whales. What would happen if a wave caught the canoe broadside and capsized them? How long would <a id="calibre_link-2158"></a>they last? Bond took an ounce more pains with his steering and put the thought aside.

One o’clock, two o’clock, three, four. Quarrel awoke and stretched. He called softly to Bond. ‘Ah smells land, cap’n.’ Soon there was a thickening of the darkness ahead. The low shadow slowly took on the shape of a huge swimming rat. A pale moon rose slowly behind them. Now the island showed distinctly, a couple of miles away, and there was the distant grumble of surf.

They changed places. Quarrel brought down the sail and they took up the paddles. For at least another mile, thought Bond, they would be invisible in the troughs of the waves. Not even radar would distinguish them from the crests. It was the last mile they would have to hurry over with the dawn not far off.

Now he too could smell the land. It had no particular scent. It was just something new in the nose after hours of clean sea. He could make out the white fringe of surf. The swell subsided and the waves became choppier. ‘Now, cap’n,’ called Quarrel, and Bond, the sweat already dropping off his chin, dug deeper and more often. God, it was hard work! The hulking log of wood which had sped along so well under the sail now seemed hardly to move. The wave at the bows was only a ripple. Bond’s shoulders were aching like fire. The one knee he was resting on was beginning to bruise. His hands were cramped on the clumsy shaft of a paddle made of lead. <a id="calibre_link-2159"></a>It was incredible, but they were coming up with the reef. Patches of sand showed deep under the boat. Now the surf was a roar. They followed along the edge of the reef, looking for an opening. A hundred yards inside the reef, breaking the sandline, was the shimmer of water running inland. The river! So the landfall had been all right. The wall of surf broke up. There was a patch of black oily current swelling over hidden coral heads. The nose of the canoe turned towards it and into it. There was a turmoil of water and a series of grating thuds, and then a sudden rush forward into peace and the canoe was moving slowly across a smooth mirror towards the shore.

Quarrel steered the boat towards the lee of a rocky promontory where the beach ended. Bond wondered why the beach didn’t shine white under the thin moon. When they grounded and Bond climbed stiffly out he understood why. The beach was black. The sand was soft and wonderful to the feet but it must have been formed out of volcanic rock, pounded over the centuries, and Bond’s naked feet on it looked like white crabs.

They made haste. Quarrel took three short lengths of thick bamboo out of the boat and laid them up the flat beach. They heaved the nose of the canoe on to the first and pushed the boat up the rollers. After each yard of progress, Bond picked up the back roller and brought it to the front. Slowly the canoe moved up the sand until at last it was over the back tideline and among the rocks <a id="calibre_link-2160"></a>and turtle grass and low sea-grape bushes. They pushed it another twenty yards inland into the beginning of the mangrove. There they covered it with dried seaweed and bits of driftwood from the tideline. Then Quarrel cut lengths of screwpalm and went back over their tracks, sweeping and tidying.

It was still dark, but the breath of grey in the east would soon be turning to pearl. It was five o’clock. They were dead tired. They exchanged a few words and Quarrel went off among the rocks on the promontory. Bond scooped out a depression in the fine dry sand under a thick bush of sea-grape. There were a few hermit crabs beside his bed. He picked up as many as he could find and hurled them into the mangrove. Then, not caring what other animals or insects might come to his smell and his warmth, he lay down full length in the sand and rested his head on his arm.

He was at once asleep.

<a id="calibre_link-2162"></a>8 THE ELEGANT VENUS

Bond awoke lazily. The feel of the sand reminded him where he was. He glanced at his watch. Ten o’clock. The sun through the round thick leaves of the sea-grape was already hot. A larger shadow moved across the dappled sand in front of his face. Quarrel? Bond shifted his head and peered through the fringe of leaves and grass that concealed him from the beach. He stiffened. His heart missed a beat and then began pounding so that he had to breathe deeply to quieten it. His eyes, as he stared through the blades of grass, were fierce slits.

It was a naked girl, with her back to him. She was not quite naked. She wore a broad leather belt round her waist with a hunting knife in a leather sheath at her right hip. The belt made her nakedness extraordinarily erotic. She stood not more than five yards away on the tideline looking down at something in her hand. She stood in the classical <a id="calibre_link-2163"></a>relaxed pose of the nude, all the weight on the right leg and the left knee bent and turning slightly inwards, the head to one side as she examined the things in her hand.

It was a beautiful back. The skin was a very light uniform café au lait with the sheen of dull satin. The gentle curve of the backbone was deeply indented, suggesting more powerful muscles than is usual in a woman, and the behind was almost as firm and rounded as a boy’s. The legs were straight and beautiful and no pinkness showed under the slightly lifted left heel. She was not a coloured girl.

Her hair was ash blonde. It was cut to the shoulders and hung there and along the side of her bent cheek in thick wet strands. A green diving mask was pushed back above her forehead, and the green rubber thong bound her hair at the back.

The whole scene, the empty beach, the green and blue sea, the naked girl with the strands of fair hair, reminded Bond of something. He searched his mind. Yes, she was Botticelli’s Venus, seen from behind.

How had she got there? What was she doing? Bond looked up and down the beach. It was not black, he now saw, but a deep chocolate brown. To the right he could see as far as the river mouth, perhaps five hundred yards away. The beach was empty and featureless except for a scattering of small pinkish objects. There were a lot of them, shells of some sort Bond supposed, and they looked decorative <a id="calibre_link-2164"></a>against the dark brown background. He looked to the left, to where, twenty yards away, the rocks of the small headland began. Yes, there was a yard or two of groove in the sand where a canoe had been drawn up into the shelter of the rocks. It must have been a light one or she couldn’t have drawn it up alone. Perhaps the girl wasn’t alone. But there was only one set of footprints leading down from the rocks to the sea and another set coming out of the sea and up the beach to where she now stood on the tideline. Did she live here, or had she too sailed over from Jamaica that night? Hell of a thing for a girl to do. Anyway, what in God’s name was she doing here?

As if to answer him, the girl made a throwaway gesture of the right hand and scattered a dozen shells on the sand beside her. They were violet pink and seemed to Bond to be the same as he had noticed on the beach. The girl looked down into her left hand and began to whistle softly to herself. There was a happy note of triumph in the whistle. She was whistling ‘Marion’, a plaintive little calypso that has now been cleaned up and made famous outside Jamaica. It had always been one of Bond’s favourites. It went:

All day, all night, Marion,

Sittin’ by the seaside siftin’ sand …

The girl broke off to stretch her arms out in a deep <a id="calibre_link-2165"></a>yawn. Bond smiled to himself. He wetted his lips and took up the refrain:

‘The water from her eyes could sail a boat,

The hair on her head could tie a goat …’

The hands flew down and across her chest. The muscles of her behind bunched with tension. She was listening, her head, still hidden by the curtain of hair, cocked to one side.

Hesitantly she began again. The whistle trembled and died. At the first note of Bond’s echo, the girl whirled round. She didn’t cover her body with the two classical gestures. One hand flew downwards, but the other, instead of hiding her breasts, went up to her face, covering it below the eyes, now wide with fear. ‘Who’s that?’ The words came out in a terrified whisper.

Bond got to his feet and stepped out through the sea-grape. He stopped on the edge of the grass. He held his hands open at his sides to show they were empty. He smiled cheerfully at her. ‘It’s only me. I’m another trespasser. Don’t be frightened.’

The girl dropped her hand down from her face. It went to the knife at her belt. Bond watched the fingers curl round the hilt. He looked up at her face. Now he realized why her hand had instinctively gone to it. It was a beautiful face, with wide-apart deep blue eyes <a id="calibre_link-2166"></a>under lashes paled by the sun. The mouth was wide and when she stopped pursing the lips with tension they would be full. It was a serious face and the jawline was determined – the face of a girl who fends for herself. And once, reflected Bond, she had failed to fend. For the nose was badly broken, smashed crooked like a boxer’s. Bond stiffened with revolt at what had happened to this supremely beautiful girl. No wonder this was her shame and not the beautiful firm breasts that now jutted towards him without concealment.

The eyes examined him fiercely. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ There was the slight lilt of a Jamaican accent. The voice was sharp and accustomed to being obeyed.

‘I’m an Englishman. I’m interested in birds.’

‘Oh,’ the voice was doubtful. The hand still rested on the knife. ‘How long have you been watching me? How did you get here?’

‘Ten minutes, but no more answers until you tell me who you are.’

‘I’m no one in particular. I come from Jamaica. I collect shells.’

‘I came in a canoe. Did you?’

‘Yes. Where is your canoe?’

‘I’ve got a friend with me. We’ve hidden it in the mangroves.’

‘There are no marks of a canoe landing.’

<a id="calibre_link-2167"></a>‘We’re careful. We covered them up. Not like you.’ Bond gestured towards the rocks, ‘You ought to take more trouble. Did you use a sail? Right up to the reef?’

‘Of course. Why not? I always do.’

‘Then they’ll know you’re here. They’ve got radar.’

‘They’ve never caught me yet.’ The girl took her hand away from her knife. She reached up and stripped off the diving mask and stood swinging it. She seemed to think she had the measure of Bond. She said, with some of the sharpness gone from her voice, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bond. James Bond. What’s yours?’

She reflected. ‘Rider.’

‘What Rider?’

‘Honeychile.’

Bond smiled.

‘What’s so funny about it?’

‘Nothing. Honeychile Rider. It’s a pretty name.’

She unbent. ‘People call me “Honey”.’

‘Well, I’m glad to meet you.’

The prosaic phrase seemed to remind her of her nakedness. She blushed. She said uncertainly, ‘I must get dressed.’ She looked down at the scattered shells around her feet. She obviously wanted to pick them up. Perhaps she realized that the movement might be still more revealing than her present pose. She said sharply, ‘You’re not to touch those while I’m gone.’

<a id="calibre_link-2168"></a>Bond smiled at the childish challenge. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll look after them.’

The girl looked at him doubtfully and then turned and walked stiff-legged over to the rocks and disappeared behind them.

Bond walked the few steps down the beach and bent and picked up one of the shells. It was alive and the two halves were shut tight. It appeared to be some kind of a cockle, rather deeply ribbed and coloured a mauve-pink. Along both edges of the hinge, thin horns stood out, about half a dozen to each side. It didn’t seem to Bond a very distinguished shell. He replaced it carefully with the others.

He stood looking down at the shells and wondering. Was she really collecting them? It certainly looked like it. But what a risk to take to get them – the voyage over alone in the canoe and then back again. And she seemed to realize that this was a dangerous place. ‘They’ve never caught me yet.’ What an extraordinary girl. Bond’s heart warmed and his senses stirred as he thought of her. Already, as he had found so often when people had deformities, he had almost forgotten her broken nose. It had somehow slipped away behind his memory of her eyes and her mouth and her amazingly beautiful body. Her imperious attitude and her quality of attack were exciting. The way she had reached for her knife to defend herself! She was like an animal whose cubs are <a id="calibre_link-2169"></a>threatened. Where did she live? Who were her parents? There was something uncared for about her – a dog that nobody wants to pet. Who was she?

Bond heard her footsteps riffling the sand. He turned to look at her. She was dressed almost in rags – a faded brown shirt with torn sleeves and a knee-length patched brown cotton skirt held in place by the leather belt with the knife. She had a canvas knapsack slung over one shoulder. She looked like a principal girl dressed as Man Friday.

She came up with him and at once went down on one knee and began picking up the live shells and stowing them in the knapsack.

Bond said, ‘Are those rare?’

She sat back on her haunches and looked up at him. She surveyed his face. Apparently she was satisfied. ‘You promise you won’t tell anybody? Swear?’

‘I promise,’ said Bond.

‘Well then, yes, they are rare. Very. You can get five dollars for a perfect specimen. In Miami. That’s where I deal with. They’re called Venus elegans – The Elegant Venus.’ Her eyes sparkled up at him with excitement. ‘This morning I found what I wanted. The bed where they live,’ she waved towards the sea. ‘You wouldn’t find it though,’ she added with sudden carefulness. ‘It’s very deep and hidden away. I doubt if you could dive that deep. And anyway,’ she looked happy, ‘I’m going to clear the <a id="calibre_link-2170"></a>whole bed today. You’d only get the imperfect ones if you came back here.’

Bond laughed. ‘I promise I won’t steal any. I really don’t know anything about shells. Cross my heart.’

She stood up, her work completed. ‘What about these birds of yours? What sort are they? Are they valuable too? I won’t tell either if you tell me. I only collect shells.’

‘They’re called roseate spoonbills,’ said Bond. ‘Sort of pink stork with a flat beak. Ever seen any?’

‘Oh, those,’ she said scornfully. ‘There used to be thousands of them here. But you won’t find many now. They scared them all away.’ She sat down on the sand and put her arms round her knees, proud of her superior knowledge and now certain that she had nothing to fear from this man.

Bond sat down a yard away. He stretched out and turned towards her, resting on his elbow. He wanted to preserve the picnic atmosphere and try to find out more about this queer, beautiful girl. He said, easily, ‘Oh, really. What happened? Who did it?’

She shrugged impatiently. ‘The people here did it. I don’t know who they are. There’s a Chinaman. He doesn’t like birds or something. He’s got a dragon. He sent the dragon after the birds and scared them away. The dragon burned up their nesting places. There used to be two men who lived with the birds and looked after them. They got scared away too, or killed or something.’

<a id="calibre_link-2171"></a>It all seemed quite natural to her. She gave the facts indifferently, staring out to sea.

Bond said, ‘This dragon. What kind is he? Have you ever seen him?’

‘Yes, I’ve seen him.’ She screwed up her eyes and made a wry face as if she was swallowing bitter medicine. She looked earnestly at Bond to make him share her feelings. ‘I’ve been coming here for about a year, looking for shells and exploring. I only found these,’ she waved at the beach, ‘about a month ago. On my last trip. But I’ve found plenty of other good ones. Just before Christmas I thought I’d explore the river. I went up it to the top, where the birdmen had their camp. It was all broken up. It was getting late and I decided to spend the night there. In the middle of the night I woke up. The dragon was coming by only a few chains away from me. It had two great glaring eyes and a long snout. It had sort of short wings and a pointed tail. It was all black and gold.’ She frowned at the expression on Bond’s face. ‘There was a full moon. I could see it quite clearly. It went by me. It was making a sort of roaring noise. It went over the marsh and came to some thick mangrove and it simply climbed over the bushes and went on. A whole flock of birds got up in front of it and suddenly a lot of fire came out of its mouth and it burned a lot of them up and all the trees they’d been roosting in. It was horrible. The most horrible thing I’ve ever seen.’

<a id="calibre_link-2172"></a>The girl leant sideways and peered at Bond’s face. She sat up straight again and stared obstinately out to sea. ‘I can see you don’t believe me,’ she said in a furious, tense voice. ‘You’re one of these city people. You don’t believe anything. Ugh,’ she shuddered with dislike of him.

Bond said reasonably, ‘Honey, there just aren’t such things as dragons in the world. You saw something that looked very like a dragon. I’m just wondering what it was.’

‘How do you know there aren’t such things as dragons?’ Now he had made her really angry. ‘Nobody lives on this end of the island. One could easily have survived here. Anyway, what do you think you know about animals and things? I’ve lived with snakes and things since I was a child. Alone. Have you ever seen a praying mantis eat her husband after they’ve made love? Have you ever seen the mongoose dance? Or an octopus dance? How long is a humming bird’s tongue? Have you ever had a pet snake that wore a bell round its neck and rang it to wake you? Have you seen a scorpion get sunstroke and kill itself with its own sting? Have you seen the carpet of flowers under the sea at night? Do you know that a John Crow can smell a dead lizard a mile away …?’ The girl had fired these questions like scornful jabs with a rapier. Now she stopped, out of breath. She said hopelessly, ‘Oh, you’re just city folk like all the rest.’

<a id="calibre_link-2173"></a>Bond said, ‘Honey, now look here. You know these things. I can’t help it that I live in towns. I’d like to know about your things too. I just haven’t had that sort of life. I know other things instead. Like …’ Bond searched his mind. He couldn’t think of anything as interesting as hers. He finished lamely, ‘Like for instance that this Chinaman is going to be more interested in your visit this time. This time he’s going to try and stop you getting away.’ He paused and added. ‘And me for the matter of that.’

She turned and looked at him with interest. ‘Oh. Why? But then it doesn’t really matter. One just hides during the day and gets away at night. He’s sent dogs after me and even a plane. He hasn’t got me yet.’ She examined Bond with a new interest. ‘Is it you he’s after?’

‘Well, yes,’ admitted Bond. ‘I’m afraid it is. You see we dropped the sail about two miles out so that their radar wouldn’t pick us up. I think the Chinaman may have been expecting a visit from me. Your sail will have been reported and I’d bet anything he’ll think your canoe was mine. I’d better go and wake my friend up and we’ll talk it over. You’ll like him. He’s a Cayman Islander, name of Quarrel.’

The girl said, ‘Well, I’m sorry if …’ the sentence trailed away. Apologies wouldn’t come easy to someone so much on the defensive. ‘But after all I couldn’t know, could I?’ She searched his face.

<a id="calibre_link-2174"></a>Bond smiled into the questing blue eyes. He said reassuringly, ‘Of course you couldn’t. It’s just bad luck – bad luck for you too. I don’t suppose he minds too much about a solitary girl who collects shells. You can be sure they’ve had a good look at your footprints and found clues like that’ – he waved at the scattered shells on the beach. ‘But I’m afraid he’d take a different view of me. Now he’ll try and hunt me down with everything he’s got. I’m only afraid he may get you into the net in the process. Anyway,’ Bond grinned reassuringly, ‘we’ll see what Quarrel has to say. You stay here.’

Bond got to his feet. He walked along the promontory and cast about him. Quarrel had hidden himself well. It took Bond five minutes to find him. He was lying in a grassy depression between two big rocks, half covered by a board of grey driftwood. He was still fast asleep, the brown head, stern in sleep, cradled on his forearm. Bond whistled softly and smiled as the eyes sprang wide open like an animal’s. Quarrel saw Bond and scrambled to his feet, almost guiltily. He rubbed his big hands over his face as if he was washing it.

‘Mornin’, cap’n,’ he said. ‘Guess Ah been down deep. Dat China girl come to me.’

Bond smiled. ‘I got something different,’ he said. They sat down and Bond told him about Honeychile Rider and her shells and the fix they were in. ‘And now it’s eleven o’clock,’ Bond added. ‘And we’ve got to make a new plan.’

<a id="calibre_link-2175"></a>Quarrel scratched his head. He looked sideways at Bond. ‘Yo don’ plan we jess ditch dis girl?’ he asked hopefully. ‘Ain’t nuttin to do wit we …’ Suddenly he stopped. His head swivelled round and pointed like a dog’s. He held up a hand for silence, listening intently.

Bond held his breath. In the distance, to the eastwards, there was a faint droning.

Quarrel jumped to his feet. ‘Quick, cap’n,’ he said urgently. ‘Dey’s a comin’.’

<a id="calibre_link-2177"></a>9 CLOSE SHAVES

Ten minutes later the bay was empty and immaculate. Small waves curled lazily in across the mirrored water inside the reef and flopped exhausted on the dark sand where the mauve shells glittered like shed toenails. The heap of discarded shells had gone and there was no longer any trace of footprints. Quarrel had cut branches of mangrove and had walked backwards sweeping carefully as he went. Where he had swept, the sand was of a different texture from the rest of the beach, but not too different as to be noticed from outside the reef. The girl’s canoe had been pulled deeper among the rocks and covered with seaweed and driftwood.

Quarrel had gone back to the headland. Bond and the girl lay a few feet apart under the bush of sea-grape where Bond had slept, and gazed silently out across the <a id="calibre_link-2178"></a>water to the corner of the headland round which the boat would come.

The boat was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. From the slow pulse of the twin diesels Bond guessed that every cranny of the coastline was being searched for signs of them. It sounded a powerful boat. A big cabin cruiser, perhaps. What crew would it have? Who would be in command of the search? Doctor No? Unlikely. He would not trouble himself with this kind of police work.

From the west a wedge of cormorants appeared, flying low over the sea beyond the reef. Bond watched them. They were the first evidence he had seen of the guanay colony at the other end of the island. These, according to Pleydell-Smith’s description, would be scouts for the silver flash of the anchovy near the surface. Sure enough, as he watched, they began to back-pedal in the air and then go into shallow dives, hitting the water like shrapnel. Almost at once a fresh file appeared from the west, then another and another that merged into a long stream and then into a solid black river of birds. For minutes they darkened the skyline and then they were down on the water, covering several acres of it, screeching and fighting and plunging their heads below the surface, cropping at the solid field of anchovy like piranha fish feasting on a drowned horse.

Bond felt a gentle nudge from the girl. She gestured with her head. ‘The Chinaman’s hens getting their corn.’

<a id="calibre_link-2179"></a>Bond examined the happy, beautiful face. She had seemed quite unconcerned by the arrival of the search party. To her it was only the game of hide-and-seek she had played before. Bond hoped she wasn’t going to get a shock.

The iron thud of the diesels was getting louder. The boat must be just behind the headland. Bond took a last look round the peaceful bay and then fixed his eyes, through the leaves and grass, on the point of the headland inside the reef.

The knife of white bows appeared. It was followed by ten yards of empty polished deck, glass windshields, a low raked cabin with a siren and a blunt radio mast, the glimpse of a man inside at the wheel, then the long flat well of the stern and a drooping red ensign. Converted M.T.B., British Government surplus?

Bond’s eyes went to the two men standing in the stern. They were pale-skinned negroes. They wore neat khaki ducks and shirts, broad belts, and deep visored baseball caps of yellow straw. They were standing side by side, bracing themselves against the slow swell. One of them was holding a long black loud-hailer with a wire attached. The other was manning a machine gun on a tripod. It looked to Bond like a Spandau.

The man with the loud-hailer let it fall so that it swung on a strap round his neck. He picked up a pair of binoculars and began inching them along the beach. The low <a id="calibre_link-2180"></a>murmur of his comments just reached Bond above the glutinous flutter of the diesels.

Bond watched the eyes of the binoculars begin with the headland and then sweep the sand. The twin eyes paused among the rocks and moved on. They came back. The murmur of comment rose to a jabber. The man handed the glasses to the machine gunner who took a quick glance through them and gave them back. The scanner shouted something to the helmsman. The cabin cruiser stopped and backed up. Now she lay outside the reef exactly opposite Bond and the girl. The scanner again levelled the binoculars at the rocks where the girl’s canoe lay hidden. Again the excited jabber came across the water. Again the glasses were passed to the machine gunner who glanced through. This time he nodded decisively.

Bond thought: now we’ve had it. These men know their job.

Bond watched the machine gunner pull the bolt back to load. The double click came to him over the bubbling of the diesels.

The scanner lifted his loud-hailer and switched it on. The twanging echo of the amplifier moaned and screeched across the water. The man brought it up to his lips. The voice roared across the bay.

‘Okay, folks! Come on out and you won’t get hurt.’

It was an educated voice. There was a trace of American accent.

<a id="calibre_link-2181"></a>‘Now then, folks,’ the voice thundered, ‘make it quick! We’ve seen where you came ashore. We’ve spotted the boat under the driftwood. We ain’t fools an’ we ain’t fooling. Take it easy. Just walk out with your hands up. You’ll be okay.’

Silence fell. The waves lapped softly on the beach. Bond could hear the girl breathing. The thin screeching of the cormorants came to them muted across the mile of sea. The diesels bubbled unevenly as the swell covered the exhaust pipe and then opened it again.

Softly Bond reached over to the girl and tugged at her sleeve. ‘Come close,’ he whispered. ‘Smaller target.’ He felt her warmth nearer to him. Her cheek brushed against his forearm. He whispered, ‘Burrow into the sand. Wriggle. Every inch’ll help.’ He began to worm his body carefully deeper into the depression they had scooped out for themselves. He felt her do the same. He peered out. Now his eyes were only just above the skyline of the top of the beach.

The man was lifting his loud-hailer. The voice roared. ‘Okay, folks! Just so as you’ll know this thing isn’t for show.’ He lifted his thumb. The machine gunner trained his gun into the tops of the mangroves behind the beach. There came the swift rattling roar Bond had last heard coming from the German lines in the Ardennes. The bullets made the same old sound of frightened pigeons whistling overhead. Then there was silence.

<a id="calibre_link-2182"></a>In the distance Bond watched the black cloud of cormorants take to the air and begin circling. His eyes went back to the boat. The machine gunner was feeling the barrel of his gun to see if it had warmed. The two men exchanged some words. The scanner picked up his loud-hailer.

‘ ’Kay, folks,’ he said harshly. ‘You’ve been warned. This is it.’

Bond watched the snout of the Spandau swing and depress. The man was going to start with the canoe among the rocks. Bond whispered to the girl, ‘All right, Honey. Stick it. Keep right down. It won’t last long.’ He felt her hand squeeze his arm. He thought: poor little bitch, she’s in this because of me. He leant to the right to cover her head and pushed his face deep into the sand.

This time the crash of noise was terrific. The bullets howled into the corner of the headland. Fragments of splintered rock whined over the beach like hornets. Ricochets twanged and buzzed off into the hinterland. Behind it all there was the steady road-drill hammer of the gun.

There was a pause. New magazine, thought Bond. Now it’s us. He could feel the girl clutching at him. Her body was trembling along his flank. Bond reached out an arm and pressed her to him.

The roar of the gun began again. The bullets came zipping along the tideline towards them. There was a <a id="calibre_link-2183"></a>succession of quick close thuds. The bush above them was being torn to shreds. ‘Zwip. Zwip. Zwip.’ It was as if the thong of a steel whip was cutting the bush to pieces. Bits scattered around them, slowly covering them. Bond could smell the cooler air that meant they were now lying in the open. Were they hidden by the leaves and debris? The bullets marched away along the shoreline. In less than a minute the racket stopped.

The silence sang. The girl whimpered softly. Bond hushed her and held her tighter.

The loud-hailer boomed. ‘Okay, folks. If you still got ears, we’ll be along soon to pick up the bits. And we’ll be bringing the dogs. ‘Bye for now.’

The slow thud of the diesel quickened. The engine accelerated into a hasty roar and through the fallen leaves Bond watched the stern of the launch settle lower in the water as it made off to the west. Within minutes it was out of earshot.

Bond cautiously raised his head. The bay was serene, the beach unmarked. All was as before except for the stench of cordite and the sour smell of blasted rock. Bond pulled the girl to her feet. There were tear streaks down her face. She looked at him aghast. She said solemnly, ‘That was horrible. What did they do it for? We might have been killed.’

Bond thought, this girl has always had to fend for herself, but only against nature. She knows the world of <a id="calibre_link-2184"></a>animals and insects and fishes and she’s got the better of it. But it’s been a small world, bounded by the sun and the moon and the seasons. She doesn’t know the big world of the smoke-filled room, of the bullion broker’s parlour, of the corridors and waiting rooms of government offices, of careful meetings on park seats – she doesn’t know about the struggle for big power and big money by the big men. She doesn’t know that she’s been swept out of her rock pool into the dirty waters.

He said, ‘It’s all right, Honey. They’re just a lot of bad men who are frightened of us. We can manage them.’ Bond put his arm round her shoulders, ‘And you were wonderful. As brave as anything. Come on now, we’ll look for Quarrel and make some plans. Anyway, it’s time we had something to eat. What do you eat on these expeditions?’

They turned and walked up the beach to the headland. After a minute she said in a controlled voice, ‘Oh, there’s stacks of food about. Sea urchins mostly. And there are wild bananas and things. I eat and sleep for two days before I come out here. I don’t need anything.’

Bond held her more closely. He dropped his arm as Quarrel appeared on the skyline. Quarrel scrambled down among the rocks. He stopped, looking down. They came up with him. The girl’s canoe was sawn almost in half by the bullets. The girl gave a cry. She looked desperately at Bond, ‘My boat! How am I to get back?’

<a id="calibre_link-2185"></a>‘Don’t you worry, missy.’ Quarrel appreciated the loss of a canoe better than Bond. He guessed it might be most of the girl’s capital. ‘Cap’n fix you up wit’ anudder. An’ yo come back wit’ we. Us got a fine boat in de mangrove. Hit not get broke. Ah’s bin to see him.’ Quarrel looked at Bond. Now his face was worried. ‘But cap’n, yo sees what I means about dese folk. Dey mighty tough men an’ dey means business. Dese dogs dey speak of. Dose is police-houns – Pinschers dey’s called. Big bastards. Mah frens tell me as der’s a pack of twenty or moh. We better make plans quick – an’ good.’

‘All right, Quarrel. But first we must have something to eat. And I’m damned if I’m going to be scared off the island before I’ve had a good look. We’ll take Honey with us.’ He turned to the girl. ‘Is that all right with you, Honey? You’ll be all right with us. Then we’ll sail home together.’

The girl looked doubtfully at him. ‘I guess there’s no alternative. I mean, I’d love to go with you if I won’t be in the way. I really don’t want anything to eat. But will you take me home as soon as you can? I don’t want to see any more of those people. How long are you going to be looking at these birds?’

Bond said evasively, ‘Not long. I’ve got to find out what happened to them and why. Then we’ll be off.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s twelve now. You wait here. <a id="calibre_link-2186"></a>Have a bathe or something. Don’t walk about leaving footprints. Come on, Quarrel, we’d better get that boat hidden.’

It was one o’clock before they were ready. Bond and Quarrel filled the canoe with stones and sand until it sank in a pool among the mangroves. They smeared over their footprints. The bullets had left so much litter behind the shoreline that they could do most of their walking on broken leaves and twigs. They ate some of their rations – avidly, the girl reluctantly – and climbed across the rocks and into the shallow water off-shore. Then they trudged along the shallows towards the river mouth three hundred yards away down the beach.

It was very hot. A harsh, baking wind had sprung up from the north-east. Quarrel said this wind blew daily the year round. It was vital to the guanera. It dried the guano. The glare from the sea and from the shiny green leaves of the mangroves was dazzling. Bond was glad he had taken trouble to get his skin hardened to the sun.

There was a sandy bar at the river mouth and a long deep stagnant pool. They could either get wet or strip. Bond said to the girl, ‘Honey, we can’t be shy on this trip. We’ll keep our shirts on because of the sun. Wear what’s sensible and walk behind us.’ Without waiting for her reply the two men took off their trousers. Quarrel rolled them and packed them in the knapsack with the provisions and Bond’s gun. They waded into the pool, <a id="calibre_link-2187"></a>Quarrel in front, then Bond, then the girl. The water came up to Bond’s waist. A big silver fish leaped out of the pool and fell back with a splash. There were arrows on the surface where others fled out of their way. ‘Tarpon,’ commented Quarrel.

The pool converged into a narrow neck over which the mangroves touched. For a time they waded through a cool tunnel, and then the river broadened into a deep sluggish channel that meandered ahead among the giant spider-legs of the mangroves. The bottom was muddy and at each step their feet sank inches into slime. Small fish or shrimps wriggled and fled from under their feet, and every now and then they had to stoop to brush away leeches before they got hold. But otherwise it was easy going and quiet and cool among the bushes and, at least to Bond, it was a blessing to be out of the sun.

Soon, as they got away from the sea, it began to smell bad with the bad egg, sulphuretted hydrogen smell of marsh gas. The mosquitoes and sandflies began to find them. They liked Bond’s fresh body. Quarrel told him to dip himself in the river water. ‘Dem like dere meat wid salt on him,’ he explained cheerfully. Bond took off his shirt and did as he was told. Then it was better and after a while Bond’s nostrils even got used to the marsh gas, except when Quarrel’s feet disturbed some aged pocket in the mud and a vintage bubble wobbled up from the bottom and burst stinking under his nose.

<a id="calibre_link-2188"></a>The mangroves became fewer and sparser and the river slowly opened out. The water grew shallower and the bottom firmer. Soon they came round a bend and into the open. Honey said, ‘Better watch out now. We’ll be easier to see. It goes on like this for about a mile. Then the river gets narrower until the lake. Then there’s the sandspit the birdmen lived on.’

They stopped in the shadow of the mangrove tunnel and looked out. The river meandered sluggishly away from them towards the centre of the island. Its banks, fringed with low bamboo and sea-grape, would give only half shelter. From its western bank the ground rose slowly and then sharply up to the sugar-loaf about two miles away which was the guanera. Round the base of the mountain there was a scattering of Quonset huts. A zigzag of silver ran down the hillside to the huts – a Decauderville Track, Bond guessed, to bring the guano from the diggings down to the crusher and separator. The summit of the sugar-loaf was white, as if with snow. From the peak flew a smoky flag of guano dust. Bond could see the black dots of cormorants against the white background. They were landing and taking off like bees at a hive.

Bond stood and gazed at the distant glittering mountain of bird dung. So this was the kingdom of Doctor No! Bond thought he had never seen a more godforsaken landscape in his life.

<a id="calibre_link-2189"></a>He examined the ground between the river and the mountain. It seemed to be the usual grey dead coral broken, where there was a pocket of earth, by low scrub and screwpalm. No doubt a road or a track led down the mountainside to the central lake and the marshes. It looked bad stuff to cross unless there was. Bond noticed that all the vegetation was bent to the westwards. He imagined living the year round with that hot wind constantly scouring the island, the smell of the marsh gas and the guano. No penal colony could have a worse site than this.

Bond looked to the east. There the mangroves in the marshland seemed more hospitable. They marched away in a solid green carpet until they lost their outline in the dancing heat haze on the horizon. Over them a thick froth of birds tossed and settled and tossed again. Their steady scream carried over on the harsh wind.

Quarrel’s voice broke in on Bond’s thoughts. ‘Dey’s acomin’, cap’n.’

Bond followed Quarrel’s eyes. A big lorry was racing down from the huts, dust streaming from its wheels. Bond followed it for ten minutes until it disappeared amongst the mangroves at the head of the river. He listened. The baying of dogs came down on the wind.

Quarrel said, ‘Dey’ll come down de ribber, cap’n. Dem’ll know we caint move ‘cept up de ribber, assumin’ we ain’t dead. Dey’ll surely come down de ribber to de <a id="calibre_link-2190"></a>beach and look for de pieces. Den mos’ likely de boat come wit’ a dinghy an’ take de men and dogs off. Leastways, dat’s what Ah’d do in dere place.’

Honey said, ‘That’s what they do when they look for me. It’s quite all right. You cut a piece of bamboo and when they get near you go under the water and breathe through the bamboo till they’ve gone by.’

Bond smiled at Quarrel. He said, ‘Supposing you get the bamboo while I find a good mangrove clump.’

Quarrel nodded dubiously. He started off upstream towards the bamboo thickets. Bond turned back into the mangrove tunnel.

Bond had avoided looking at the girl. She said impatiently, ‘You needn’t be so careful of looking at me. It’s no good minding those things at a time like this. You said so yourself.’

Bond turned and looked at her. Her tattered shirt came down to the waterline. There was a glimpse of pale wavering limbs below. The beautiful face smiled at him. In the mangroves the broken nose seemed appropriate in its animalness.

Bond looked at her slowly. She understood. He turned and went on downstream and she followed him.

Bond found what he wanted, a crack in the wall of mangrove that seemed to go deeper. He said, ‘Don’t break a branch.’ He bent his head and waded in. The channel went in ten yards. The mud under their feet <a id="calibre_link-2191"></a>became deeper and softer. Then there was a solid wall of roots and they could go no farther. The brown water flowed slowly through a wide, quiet pool. Bond stopped. The girl came close to him. ‘This is real hide-and-seek,’ she said tremulously.

‘Yes, isn’t it.’ Bond was thinking of his gun. He was wondering how well it would shoot after a bath in the river – how many dogs and men he could get if they were found. He felt a wave of disquiet. It had been a bad break coming across this girl. In combat, like it or not, a girl is your extra heart. The enemy has two targets against your one.

Bond remembered his thirst. He scooped up some water. It was brackish and tasted of earth. It was all right. He drank some more. The girl put out her hand and stopped him. ‘Don’t drink too much. Wash your mouth out and spit. You could get fever.’

Bond looked at her quietly. He did as she told him.

Quarrel whistled from somewhere in the main stream. Bond answered and waded out towards him. They came back along the channel. Quarrel splashed the mangrove roots with water where their bodies might have brushed against them. ‘Kill da smell of us,’ he explained briefly. He produced his handful of bamboo lengths and began whittling and cutting them. Bond looked to his gun and the spare ammunition. They stood still in the pool so as not to stir up more mud.

<a id="calibre_link-2192"></a>The sunlight dappled down through the thick roof of leaves. The shrimps nibbled softly at their feet. Tension built up in the hot, crouching silence.

It was almost a relief to hear the baying of the dogs.

<a id="calibre_link-2194"></a>10 DRAGON SPOOR

The search party was coming fast down the river. The two men in bathing trunks and tall waders were having to run to keep up with the dogs. They were big Chinese negroes wearing shoulder holsters across their naked sweating chests. Occasionally they exchanged shouts that were mostly swear-words. Ahead of them the pack of big Dobermann Pinschers swam and floundered through the water, baying excitedly. They had a scent and they quested frenziedly, the diamond-shaped ears erect on the smooth, serpentine heads.

‘May be a —ing crocodile,’ yelled the leading man through the hubbub. He was carrying a short whip which he occasionally cracked like a whipper-in on the hunting field.

The other man converged towards him. He shouted excitedly, ‘For my money it’s the —ing limey! Bet ya <a id="calibre_link-2195"></a>he’s lying up in the mangrove. Mind he doesn’t give us a —ing ambush.’ The man took the gun out of its holster and put it under his armpit and kept his hand on the butt.

They were coming out of the open river into the mangrove tunnel. The first man had a whistle. It stuck out of his broad face like a cigar butt. He blew a shrill blast. When the dogs swept on he laid about him with the whip. The dogs checked, whimpering as the slow current forced them to disobey orders. The two men took their guns and waded slowly downstream through the straggly legs of the mangroves.

The leading man came to the narrow break that Bond had found. He grasped a dog by the collar and swung it into the channel. The dog snorted eagerly and paddled forward. The man’s eyes squinted at the mangrove roots on either side of the channel to see if they were scratched.

The dog and the man came into the small enclosed pool at the end of the channel. The man looked round disgustedly. He caught the dog by the collar and pulled him back. The dog was reluctant to leave the place. The man lashed down into the water with his whip.

The second man had been waiting at the entrance to the little channel. The first man came out. He shook his head and they went on downstream, the dogs, now less excited, streaming ahead.

Slowly the noise of the hunt grew less and vanished.

<a id="calibre_link-2196"></a>For another five minutes nothing moved in the mangrove pool, then, in one corner among the roots, a thin periscope of bamboo rose slowly out of the water. Bond’s face emerged, the forehead streaked with wet hair, like the face of a surfacing corpse. In his right hand under the water the gun was ready. He listened intently. There was dead silence, not a sound. Or was there? What was that soft swish out in the main stream? Was someone wading very quietly along in the wake of the hunt? Bond reached out on either side of him and softly touched the other two bodies that lay among the roots on the edge of the pool. As the two faces surfaced he put his finger to his lips. It was too late. Quarrel had coughed and spat. Bond made a grimace and nodded urgently towards the main stream. They all listened. There was dead silence. Then the soft swishing began again. Whoever it was was coming into the side-channel. The tubes of bamboo went back into the three mouths and the heads softly submerged again.

Underwater, Bond rested his head in the mud, pinched his nostrils with his left hand and pursed his lips round the tube. He knew the pool had been examined once already. He had felt the disturbance of the swimming dog. That time they had not been found. Would they get away with it again? This time there would have been less chance for the stirred mud to seep away out of the pool. If this searcher saw the darker brown stain, would <a id="calibre_link-2197"></a>he shoot into it or stab into it? What weapons would he have? Bond decided that he wouldn’t take chances. At the first movement in the water near him he would get to his feet and shoot and hope for the best.

Bond lay and focused all his senses. What hell this controlled breathing was and how maddening the soft nibbling of the shrimps! It was lucky none of them had a sore on their bodies or the damned things would have eaten into it. But it had been a bright idea of the girl’s. Without it the dogs would have got to them wherever they had hidden.

Suddenly Bond cringed. A rubber boot had stepped on his shin and slid off. Would the man think it was a branch? Bond couldn’t chance it. With one surge of motion he hurled himself upwards, spitting out the length of bamboo.

Bond caught a quick impression of a huge body standing almost on top of him and of a swirling rifle butt. He lifted his left arm to protect his head and felt the jarring blow on his forearm. At the same time his right hand lunged forward and as the muzzle of his gun touched the glistening right breast below the hairless aureole he pulled the trigger.

The kick of the explosion, pent up against the man’s body, almost broke Bond’s wrist, but the man crashed back like a chopped tree into the water. Bond caught a glimpse of a huge rent in his side as he went under. The <a id="calibre_link-2198"></a>rubber waders thrashed once and the head, a Chinese negroid head, broke the surface, its eyes turned up and water pouring from its silently yelling mouth. Then the head went under again and there was nothing but muddy froth and a slowly widening red stain that began to seep away downstream.

Bond shook himself. He turned. Quarrel and the girl were standing behind him, water streaming from their bodies. Quarrel was grinning from ear to ear, but the girl’s knuckles were at her mouth and her eyes were staring horror-struck at the reddened water.

Bond said curtly, ‘I’m sorry, Honey. It had to be done. He was right on top of us. Come on, let’s get going.’ He took her roughly by the arm and thrust her away from the place and out into the main stream, only stopping when they had reached the open river at the beginning of the mangrove tunnel.

The landscape was empty again. Bond glanced at his watch. It had stopped at three o’clock. He looked at the westering sun. It might be four o’clock now. How much farther had they to go? Bond suddenly felt tired. Now he’d torn it. Even if the shot hadn’t been heard – and it would have been well muffled by the man’s body and by the mangroves – the man would be missed when the others rendezvoused, if Quarrel’s guess was right, at the river mouth to be taken off to the launch. Would they come back up the river to look for the missing man? <a id="calibre_link-2199"></a>Probably not. It would be getting dark before they knew for certain that he was missing. They’d send out a search party in the morning. The dogs would soon get the body. Then what?

The girl tugged at his sleeve. She said angrily, ‘It’s time you told me what all this is about! Why’s everybody trying to kill each other? And who are you? I don’t believe all this story about birds. You don’t take a revolver after birds.’

Bond looked down into the angry, wide-apart eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. I’m afraid I’ve got you into a bit of a mess. I’ll tell you all about it this evening when we get to the camp. It’s just bad luck you being mixed up with me like this. I’ve got a bit of a war on with these people. They seem to want to kill me. Now I’m only interested in seeing us all off the island without anyone else getting hurt. I’ve got enough to go on now so that next time I can come back by the front door.’

‘What do you mean? Are you some sort of a policeman? Are you trying to send this Chinaman to prison?’

‘That’s about it,’ Bond smiled down at her. ‘At least you’re on the side of the angels. And now you tell me something. How much farther to the camp?’

‘Oh, about an hour.’

‘Is it a good place to hide? Could they find us there easily?’

‘They’d have to come across the lake or up the river. It’ll be all right so long as they don’t send their dragon <a id="calibre_link-2200"></a>after us. He can go through the water. I’ve seen him do it.’

‘Oh well,’ said Bond diplomatically, ‘let’s hope he’s got a sore tail or something.’

The girl snorted. ‘All right, Mr Know-all,’ she said angrily. ‘Just you wait.’

Quarrel splashed out of the mangroves. He was carrying a rifle. He said apologetically, ‘No harm ’n havin’ anudder gun, cap’n. Looks like us may need hit.’

Bond took it. It was a U.S. Army Remington Carbine, .300. These people certainly had the right equipment. He handed it back.

Quarrel echoed his thoughts. ‘Dese is sly folks, cap’n. Dat man mus’ of come sneakin’ down soffly behind de udders to ketch us comin’ out after de dawgs had passed. He sho is a sly mongoose, dat Doctor feller.’

Bond said thoughtfully, ‘He must be quite a man.’ He shrugged away his thoughts. ‘Now let’s get going. Honey says there’s another hour to the camp. Better keep to the left bank so as to get what cover we can from the hill. For all we know they’ve got glasses trained on the river.’ Bond handed his gun to Quarrel who stowed it in the sodden knapsack. They moved off again with Quarrel in the lead and Bond and the girl walking together.

They got some shade from the bamboo and bushes along the western bank, but now they had to face the full force of the scorching wind. They splashed water <a id="calibre_link-2201"></a>over their arms and faces to cool the burns. Bond’s eyes were bloodshot with the glare and his arm ached intolerably where the gun butt had struck. And he was not looking forward to his dinner of soaking bread and cheese and salt pork. How long would they be able to sleep? He hadn’t had much last night. It looked like the same ration again. And what about the girl? She had had none. He and Quarrel would have to keep watch and watch. And then tomorrow. Off into the mangrove again and work their way slowly back to the canoe across the eastern end of the island. It looked like that. And sail the following night. Bond thought of hacking a way for five miles through solid mangroves. What a prospect! Bond trudged on, thinking of M.’s ‘holiday in the sunshine’. He’d certainly give something for M. to be sharing it with him now.

The river grew narrower until it was only a stream between the bamboo clumps. Then it widened out into a flat marshy estuary beyond which the five square miles of shallow lake swept away to the other side of the island in a ruffled blue-grey mirror. Beyond, there was the shimmer of the airstrip and the glint of the sun on a single hangar. The girl told them to keep to the east and they worked their way slowly along inside the fringe of bushes.

Suddenly Quarrel stopped, his face pointing like a gun-dog’s at the marshy ground in front of him. Two <a id="calibre_link-2202"></a>deep parallel grooves were cut into the mud, with a fainter groove in the centre. They were the tracks of something that had come down from the hill and gone across the marsh towards the lake.

The girl said indifferently, ‘That’s where the dragon’s been.’

Quarrel turned the whites of his eyes towards her.

Bond walked slowly along the tracks. The outside ones were quite smooth with an indented curve. They could have been made by wheels, but they were vast – at least two feet across. The centre track was of the same shape but only three inches across, about the width of a motor tyre. The tracks were without a trace of tread, and they were fairly fresh. They marched along in a dead straight line and the bushes they crossed were squashed flat as if a tank had gone over them.

Bond couldn’t imagine what kind of vehicle, if it was a vehicle, had made them. When the girl nudged him and whispered fiercely ‘I told you so’, he could only say thoughtfully, ‘Well, Honey, if it isn’t a dragon, it’s something else I’ve never seen before.’

Farther on, she tugged urgently at his sleeve. ‘Look,’ she whispered. She pointed forward to a big clump of bushes beside which the tracks ran. They were leafless and blackened. In the centre there showed the charred remains of birds’ nests. ‘He breathed on them,’ she said excitedly.

<a id="calibre_link-2203"></a>Bond walked up to the bushes and examined them. ‘He certainly did,’ he admitted. Why had this particular clump been burned? It was all very odd.

The tracks swerved out towards the lake and disappeared into the water. Bond would have liked to follow them but there was no question of leaving cover. They trudged on, wrapped in their different thoughts.

Slowly the day began to die behind the sugar-loaf, and at last the girl pointed ahead through the bushes and Bond could see a long spit of sand running out into the lake. There were thick bushes of sea-grape along its spine and, halfway, perhaps a hundred yards from the shore, the remains of a thatched hut. It looked a reasonably attractive place to spend the night and it was well protected by the water on both sides. The wind had died and the water was soft and inviting. How heavenly it was going to be to take off their filthy shirts and wash in the lake, and, after the hours of squelching through the mud and stench of the river and the marsh, be able to lie down on the hard dry sand!

The sun blazed yellowly and sank behind the mountain. The day was still alive at the eastern tip of the island, but the black shadow of the sugar-loaf was slowly marching across the lake and would soon reach out and kill that too. The frogs started up, louder than in Jamaica, until the thick dusk was shrill with them. Across the lake a giant bull frog began to drum. The <a id="calibre_link-2204"></a>eerie sound was something between a tom-tom and an ape’s roar. It sent out short messages that were suddenly throttled. Soon it fell silent. It had found what it had sent for.

They reached the neck of the sandspit and filed out along a narrow track. They came to the clearing with the smashed remains of the wattle hut. The big mysterious tracks led out of the water on both sides and through the clearing and over the nearby bushes as if the thing, whatever it was, had stampeded the place. Many of the bushes were burned or charred. There were the remains of a fireplace made of lumps of coral and a few scattered cooking pots and empty tins. They searched in the debris and Quarrel unearthed a couple of unopened tins of Heinz pork and beans. The girl found a crumpled sleeping-bag. Bond found a small leather purse containing five one-dollar notes, three Jamaica pounds and some silver. The two men had certainly left in a hurry.

They left the place and moved farther along to a small sandy clearing. Through the bushes they could see lights winking across the water from the mountain, perhaps two miles away. To the eastwards there was nothing but the soft black sheen of water under the darkening sky.

Bond said, ‘As long as we don’t show a light we should be fine here. The first thing is to have a good wash. Honey, you take the rest of the sandspit and we’ll have <a id="calibre_link-2205"></a>the landward end. See you for dinner in about half an hour.’

The girl laughed. ‘Will you be dressing?’

‘Certainly,’ said Bond. ‘Trousers.’

Quarrel said, ‘Cap’n, while dere’s henough light I’ll get dese tins open and get tings fixed for de night.’ He rummaged in the knapsack. ‘Here’s yo trousers and yo gun. De bread don’t feel so good but hit only wet. Hit eat okay an’ mebbe hit dry hout come de mornin’. Guess we’d better eat de tins tonight an’ keep de cheese an’ pork. Dose tins is heavy an’ we got plenty footin’ tomorrow.’

Bond said, ‘All right, Quarrel. I’ll leave the menu to you.’ He took the gun and the damp trousers and walked down into the shallow water and back the way they had come. He found a hard dry stretch of sand and took off his shirt and stepped back into the water and lay down. The water was soft but disgustingly warm. He dug up handfuls of sand and scrubbed himself with it, using it as soap. Then he lay and luxuriated in the silence and the loneliness.

The stars began to shine palely, the stars that had brought them to the island last night, a year ago, the stars that would take them away again tomorrow night, a year away. What a trip! But at least it had already paid off. Now he had enough evidence, and witnesses, to go back to the Governor and get a <a id="calibre_link-2206"></a>full-dress inquiry going into the activities of Doctor No. One didn’t use machine guns on people, even on trespassers. And, by the same token, what was this thing of Doctor No’s that had trespassed on the leasehold of the Audubon Society, the thing that had smashed their property and had possibly killed one of their wardens? That would have to be investigated too. And what would he find when he came back to the island through the front door, in a destroyer, perhaps, and with a detachment of marines? What would be the answer to the riddle of Doctor No? What was he hiding? What did he fear? Why was privacy so important to him that he would murder, again and again, for it? Who was Doctor No?

Bond heard splashing away to his right. He thought of the girl. And who, for the matter of that, was Honeychile Rider? That, he decided, as he climbed out on to dry land, was at least something that he ought to be able to find out before the night was over.

Bond pulled on his clammy trousers and sat down on the sand and dismantled his gun. He did it by touch, using his shirt to dry each part and each cartridge. Then he reassembled the gun and clicked the trigger round the empty cylinder. The sound was healthy. It would be days before it rusted. He loaded it and tucked it into the holster inside the waistband of his trousers and got up and walked back to the clearing.

<a id="calibre_link-2207"></a>The shadow of Honey reached up and pulled him down beside her. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘we’re starving. I got one of the cooking pots and cleaned it out and we poured the beans into it. There’s about two full handfuls each and a cricket ball of bread. And I’m not feeling guilty about eating your food because you made me work far harder than I would if I’d been alone. Here, hold out your hand.’

Bond smiled at the authority in her voice. He could just make out her silhouette in the dusk. Her head looked sleeker. He wondered what her hair looked like when it was combed and dry. What would she be like when she was wearing clean clothes over that beautiful golden body? He could see her coming into a room or across the lawn at Beau Desert. She would be a beautiful, ravishing, Ugly Duckling. Why had she never had the broken nose mended? It was an easy operation. Then she would be the most beautiful girl in Jamaica.

Her shoulder brushed against him. Bond reached out and put his hand down in her lap, open. She picked up his hand and Bond felt the cold mess of beans being poured into it.

Suddenly he smelled her warm animal smell. It was so sensually thrilling that his body swayed against her and for a moment his eyes closed.

She gave a short laugh in which there was shyness <a id="calibre_link-2208"></a>and satisfaction and tenderness. She said ‘There,’ maternally, and carried his laden hand away from her and back to him.

<a id="calibre_link-2210"></a>11 AMIDST THE ALIEN CANE

It would be around eight o’clock, Bond thought. Apart from the background tinkle of the frogs it was very quiet. In the far corner of the clearing he could see the dark outline of Quarrel. There was the soft clink of metal as he dismantled and dried the Remington.

Through the bushes the distant yellow lights from the guanera made festive pathways across the dark surface of the lake. The ugly wind had gone and the hideous scenery lay drowned in darkness. It was cool. Bond’s clothes had dried on him. The three big handfuls of food had warmed his stomach. He felt comfortable and drowsy and at peace. Tomorrow was a long way off and presented no problems except a great deal of physical exercise. Life suddenly felt easy and good.

The girl lay beside him in the sleeping-bag. She was lying on her back with her head cradled in her hands, <a id="calibre_link-2211"></a>looking up at the roof of stars. He could just make out the pale pool of her face. She said, ‘James. You promised to tell me what this is all about. Come on. I shan’t go to sleep until you do.’

Bond laughed. ‘I’ll tell if you’ll tell. I want to know what you’re all about.’

‘I don’t mind. I’ve got no secrets. But you first.’

‘All right then.’ Bond pulled his knees up to his chin and put his arms round them. ‘It’s like this. I’m a sort of policeman. They send me out from London when there’s something odd going on somewhere in the world that isn’t anybody else’s business. Well, not long ago one of the Governor’s staff in Kingston, a man called Strangways, friend of mine, disappeared. His secretary, who was a pretty girl, did too. Most people thought they’d run away together. I didn’t. I …’

Bond told the story in simple terms, with good men and bad men, like an adventure story out of a book. He ended, ‘So you see, Honey, it’s just a question of getting back to Jamaica tomorrow night, all three of us in the canoe, and then the Governor will listen to us and send over a lot of soldiers to get this Chinaman to own up. I expect that’ll mean he’ll go to prison. He’ll know that too and that’s why he’s trying to stop us. That’s all. Now it’s your turn.’

The girl said, ‘You seem to live a very exciting life. Your wife can’t like you being away so much. Doesn’t she worry about you getting hurt?’

<a id="calibre_link-2212"></a>‘I’m not married. The only people who worry about me getting hurt are my insurance company.’

She probed, ‘But I suppose you have girls.’

‘Not permanent ones.’

‘Oh.’

There was a pause. Quarrel came over to them. ‘Cap’n, Ah’ll take de fust watch if dat suits. Be out on de point of de sandspit. Ah’ll come call yo around midnight. Den mebbe yo take on till five and den we all git goin’. Need to get well away from dis place afore it’s light.’

‘Suits me,’ said Bond. ‘Wake me if you see anything. Gun all right?’

‘Him’s jess fine,’ said Quarrel happily. He said, ‘Sleep well, missy,’ with a hint of meaning, and melted noiselessly away into the shadows.

‘I like Quarrel,’ said the girl. She paused, then, ‘Do you really want to know about me? It’s not as exciting as your story.’

‘Of course I do. And don’t leave anything out.’

‘There’s nothing to leave out. You could get my whole life on to the back of a postcard. To begin with I’ve never been out of Jamaica. I’ve lived all my life at a place called Beau Desert on the North Coast near Morgan’s Harbour.’

Bond laughed. ‘That’s odd. So do I. At least for the moment. I didn’t notice you about. Do you live up a tree?’

<a id="calibre_link-2213"></a>‘Oh, I suppose you’ve taken the beach house. I never go near the place. I live in the Great House.’

‘But there’s nothing left of it. It’s a ruin in the middle of the cane fields.’

‘I live in the cellars. I’ve lived there since I was five. It was burned down then and my parents were killed. I can’t remember anything about them so you needn’t say you’re sorry. At first I lived there with my black nanny. She died when I was fifteen. For the last five years I’ve lived there alone.’

‘Good heavens.’ Bond was appalled. ‘But wasn’t there anyone else to look after you? Didn’t your parents leave any money?’

‘Not a penny.’ There was no bitterness in the girl’s voice – pride if anything. ‘You see the Riders were one of the old Jamaican families. The first one had been given the Beau Desert lands by Cromwell for having been one of the people who signed King Charles’s death warrant. He built the Great House and my family lived in it on and off ever since. But then sugar collapsed and I suppose the place was badly run, and by the time my father inherited it there was nothing but debts – mortgages and things like that. So when my father and mother died the property was sold up. I didn’t mind. I was too young. Nanny must have been wonderful. They wanted people to adopt me, the clergyman and the legal people did, but Nanny collected the sticks of furniture that <a id="calibre_link-2214"></a>hadn’t been burned and we settled down in the ruins and after a bit no one came and interfered with us. She did a bit of sewing and laundry in the village and grew a few plantains and bananas and things and there was a big breadfruit tree up against the old house. We ate what the Jamaicans eat. And there was the sugar cane all round us and she made a fishpot which we used to go and take up every day. It was all right. We had enough to eat. Somehow she taught me to read and write. There was a pile of old books left from the fire. There was an encyclopedia. I started with A when I was about eight. I’ve got as far as the middle of T.’ She said defensively, ‘I bet I know more than you do about a lot of things.’

‘I bet you do.’ Bond was lost in the picture of the little flaxen-haired girl pattering about the ruins with the obstinate old negress watching over her and calling her in to do the lessons that must have been just as much a riddle to the old woman. ‘Your nanny must have been a wonderful person.’

‘She was a darling.’ It was a flat statement. ‘I thought I’d die when she did. It wasn’t such fun after that. Before, I’d led a child’s life; then I suddenly had to grow up and do everything for myself. And men tried to catch me and hurt me. They said they wanted to make love to me.’ She paused. ‘I used to be pretty then.’

Bond said seriously, ‘You’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen.’

<a id="calibre_link-2215"></a>‘With this nose? Don’t be silly.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Bond tried to find words that she would believe. ‘Of course anyone can see your nose is broken. But since this morning I’ve hardly noticed it. When you look at a person you look into their eyes or at their mouth. That’s where the expressions are. A broken nose isn’t any more significant than a crooked ear. Noses and ears are bits of face-furniture. Some are prettier than others, but they’re not nearly as important as the rest. They’re part of the background of the face. If you had a beautiful nose as well as the rest of you you’d be the most beautiful girl in Jamaica.’

‘Do you mean that?’ her voice was urgent. ‘Do you think I could be beautiful? I know some of me’s all right, but when I look in the glass I hardly see anything except my broken nose. I’m sure it’s like that with other people who are, who are – well – sort of deformed.’

Bond said impatiently, ‘You’re not deformed! Don’t talk such nonsense. And anyway you can have it put right by a simple operation. You’ve only got to get over to America and it would be done in a week.’

She said angrily, ‘How do you expect me to do that? I’ve got about fifteen pounds under a stone in my cellar. I’ve got three skirts and three shirts and a knife and a fishpot. I know all about these operations. The doctor at Port Maria found out for me. He’s a nice man. He wrote to America. Do you know, to have it properly <a id="calibre_link-2216"></a>done it would cost me about five hundred pounds, what with the fare to New York and the hospital and everything?’ Her voice became hopeless. ‘How do you expect me to find that amount of money?’

Bond had already made up his mind what would have to be done about that. Now he merely said tenderly, ‘Well, I expect there are ways. But anyway, go on with your story. It’s very exciting – far more interesting than mine. You’d got to where your nanny died. What happened then?’

The girl began again reluctantly.

‘Well, it’s your fault for interrupting. And you mustn’t talk about things you don’t understand. I suppose people tell you you’re good-looking. I expect you get all the girls you want. Well you wouldn’t if you had a squint or a hare-lip or something. As a matter of fact,’ he could hear the smile in her voice, ‘I think I shall go to the obeahman when we get back and get him to put a spell on you and give you something like that.’ She added lamely, ‘Then we should be more alike.’

Bond reached out. His hand brushed against her. ‘I’ve got other plans,’ he said. ‘But come on. I want to hear the rest of the story.’

‘Oh well,’ the girl sighed, ‘I’ll have to go back a bit. You see all the property is in cane and the old house stands in the middle of it. Well, about twice a year they cut the cane and send it off to the mill. And when they do that <a id="calibre_link-2217"></a>all the animals and insects and so on that live in the cane fields go into a panic and most of them have their houses destroyed and get killed. At cutting time some of them took to coming to the ruins of the house and hiding. My nanny was terrified of them to begin with, the mongooses and the snakes and the scorpions and so on, but I made a couple of the cellar rooms into sort of homes for them. I wasn’t frightened of them and they never hurt me. They seemed to understand that I was looking after them. They must have told their friends or something because after a bit it was quite natural for them all to come trooping into their rooms and settling down there until the young cane had started to grow again. Then they all filed out and went back to living in the fields. I gave them what food we could spare when they were staying with us and they behaved very well except for making a bit of a smell and sometimes fighting amongst each other. But they all got quite tame with me, and their children did, too, and I could do anything with them. Of course the cane-cutters found out about this and saw me walking about with snakes round my neck and so forth, and they got frightened of me and thought I was obeah. So they left us absolutely alone.’ She paused. ‘That’s where I found out so much about animals and insects. I used to spend a lot of time in the sea finding out about those people too. It was the same with birds. If you find out what all these people like to eat and what they’re afraid of, and if you <a id="calibre_link-2218"></a>spend all your time with them you can make friends,’ She looked up at him. ‘You miss a lot not knowing about these things.’

‘I’m afraid I do,’ said Bond truthfully. ‘I expect they’re much nicer and more interesting than humans.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ said the girl thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know many human people. Most of the ones I have met have been hateful. But I suppose they can be interesting too.’ She paused. ‘I hadn’t ever really thought of liking them like I like the animals. Except for Nanny, of course. Until …’ She broke off with a shy laugh. ‘Well, anyway we all lived happily together until I was fifteen and Nanny died and then things got difficult. There was a man called Mander. A horrible man. He was the white overseer for the people who own the property. He kept coming to see me. He wanted me to move up to his house near Port Maria. I hated him and I used to hide when I heard his horse coming through the cane. One night he came on foot and I didn’t hear him. He was drunk. He came into the cellar and fought with me because I wouldn’t do what he wanted me to do. You know, the things people in love do.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘I tried to kill him with my knife, but he was very strong and he hit me as hard as he could in the face and broke my nose. He knocked me unconscious and then I think he did things to me. I mean I know he did. Next <a id="calibre_link-2219"></a>day I wanted to kill myself when I saw my face and when I found what he had done. I thought I would have a baby. I would certainly have killed myself if I’d had a baby by that man. Anyway, I didn’t, so that was that. I went to the doctor and he did what he could for my nose and didn’t charge me anything. I didn’t tell him about the rest. I was too ashamed. The man didn’t come back. I waited and did nothing until the next cane-cutting. I’d got my plan. I was waiting for the Black Widow spiders to come in for shelter. One day they came. I caught the biggest of the females and shut her in a box with nothing to eat. They’re the bad ones, the females. Then I waited for a dark night without any moon. I took the box with the spider in it and walked and walked until I came to the man’s house. It was very dark and I was frightened of the duppies I might meet on the road but I didn’t see any. I waited in his garden in the bushes and watched him go up to bed. Then I climbed a tree and got on to his balcony. I waited there until I heard him snoring and then I crept through the window. He was lying naked on the bed under the mosquito net. I lifted the edge and opened the box and shook the spider out on to his stomach. Then I went away and came home.’

‘God Almighty!’ said Bond reverently. ‘What happened to him?’

She said happily, ‘He took a week to die. It must have hurt terribly. They do, you know. The obeahmen say <a id="calibre_link-2220"></a>there’s nothing like it.’ She paused. When Bond made no comment, she said anxiously, ‘You don’t think I did wrong, do you?’

‘It’s not a thing to make a habit of,’ said Bond mildly. ‘But I can’t say I blame you the way it was. So what happened then?’

‘Well then I just settled down again,’ her voice was matter-of-fact. ‘I had to concentrate on getting enough food, and of course all I wanted to do was save up money to get my nose made good again.’ She said persuasively, ‘It really was quite a pretty nose before. Do you think the doctors can put it back to how it was?’

‘They can make it any shape you like,’ said Bond definitely. ‘What did you make money at?’

‘It was the encyclopedia. It told me that people collect seashells. That one could sell the rare ones. I talked to the local schoolmaster, without telling him my secret of course, and he found out that there’s an American magazine called Nautilus for shell collectors. I had just enough money to subscribe to it and I began looking for the shells that people said they wanted in the advertisements. I wrote to a dealer in Miami and he started buying from me. It was thrilling. Of course I made some awful mistakes to begin with. I thought people would like the prettiest shells, but they don’t. Very often they want the ugliest. And then when I found rare ones I cleaned them and polished them to make them look <a id="calibre_link-2221"></a>better. That’s wrong too. They want shells just as they come out of the sea, with the animal in and all. So I got some formalin from the doctor and put it into the live shells to stop them smelling and sent them off to this man in Miami. I only got it right about a year ago and I’ve already made fifteen pounds. I’d worked out that now I knew how they wanted them, and if I was lucky, I ought to make at least fifty pounds a year. Then in ten years I would be able to go to America and have the operation. And then,’ she giggled delightedly, ‘I had a terrific stroke of luck. I went over to Crab Key. I’d been there before, but this was just before Christmas, and I found these purple shells. They didn’t look very exciting, but I sent one or two to Miami and the man wrote back at once and said he could take as many as I could get at five dollars each for the whole ones. He said that I must keep the place where they live a dead secret as otherwise we’d what he called “spoil the market” and the price would get cheaper. It’s just like having one’s private gold mine. Now I may be able to save up the money in five years. That’s why I was so suspicious of you when I found you on my beach. I thought you’d come to steal my shells.’

‘You gave me a bit of a shock. I thought you must be Doctor No’s girl friend.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘But when you’ve had the operation, what are you <a id="calibre_link-2222"></a>going to do then? You can’t go on living alone in a cellar all your life.’

‘I thought I’d be a call girl,’ She said it as she might have said ‘nurse’ or ‘secretary’.

‘Oh, what do you mean by that?’ Perhaps she had picked up the expression without understanding it.

‘One of those girls who has a beautiful flat and lovely clothes. You know what I mean,’ she said impatiently. ‘People ring them up and come and make love to them and pay them for it. They get a hundred dollars for each time in New York. That’s where I thought I’d start. Of course,’ she admitted, ‘I might have to do it for less to begin with. Until I learned to do it really well. How much do you pay the untrained ones?’

Bond laughed. ‘I really can’t remember. It’s quite a long time since I had one.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you can have as many women as you want for nothing. I suppose it’s only the ugly men that pay. But that can’t be helped. Any kind of job in the big towns must be dreadful. At least you can earn much more being a call girl. Then I can come back to Jamaica and buy Beau Desert. I’d be rich enough to find a nice husband and have some children. Now that I’ve found these Venus shells I’ve worked out that I might be back in Jamaica by the time I’m thirty. Won’t that be lovely?’

‘I like the last part of the plan. But I’m not so sure of the first. Anyway, where did you find out about <a id="calibre_link-2223"></a>these call girls? Were they under C in the encyclopedia?’

‘Of course not. Don’t be silly. There was a big case about them in New York about two years ago. There was a rich playboy called Jelke. He had a whole string of girls. There was a lot about the case in the Gleaner. They gave all the prices and everything. And anyway, there are thousands of those sort of girls in Kingston, only of course not such good ones. They only get about five shillings and they have nowhere to go and do it except the bush. My nanny told me about them. She said I mustn’t grow up like them or I’d be very unhappy. I can see that for only five shillings. But for a hundred dollars …!’

Bond said, ‘You wouldn’t be able to keep all of that. You’d have to have a sort of manager to get the men, and then you’d have to bribe the police to leave you alone. And you could easily go to prison if something went wrong. I really don’t think you’d like the work. I’ll tell you what, with all you know about animals and insects and so on you could get a wonderful job looking after them in one of the American zoos. Or what about the Jamaica Institute? I’m sure you’d like that better. You’d be just as likely to meet a nice husband. Anyway you mustn’t think of being a call girl any more. You’ve got a beautiful body. You must keep it for the men you love.’

<a id="calibre_link-2224"></a>‘That’s what people say in books,’ she said doubtfully. ‘The trouble is there aren’t any men to love at Beau Desert.’ She said shyly, ‘You’re the first Englishman I’ve ever talked to. I liked you from the beginning. I don’t mind telling you these things at all. I suppose there are plenty of other people I should like if I could get away.’

‘Of course there are. Hundreds. And you’re a wonderful girl. I thought so directly I saw you.’

‘Saw my behind, you mean.’ The voice was getting drowsy, but it was full of pleasure.

Bond laughed. ‘Well, it was a wonderful behind. And the other side was wonderful too.’ Bond’s body began to stir with the memory of how she had been. He said gruffly, ‘Now come on, Honey. It’s time to go to sleep. There’ll be plenty of time to talk when we get back to Jamaica.’

‘Will there?’ she said sleepily. ‘Promise?’

‘Promise.’

He heard her stir in the sleeping-bag. He looked down. He could just make out the pale profile turned towards him. She gave the deep sigh of a child before it falls asleep.

There was silence in the clearing. It was getting cold. Bond put his head down on his hunched knees. He knew it was no good trying to get to sleep. His mind was full of the day and of this extraordinary Girl Tarzan who had come into his life. It was as if some beautiful animal <a id="calibre_link-2225"></a>had attached itself to him. There would be no dropping the leash until he had solved her problems for her. He knew it. Of course there would be no difficulty about most of them. He could fix the operation – even, with the help of friends, find a proper job and a home for her. He had the money. He would buy her dresses, have her hair done, get her started in the big world. It would be fun. But what about the other side? What about the physical desire he felt for her? One could not make love to a child. But was she a child? There was nothing childish about her body or her personality. She was fully grown and highly intelligent in her fashion, and far more capable of taking care of herself than any girl of twenty Bond had ever met.

Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by a tug at his sleeve. The small voice said, ‘Why don’t you go to sleep? Are you cold?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

‘It’s nice and warm in the sleeping-bag. Would you like to come in? There’s plenty of room.’

‘No thank you, Honey. I’ll be all right.’

There was a pause, then, almost in a whisper, ‘If you’re thinking … I mean – you don’t have to make love to me … We could go to sleep back to front, you know, like spoons.’

‘Honey, darling, you go to sleep. It’d be lovely to be like that, but not tonight. Anyway I’ll have to take over from Quarrel soon.’

<a id="calibre_link-2226"></a>‘Yes, I see.’ The voice was grudging. ‘Perhaps when we get back to Jamaica.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Promise. I won’t go to sleep until you promise.’

Bond said desperately, ‘Of course I promise. Now go to sleep, Honeychile.’

The voice whispered triumphantly, ‘Now you owe me slave-time. You’ve promised. Good night, darling James.’

‘Good night, darling Honey.”

<a id="calibre_link-2228"></a>12 THE THING

The grip on Bond’s shoulder was urgent. He was instantly on his feet.

Quarrel whispered fiercely, ‘Somepn comin’ across de water, cap’n! It de dragon fo sho!’

The girl woke up. She said anxiously, ‘What’s happened?’

Bond said, ‘Stay here, Honey! Don’t move. I’ll be back.’ He broke through the bushes on the side away from the mountain and ran along the sand with Quarrel at his elbow.

They came to the tip of the sandspit, twenty yards from the clearing. They stopped under cover of the final bushes. Bond parted them and looked through.

What was it? Half a mile away, coming across the lake, was a shapeless thing with two glaring orange eyes with black pupils. From between these, where the mouth might <a id="calibre_link-2229"></a>be, fluttered a yard of blue flame. The grey luminescence of the stars showed some kind of domed head above two short batlike wings. The thing was making a low moaning roar that overlaid another noise, a deep rhythmic thud. It was coming towards them at about ten miles an hour, throwing up a creamy wake. Quarrel whispered, ‘Gawd, cap’n! What’s dat fearful ting?’

Bond stood up. He said shortly, ‘Don’t know exactly. Some sort of tractor affair dressed up to frighten. It’s running on a diesel engine, so you can forget about dragons. Now let’s see.’ Bond spoke half to himself. ‘No good running away. The thing’s too fast for us and we know it can go over mangroves and swamps. Have to fight it here. What’ll its weak spots be? The drivers. Of course they’ll have protection. We don’t know how much. Quarrel, you start firing at that dome on top when it gets to two hundred yards. Aim carefully and keep on firing. I’ll go for its headlights when it gets to fifty yards. It’s not running on tracks. Must have some kind of giant tyres, aeroplane tyres probably. I’ll go for them too. Stay here. I’ll go ten yards along. They may start firing back and we’ve got to keep the bullets away from the girl. Okay?’ Bond reached out and squeezed the big shoulder. ‘And don’t worry too much. Forget about dragons. It’s just some gadget of Doctor No’s. We’ll kill the drivers and capture the damn thing and ride it down to the coast. Save us shoe-leather. Right?’

<a id="calibre_link-2230"></a>Quarrel laughed shortly. ‘Okay, cap’n. Since you says so. But Ah sho hopes de Almighty knows he’s no dragon too!’

Bond ran down the sand. He broke through the bushes until he had a clear field of fire. He called softly, ‘Honey!’

‘Yes, James.’ There was relief in the nearby voice.

‘Make a hole in the sand like we did on the beach. Behind the thickest roots. Get into it and lie down. There may be some shooting. Don’t worry about dragons. This is just a painted up motor car with some of Doctor No’s men in it. Don’t be frightened. I’m quite close.’

‘All right, James. Be careful.’ The voice was high with fright.

Bond knelt on one knee in the leaves and sand and peered out.

Now the thing was only about three hundred yards away and its yellow headlights were lighting up the sandspit. Blue flames were still fluttering from the mouth. They were coming from a long snout mocked-up with gaping jaws and gold paint to look like a dragon’s mouth. Flame-thrower! That would explain the burned bushes and the warden’s story. The blue flames would be coming from some kind of an after-burner. The apparatus was now in neutral. What would its range be when the compression was unleashed?

Bond had to admit that the thing was an awesome sight as it moaned forward through the shallow lake. It was <a id="calibre_link-2231"></a>obviously designed to terrify. It would have frightened him but for the earthy thud of the diesel. Against native intruders it would be devastating. But how vulnerable would it be to people with guns who didn’t panic?

He was answered at once. There came the crack of Quarrel’s Remington. A spark flew off the domed cabin and there was a dull clang. Quarrel fired another single shot and then a burst. The bullets hammered ineffectually against the cabin. There was not even a check in speed. The thing rolled on, swerving slightly to make for the source of the gunfire. Bond cradled the Smith & Wesson on his forearm and took careful aim. The deep cough of his gun sounded above the rattle of the Remington. One of the headlamps shattered and went out. He fired four shots at the other and got it with the fifth and last round in the cylinder. The thing didn’t care. It rolled straight on towards Quarrel’s hiding place. Bond reloaded and began firing at the huge bulge of the tyres under the bogus black and gold wings. The range was now only thirty yards and he could have sworn that he hit the nearest wheel again and again. No effect. Solid rubber? The first breath of fear stirred Bond’s skin.

He reloaded. Was the damn thing vulnerable from the rear? Should he dash out into the lake and try and board it? He took a step forward through the bushes. Then he froze, incapable of movement.

<a id="calibre_link-2232"></a>Suddenly, from the dribbling snout, a yellow-tipped bolt of blue flame had howled out towards Quarrel’s hiding place. There was a single puff of orange and red flame from the bushes to Bond’s right and one unearthly scream, immediately choked. Satisfied, the searing tongue of fire licked back into the snout. The thing turned on its axis and stopped dead. Now the blue hole of its mouth aimed straight at Bond.

Bond stood and waited for his unspeakable end. He looked into the blue jaws of death and saw the glowing red filament of the firer deep inside the big tube. He thought of Quarrel’s body – there was no time to think of Quarrel – and imagined the blackened, smoking figure lying in the melted sand. Soon he, too, would flame like a torch. The single scream would be wrung from him and his limbs would jerk into the dancing pose of burned bodies. Then it would be Honey’s turn. Christ, what had he led them into! Why had he been so insane as to take on this man with his devastating armoury. Why hadn’t he been warned by the long finger that had pointed at him in Jamaica? Bond set his teeth. Hurry up, you bastards. Get it over.

There came the twang of a loud-hailer. A voice howled metallically, ‘Come on out, Limey. And the doll. Quick, or you’ll fry in hell like your pal.’ To rub in the command, the bolt of flame spat briefly towards him. Bond stepped back from the searing heat. He felt the girl’s body against <a id="calibre_link-2233"></a>his back. She said hysterically, ‘I had to come. I had to come.’

Bond said, ‘It’s all right, Honey. Keep behind me.’

He had made up his mind. There was no alternative. Even if death was to come later it couldn’t be worse than this kind of death. Bond reached for the girl’s hand and drew her after him out on to the sand.

The voice howled. ‘Stop there. Good boy. And drop the pea-shooter. No tricks or the crabs’ll be getting a cooked breakfast.’

Bond dropped his gun. So much for the Smith & Wesson. The Beretta would have been just as good against this thing. The girl whimpered. Bond squeezed her hand. ‘Stick it, Honey,’ he said. ‘We’ll get out of this somehow.’ Bond sneered at himself for the lie.

There was the clang of an iron door being opened. From the back of the dome a man dropped into the water and walked towards them. There was a gun in his hand. He kept out of the line of fire of the flamethrower. The fluttering blue flame lit up his sweating face. He was a Chinese negro, a big man, clad only in trousers. Something dangled from his left hand. When he came closer, Bond saw it was handcuffs.

The man stopped a few yards away. He said, ‘Hold out your hands. Wrists together. Then walk towards me. You first, Limey. Slowly or you get an extra navel.’

Bond did as he was told. When he was within <a id="calibre_link-2234"></a>sweat-smell of the man, the man put his gun between his teeth and reached out and snapped the handcuffs on Bond’s wrists. Bond looked into the face, gunmetal-coloured from the blue flames. It was a brutal, squinting face. It sneered at him. ‘Dumb bastard,’ said the man.

Bond turned his back on the man and started walking away. He was going to see Quarrel’s body. He had to say goodbye to it. There was the roar of a gun. A bullet kicked up sand close to his feet. Bond stopped and turned slowly round. ‘Don’t be nervous,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take a look at the man you’ve just murdered. I’ll be back.’

The man lowered his gun. He laughed harshly. ‘Okay. Enjoy yourself. Sorry we ain’t got a wreath. Come back quick or we give the doll a toastin’. Two minutes.’

Bond walked on towards the smoking clump of bushes. He got there and looked down. His eyes and mouth winced. Yes, it had been just as he had visualized. Worse. He said softly, ‘I’m sorry, Quarrel.’ He kicked into the ground and scooped up a handful of cool sand between his manacled hands and poured it over the remains of the eyes. Then he walked slowly back and stood beside the girl.

The man waved them forward with his gun. They walked round the back of the machine. There was a small square door. A voice from inside said, ‘Get in and sit on the floor. Don’t touch anything or you get your fingers broke.’

<a id="calibre_link-2235"></a>They scrambled into the iron box. It stank of sweat and oil. There was just room for them to sit with their knees hunched up. The man with the gun followed them in and banged the door. He switched on a light and sat down on an iron tractor seat beside the driver. He said, ‘Okay, Sam. Let’s get goin’. You can put out the fire. It’s light enough to steer by.’

There was a row of dials and switches on the instrument panel. The driver reached forward and pulled down a couple of the switches. He put the machine into gear and peered out through a narrow slit in the iron wall in front of him. Bond felt the machine turn. There came a faster beat from the engine and they moved off.

The girl’s shoulder pressed against his. ‘Where are they taking us?’ The whisper trembled.

Bond turned his head and looked at her. It was the first time he had been able to see her hair when it was dry. Now it was disarrayed by sleep, but it was no longer a bunch of rats’ tails. It hung heavily straight down to her shoulders, where it curled softly inwards. It was of the palest ash blonde and shone almost silver under the electric light. She looked up at him. The skin round her eyes and at the corners of her mouth was white with fear.

Bond shrugged with an indifference he didn’t feel. He whispered, ‘Oh, I expect we’re going to see Doctor No. <a id="calibre_link-2236"></a>Don’t worry too much, Honey. These men are just little gangsters. It’ll be different with him. When we get to him don’t you say anything, I’ll talk for both of us.’ He pressed her shoulder. ‘I like the way you do your hair. I’m glad you don’t cut it too short.’

Some of the tension went out of her face. ‘How can you think of things like that?’ She half smiled at him. ‘But I’m glad you like it. I wash it in coconut oil once a week.’ At the memory of her other life her eyes grew bright with tears. She bent her head down to her manacled hands to hide her tears. She whispered almost to herself, ‘I’ll try to be brave. It’ll be all right as long as you’re there.’

Bond shifted so that he was right up against her. He brought his handcuffed hands close up to his eyes and examined them. They were the American police model. He contracted his left hand, the thinner of the two, and tried to pull it through the squat ring of steel. Even the sweat on his skin was no help. It was hopeless.

The two men sat on their iron seats with their backs to them, indifferent. They knew they had total command. There wasn’t room for Bond to give any trouble. Bond couldn’t stand up or get enough momentum into his hands to do any damage to the backs of their heads with his handcuffs. If Bond somehow managed to open the hatch and drop into the water, where would that get him? They would at once feel the fresh air on their backs and <a id="calibre_link-2237"></a>stop the machine, and either burn him in the water or pick him up. It annoyed Bond that they didn’t worry about him, that they knew he was utterly in their power. He also didn’t like the idea that these men were intelligent enough to know that he presented no threat. Stupider men would have sat over him with a gun out, would have trussed him and the girl with inexpert thoroughness, might even have knocked them unconscious. These two knew their business. They were professionals, or had been trained to be professionals.

The two men didn’t talk to each other. There was no nervous chatter about how clever they had been, about their destination, about how tired they were. They just drove the machine quietly, efficiently along, finishing their competent job.

Bond still had no idea what this contraption was. Under the black and gold paint and the rest of the fancy dress it was some sort of a tractor, but of a kind he had never seen or heard of. The wheels, with their vast smooth rubber tyres, were nearly twice as tall as himself. He had seen no trade name on the tyres, it had been too dark, but they were certainly either solid or filled with porous rubber. At the rear there had been a small trailing wheel for stability. An iron fin, painted black and gold, had been added to help the dragon effect. The high mudguards had been extended into short backswept wings. A long metal dragon’s head had been added to <a id="calibre_link-2238"></a>the front of the radiator and the headlamps had been given black centres to make ‘eyes’. That was all there was to it, except that the cabin had been covered with an armoured dome and the flame-thrower added. It was, as Bond had thought, a tractor dressed up to frighten and burn – though why it had a flame-thrower instead of a machine gun he couldn’t imagine. It was clearly the only sort of vehicle that could travel the island. Its huge wide wheels would ride over mangrove and swamp and across the shallow lake. It would negotiate the rough coral uplands and, since its threat would be at night, the heat in the iron cabin would remain at least tolerable.

Bond was impressed. He was always impressed by professionalism. Doctor No was obviously a man who took immense pains. Soon Bond would be meeting him. Soon he would be up against the secret of Doctor No. And then what? Bond smiled grimly to himself. He wouldn’t be allowed to get away with his knowledge. He would certainly be killed unless he could escape or talk his way out. And what about the girl? Could Bond prove her innocence and have her spared? Conceivably, but she would never be let off the island. She would have to stay there for the rest of her life, as the mistress or wife of one of the men, or Doctor No himself if she appealed to him.

Bond’s thoughts were interrupted by rougher going under the wheels. They had crossed the lake and were on the track that led up the mountain to the huts. The <a id="calibre_link-2239"></a>cabin tilted and the machine began to climb. In five minutes they would be there.

The co-driver glanced over his shoulder at Bond and the girl. Bond smiled cheerfully up at him. He said, ‘You’ll get a medal for this.’

The brown and yellow eyes looked impassively into his. The purple, blubbery lips parted in a sneer in which there was slow hate: ‘Shut your —ing mouth.’ The man turned back.

The girl nudged him and whispered, ‘Why are they so rude? Why do they hate us so much?’

Bond grinned down at her, ‘I expect it’s because we made them afraid. Perhaps they’re still afraid. That’s because we don’t seem to be frightened of them. We must keep them that way.’

The girl pressed against him. ‘I’ll try.’

Now the climb was getting steeper. Grey light showed through the slots in the armour. Dawn was coming up. Outside, another day of brazen heat and ugly wind and the smell of marsh gas would be beginning. Bond thought of Quarrel, the brave giant who would not be seeing it, with whom they should now be setting off for the long trek through the mangrove swamps. He remembered the life insurance. Quarrel had smelled his death. Yet he had followed Bond unquestioningly. His faith in Bond had been stronger than his fear. And Bond had let him down. Would Bond also be the death of the girl?

<a id="calibre_link-2240"></a>The driver reached forward to the dashboard. From the front of the machine there sounded the brief howl of a police siren. It meandered into a dying moan. After a minute the machine stopped, idling in neutral. The man pressed a switch and took a microphone off a hook beside him. He spoke into it and Bond could hear the echoing voice of the loud-hailer outside. ‘Okay. Got the Limey and the girl. Other man’s dead. That’s the lot. Open up.’

Bond heard a door being pulled sideways on iron rollers. The driver put in the clutch and they rolled slowly forward a few yards and stopped. The man switched off the engine. There was a clang as the iron hatch was opened from the outside. A gush of fresh air and a flood of brighter light came into the cabin. Hands took hold of Bond and dragged him roughly out backwards on to a cement floor. Bond stood up. He felt the prod of a gun in his side. A voice said, ‘Stay where you are. No tricks.’ Bond looked at the man. He was another Chinese negro, from the same stable as the others. The yellow eyes examined him curiously. Bond turned away indifferently. Another man was prodding the girl with his gun. Bond said sharply, ‘Leave the girl alone.’ He walked over and stood beside her. The two men seemed surprised. They stood, pointing their guns indecisively.

Bond looked around him. They were in one of the Quonset huts he had seen from the river. It was a garage <a id="calibre_link-2241"></a>and workshop. The ‘dragon’ had been halted over an examination pit in the concrete. A dismantled outboard motor lay on one of the benches. Strips of white sodium lighting ran along the ceiling. There was a smell of oil and exhaust smoke. The driver and his mate were examining the machine. Now they sauntered up.

One of the guards said, ‘Passed the message along. The word is to send them through. Everything go okay?’

The co-driver, who seemed to be the senior man present, said, ‘Sure. Bit of gunfire. Lights gone. Maybe some holes in the tyres. Get the boys crackin’ – full overhaul. I’ll put these two through and go get myself some shuteye.’ He turned to Bond. ‘Okay, git moving,’ he gestured down the long hut.

Bond said, ‘Get moving yourself. Mind your manners. And tell those apes to take their guns off us. They might let one off by mistake. They look dumb enough.’

The man came closer. The other three closed up behind him. Hate shone redly in their eyes. The leading man lifted a clenched fist as big as a small ham and held it under Bond’s nose. He was controlling himself with an effort. He said tensely, ‘Listen, mister. Sometimes us boys is allowed to join in the fun at the end. I’m just praying this’ll be one of those times. Once we made it last a whole week. An, Jees, if I get you …’ He broke off. His eyes were alight with cruelty. He looked past Bond at the girl. The eyes became mouths that licked their <a id="calibre_link-2242"></a>lips. He wiped his hands down the sides of his trousers. The tip of his tongue showed pinkly between the purple lips. He turned to the other three. ‘What say, fellers?’

The three men were also looking at the girl. They nodded dumbly, like children in front of a Christmas tree.

Bond longed to run berserk among them, laying into their faces with his manacled wrists, accepting their bloody revenge. But for the girl he would have done it. Now all he had achieved with his brave words was to get her frightened. He said, ‘All right, all right. You’re four and we’re two and we’ve got our hands tied. Come on. We won’t hurt you. Just don’t push us around too much. Doctor No might not be pleased.’

At the name, the men’s faces changed. Three pairs of eyes looked whitely from Bond to the leader. For a minute the leader stared suspiciously at Bond, wondering, trying to fathom whether perhaps Bond had got some edge on their boss. His mouth opened to say something. He thought better of it. He said lamely, ‘Okay, okay. We was just kiddin’.’ He turned to the men for confirmation. ‘Right?’

‘Sure! Sure thing.’ It was a ragged mumble. The men looked away.

The leader said gruffly, ‘This way, mister.’ He walked off down the long hut.

<a id="calibre_link-2243"></a>Bond took the girl’s wrist and followed. He was impressed with the weight of Doctor No’s name. That was something to remember if they had any more dealings with the staff.

The man came to a rough wooden door at the end of the hut. There was a bellpush beside it. He rang twice and waited. There came a click and the door opened to reveal ten yards of carpeted rock passage with another door, smarter and cream-painted, at the end.

The man stood aside. ‘Straight ahead, mister. Knock on the door. The receptionist’ll take over.’ There was no irony in his voice and his eyes were impassive.

Bond led the girl into the passage. He heard the door shut behind them. He stopped and looked down at her. He said, ‘Now what?’

She smiled tremulously. ‘It’s nice to feel carpet under one’s feet.’

Bond squeezed her wrist. He walked forward to the cream-painted door and knocked.

The door opened. Bond went through with the girl at his heels. When he stopped dead in his tracks, he didn’t feel the girl bump into him. He just stood and stared.

<a id="calibre_link-2245"></a>13 MINK-LINED PRISON

It was the sort of reception room the largest American corporations have on the President’s floor in their New York skyscrapers. It was of pleasant proportions, about twenty feet square. The floor was close-carpeted in the thickest wine-red Wilton and the walls and ceiling were painted a soft dove grey. Colour lithograph reproductions of Degas ballet sketches were well hung in groups on the walls and the lighting was by tall modern standard lamps with dark green silk shades in a fashionable barrel design.

To Bond’s right was a broad mahogany desk with a green leather top, handsome matching desk furniture and the most expensive type of intercom. Two tall antique chairs waited for visitors. On the other side of the room was a refectory-type table with shiny magazines and two more chairs. On both the desk and the table were tall <a id="calibre_link-2246"></a>vases of freshly cut hibiscus. The air was fresh and cool and held a slight, expensive fragrance.

There were two women in the room. Behind the desk, with pen poised over a printed form, sat an efficient-looking Chinese girl with horn-rimmed spectacles below a bang of black hair cut short. Her eyes and mouth wore the standard receptionist’s smile of welcome – bright, helpful, inquisitive.

Holding the door through which they had come, and waiting for them to move farther into the room so that she could close it, stood an older, rather matronly woman of about forty-five. She also had Chinese blood. Her appearance, wholesome, bosomy, eager, was almost excessively gracious. Her square cut pince-nez gleamed with the hostess’s desire to make them feel at home.

Both women were dressed in spotless white, with white stockings and white suede brogues, like assistants in the most expensive American beauty-parlours. There was something soft and colourless about their skins as if they rarely went out of doors.

While Bond took in the scene, the woman at the door twittered conventional phrases of welcome as if they had been caught in a storm and had arrived late at a party.

‘You poor dears. We simply didn’t know when to expect you. We kept on being told you were on your way. First it was teatime yesterday, then dinner, and it was only half an hour ago we heard you would only be here in time for <a id="calibre_link-2247"></a>breakfast. You must be famished. Come along now and help Sister Rose fill in your forms and then I’ll pack you both straight off to bed. You must be tired out.’

Clucking softly, she closed the door and ushered them forward to the desk. She got them seated in the chairs and rattled on. ‘Now I’m Sister Lily and this is Sister Rose. She just wants to ask you a few questions. Now, let me see, a cigarette?’ She picked up a tooled leather box. She opened it and put it on the desk in front of them. It had three compartments. She pointed with a little finger. ‘Those are American, and those are Players, and those are Turkish.’ She picked up an expensive desk-lighter and waited.

Bond reached out his manacled hands to take a Turkish cigarette.

Sister Lily gave a squeak of dismay. ‘Oh, but really.’ She sounded genuinely embarrassed. ‘Sister Rose, the key, quickly. I’ve said again and again that patients are never to be brought in like that.’ There was impatience and distaste in her voice. ‘Really, that outside staff! It’s time they had a talking to.’

Sister Rose was just as much put out. Hastily, she scrabbled in a drawer and handed a key across to Sister Lily who, with much cooing and tut-tutting, unlocked the two pairs of handcuffs and walked behind the desk and dropped them as if they were dirty bandages into the wastepaper basket.

<a id="calibre_link-2248"></a>‘Thank you,’ Bond was unable to think of any way to handle the situation except to fall in with what was happening on the stage. He reached out and took a cigarette and lit it. He glanced at Honeychile Rider who sat looking dazed and nervously clutching the arms of her chair. Bond gave her a reassuring smile.

‘Now, if you please.’ Sister Rose bent over a long printed form on expensive paper. ‘I promise to be as quick as I can. Your name please Mister – er …’

‘Bryce, John Bryce.’

She wrote busily. ‘Permanent address?’

‘Care of the Royal Zoological Society, Regent’s Park, London, England.’

‘Profession.’

‘Ornithologist.’

‘Oh dear,’ she dimpled at him, ‘could you please spell that?’

Bond did so.

‘Thank you so much. Now, let me see, Purpose of Visit?’

‘Birds,’ said Bond. ‘I am also a representative of the Audubon Society of New York. They have a lease of part of this island.’

‘Oh, really.’ Bond watched the pen writing down exactly what he had said. After the last word she put a neat query in brackets.

‘And,’ Sister Rose smiled politely in the direction of Honeychile, ‘your wife? Is she also interested in birds?’

<a id="calibre_link-2249"></a>‘Yes, indeed.’

‘And her first name?’

‘Honeychile.’

Sister Rose was delighted. ‘What a pretty name.’ She wrote busily. ‘And now just your next of kin and then we’re finished.’

Bond gave M.’s real name as next of kin for both of them. He described him as ‘uncle’ and gave his address as ‘Managing Director, Universal Export, Regent’s Park, London’.

Sister Rose finished writing and said, ‘There, that’s done. Thank you so much, Mr Bryce, and I do hope you both enjoy your stay.’

‘Thank you very much. I’m sure we will.’ Bond got up. Honeychile Rider did the same, her face still expressionless.

Sister Lily said, ‘Now come along with me, you poor dears.’ She walked to a door in the far wall. She stopped with her hand on the cut-glass doorknob. ‘Oh deary me, now I’ve gone and forgotten the number of their rooms! It’s the Cream Suite, isn’t it, Sister?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Fourteen and fifteen.’

‘Thank you, my dear. And now,’ she opened the door, ‘if you’ll just follow me. I’m afraid it’s a terribly long walk.’ She shut the door behind them and led the way. ‘The Doctor’s often talked of putting in one of those moving stairway things, but you know how it is with a <a id="calibre_link-2250"></a>busy man,’ she laughed gaily. ‘So many other things to think of.’

‘Yes, I expect so,’ said Bond politely.

Bond took the girl’s hand and they followed the motherly bustling figure down a hundred yards of lofty corridor in the same style as the reception room but lit at frequent intervals by discreetly expensive wall-brackets.

Bond answered with polite monosyllables the occasional twittering comments Sister Lily threw over her shoulder. His whole mind was focused on the extraordinary circumstances of their reception. He was quite certain the two women had been genuine. Not a look or a word had been dropped that was out of place. It was obviously a front of some kind, but a solid one, meticulously supported by the decor and the cast. The lack of resonance in the room, and now in the corridor, suggested that they had stepped from the Quonset hut into the side of the mountain and that they were now walking through its base. At a guess they would be walking towards the west – towards the cliff-face with which the island ended. There was no moisture on the walls and the air was cool and pure with a strongish breeze coming towards them. A lot of money and good engineering had gone into the job. The pallor of the two women suggested that they spent all their time inside the mountain. From what Sister Lily had said it sounded as if they were part <a id="calibre_link-2251"></a>of an inside staff that had nothing to do with the strong-arm squad outside and perhaps didn’t even understand what sort of men they were.

It was grotesque, concluded Bond as they came nearer to a door at the end of the corridor, dangerously grotesque, but it was no good wondering about it. He could only follow the lines of the gracious script. At least this was better than the backstage of the island outside.

At the door, Sister Lily rang. They had been expected. The door opened at once. An enchanting Chinese girl in a mauve and white flowered kimono stood smiling and bowing as Chinese girls are supposed to do. Again there was nothing but warmth and welcome in the pale, flowerlike face. Sister Lily cried, ‘Here they are at last, May! Mr and Mrs John Bryce. And I know they must be exhausted so we must take them straight to their rooms for some breakfast and a sleep.’ She turned to Bond. ‘This is May. Such a dear girl. She will be looking after you both. Anything you want, just ring for May. She’s a favourite with all our patients.’

Patients, thought Bond. That’s the second time she’s used the word. He smiled politely at the girl. ‘How do you do. Yes, we’d certainly both of us like to get to our rooms.’

May embraced them both with a warm smile. She said in a low, attractive voice, ‘I do hope you’ll both be comfortable, Mr Bryce. I took the liberty of ordering <a id="calibre_link-2252"></a>breakfast as soon as I heard you had come in. Shall we …?’ Corridors branched off to left and right of double lift-doors set in the wall opposite. The girl led the way to the right. Bond and Honeychile followed with Sister Lily taking up the rear.

Numbered doors led off the corridor on either side. Now the decor was in the lightest pink with a dove grey carpet. The numbers on the doors were in the tens. The corridor came to an abrupt end with two doors side by side, 14 and 15. May opened the door of 14, and they followed her in.

It was a charming double bedroom in modern Miami style with dark green walls, dark polished mahogany floor with occasional thick white rugs, and well-designed bamboo furniture with a chintz of large red roses on a white background. There was a communicating door into a more masculine dressing-room and another that led into an extremely luxurious modern bathroom with a step-down bath and a bidet.

It was like being shown into the very latest Florida hotel suite – except for two details which Bond noticed. There were no windows and no inside handles to the doors.

May looked hopefully from one to the other.

Bond turned to Honeychile. He smiled at her. ‘It looks very comfortable, don’t you think, darling?’

The girl played with the edge of her skirt. She nodded, not looking at him.

<a id="calibre_link-2253"></a>There was a timid knock on the door and another girl, as pretty as May, tripped in with a loaded tray balanced on her upturned hand. She put it down on the centre table and pulled up two chairs. She whisked off the speckless linen cloth that covered the dishes and pattered out of the room. There was a delicious smell of bacon and coffee.

May and Sister Lily backed to the door. The older woman stopped on the threshold. ‘And now we’ll leave you two dear people in peace. If you want anything, just ring. The bells are by the bed. Oh, and by the way, you’ll find plenty of fresh clothes in the cupboards. Chinese style, I’m afraid,’ she twinkled apologetically, ‘but I hope they’re the right sizes. The wardrobe room only got the measurements yesterday evening. The Doctor has given strict orders that you’re not to be disturbed. He’d be delighted if you’d join him for dinner this evening. He wants you to have the whole of the rest of the day to yourselves – to get settled down, you know.’ She paused and looked from one to the other, smiling inquiry. ‘Shall I say you …?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Bond. ‘Tell the Doctor we shall be delighted to join him for dinner.’

‘Oh, I know he’ll be so pleased.’ With a last twitter the two women softly withdrew and closed the door behind them.

Bond turned towards Honeychile. She looked embarrassed. She still avoided his eyes. It occurred to Bond <a id="calibre_link-2254"></a>that she could never have met such soft treatment or seen such luxury in her life. To her, all this must be far more strange and terrifying than what they had gone through outside. She stood and fiddled at the hem of her Man Friday skirt. There were streaks of dried sweat and salt and dust on her face. Her bare legs were filthy and Bond noticed that her toes were moving softly as they gripped nervously into the wonderful thick pile carpet.

Bond laughed. He laughed with real pleasure that her fear had been drowned in the basic predicament of clothes and how to behave, and he laughed at the picture they made – she in her rags and he in his dirty blue shirt and black jeans and muddy canvas shoes.

He went to her and took her hands. They were cold. He said, ‘Honey, we’re a couple of scarecrows. There’s only one problem. Shall we have breakfast first while it’s hot, or shall we get out of these rags and have a bath and eat the breakfast when it’s cold? Don’t worry about anything else. We’re here in this wonderful little house and that’s all that matters. Now then, what shall we do?’

She smiled uncertainly. The blue eyes searched his face for reassurance. ‘You’re not worried about what’s going to happen to us?’ She nodded at the room. ‘Don’t you think this is all a trap?’

‘If it’s a trap we’re in it. There’s nothing we can do now but eat the cheese. The only question is whether <a id="calibre_link-2255"></a>we eat it hot or cold.’ He pressed her hands. ‘Really, Honey. Leave the worrying to me. Just think where we were an hour ago. Isn’t this better? Now come on and decide the really important things. Bath or breakfast?’

She said reluctantly, ‘Well, if you think … I mean – I’d rather get clean first.’ She added quickly, ‘But you’ve got to help me.’ She jerked her head towards the bathroom door. ‘I don’t know how to work one of those places. What do you do?’

Bond said seriously, ‘It’s quite easy. I’ll fix it all ready for you. While you’re having your bath, I’ll have my breakfast. I’ll keep yours warm.’ Bond went to one of the built-in clothes cupboards and ran the door back. There were half a dozen kimonos, some silk and some linen. He took out a linen one at random. ‘You take off your clothes and get into this and I’ll get the bath ready. Later on you can choose the things you want to wear for bed and dinner.’

She said gratefully, ‘Oh yes, James. If you’ll just show me …’ She started to unbutton her shirt.

Bond wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her. Instead he said abruptly, ‘That’s fine, Honey,’ and went into the bathroom and turned on the taps.

There was everything in the bathroom – Floris Lime bath essence for men and Guerlain bathcubes for women. He crushed a cube into the water and at once the room <a id="calibre_link-2256"></a>smelled like an orchid house. The soap was Guerlain’s Sapoceti, Fleurs des Alpes. In a medicine cupboard behind the mirror over the washbasin were toothbrushes and toothpaste, Steradent toothpicks, Rose mouthwash, dental floss, Aspirin and Milk of Magnesia. There was also an electric razor, Lentheric after-shave lotion, and two nylon hairbrushes and combs. Everything was brand new and untouched.

Bond looked at his filthy unshaven face in the mirror and smiled grimly into the grey, sunburned castaway’s eyes. The coating on the pill was certainly of the very finest sugar. It would be wise to expect that the medicine inside would be of the bitterest.

He turned back to the bath and felt the water. It would be too hot for someone who presumably had never had a hot bath before. He let in some cold. As he bent over, two arms were thrown round his neck. He stood up. The golden body blazed in the white tiled bathroom.

She kissed him hard and clumsily on the lips. He put his arms round her and crushed her to him, his heart pounding. She said breathlessly at his ear. ‘The Chinese dress felt strange. Anyway, you told that woman we were married.’

Bond’s hand was on her left breast. Its peak was hard with passion. Her stomach pressed against his. Why not? Why not? Don’t be a fool! This is a crazy time for it. You’re both in deadly danger. You must stay cold as ice <a id="calibre_link-2257"></a>to have any chance of getting out of this mess. Later! Later! Don’t be weak.

Bond took his hand away from her breast and put it round her neck. He rubbed his face against hers and then brought his mouth round to hers and gave her one long kiss.

He stood away and held her at arm’s length. For a moment they looked at each other, their eyes bright with desire. She was breathing fast, her lips parted so that he could see the glint of teeth. He said unsteadily, ‘Honey, get into that bath before I spank you.’

She smiled. Without saying anything she stepped down into the bath and lay at full length. She looked up. The fair hair on her body glittered up through the water like golden sovereigns. She said provocatively, ‘You’ve got to wash me. I don’t know what to do. You’ve got to show me.’

Bond said desperately, ‘Shut up, Honey. And stop flirting. Just take the soap and the sponge and start scrubbing. Damn you! This isn’t the time for making love. I’m going to have breakfast.’ He reached for the door handle and opened the door. She said softly, ‘James!’ He looked back. She was sticking her tongue out at him. He grinned savagely back at her and slammed the door.

Bond went into the dressing-room and stood in the middle of the floor and waited for his heart to stop <a id="calibre_link-2258"></a>pounding. He rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head to get rid of the thought of her.

To clear his mind he went carefully over both rooms looking for exits, possible weapons, microphones – anything that would add to his knowledge. There were none of these things. There was an electric clock on the wall which said eight-thirty and a row of bells beside the double bed. They said, Room Service, Coiffeur, Manicurist, Maid. There was no telephone. High up in a corner of both rooms was a small ventilator grille. Each was about two feet square. Useless. The doors appeared to be of some light metal, painted to match the walls. Bond threw the whole weight of his body against one of them. It didn’t give a millimetre. Bond rubbed his shoulder. The place was a prison – an exquisite prison. It was no good arguing. The trap had shut tight on them. Now the only thing for the mice to do was to make the most of the cheese.

Bond sat down at the breakfast table. There was a large tumbler of pineapple juice in a silver-plated bowl of crushed ice. He swallowed it down and lifted the cover off his individual hot-plate. Scrambled eggs on toast, four rashers of bacon, a grilled kidney and what looked like an English pork sausage. There were also two kinds of hot toast, rolls inside a napkin, marmalade, honey and strawberry jam. The coffee was boiling hot in a large Thermos decanter. The cream smelled fresh.

<a id="calibre_link-2259"></a>From the bathroom came the sound of the girl crooning ‘Marion’. Bond closed his ears to the sound and started on the eggs.

Ten minutes later, Bond heard the bathroom door open. He put down his toast and marmalade and covered his eyes with his hands. She laughed. She said, ‘He’s a coward. He’s frightened of a simple girl.’ Bond heard her rummaging in the cupboards. She went on talking, half to herself. ‘I wonder why he’s frightened. Of course if I wrestled with him I’d win easily. Perhaps he’s frightened of that. Perhaps he’s really not very strong. His arms and his chest look strong enough. I haven’t seen the rest yet. Perhaps it’s weak. Yes, that must be it. That’s why he doesn’t dare take his clothes off in front of me. H’m, now let’s see, would he like me in this?’ She raised her voice. ‘Darling James, would you like me in white with pale blue birds flying all over me?’

‘Yes, damn you,’ said Bond through his hands. ‘Now stop chattering to yourself and come and have breakfast. I’m getting sleepy.’

She gave a cry. ‘Oh, if you mean it’s time for us to go to bed, of course I’ll hurry.’

There was a flurry of feet and Bond heard her sit down opposite. He took his hands down. She was smiling at him. She looked ravishing. Her hair was dressed and combed and brushed to kill, with one side falling down the side of the cheek and the other slicked back behind <a id="calibre_link-2260"></a>her ear. Her skin sparkled with freshness and the big blue eyes were alight with happiness. Now Bond loved the broken nose. It had become part of his thoughts of her and it suddenly occurred to him that he would be sad when she was just an immaculately beautiful girl like other beautiful girls. But he knew it would be no good trying to persuade her of that. She sat demurely, with her hands in her lap below the end of a cleavage which showed half her breasts and a deep vee of her stomach.

Bond said severely, ‘Now, listen, Honey. You look wonderful, but that isn’t the way to wear a kimono. Pull it up right across your body and tie it tight and stop trying to look like a call girl. It just isn’t good manners at breakfast.’

‘Oh, you are a stuffy old beast.’ She pulled her kimono an inch or two closer. ‘Why don’t you like playing? I want to play at being married.’

‘Not at breakfast time,’ said Bond firmly. ‘Come on and eat up. It’s delicious. And anyway, I’m filthy. I’m going to shave and have a bath.’ He got up and walked round the table and kissed the top of her head. ‘And as for playing, as you call it, I’d rather play with you than anyone in the world. But not now.’ Without waiting for her answer he walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

Bond shaved and had a bath and a shower. He felt desperately sleepy. Sleep came to him in waves so that <a id="calibre_link-2261"></a>from time to time he had to stop what he was doing and bend his head down between his knees. When he came to brush his teeth he could hardly do it. Now he recognized the signs. He had been drugged. In the coffee or in the pineapple juice? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. All he wanted to do was lie down on the tiled floor and shut his eyes. Bond weaved drunkenly to the door. He forgot that he was naked. That didn’t matter either. Anyway the girl had finished her breakfast. She was in bed. He staggered over to her, holding on to the furniture. The kimono was lying in a pile on the floor. She was fast asleep, naked under a single sheet.

Bond gazed dreamily at the empty pillow beside her head. No! He found the switches and turned out the lights. Now he had to crawl across the floor and into his room. He got to his bed and pulled himself on to it. He reached out an arm of lead and jabbed at the switch on the bed-light. He missed it. The lamp crashed to the floor and the bulb burst. With a last effort Bond turned on his side and let the waves sweep over his head.

The luminous figures on the electric clock in the double room said nine-thirty.

At ten o’clock the door of the double room opened softly. A very tall thin figure was silhouetted against the lighted corridor. It was a man. He must have been six <a id="calibre_link-2262"></a>feet six tall. He stood on the threshold with his arms folded, listening. Satisfied, he moved slowly into the room and up to the bed. He knew the way exactly. He bent down and listened to the quiet breathing of the girl. After a moment he reached up to his chest and pressed a switch. A flashlight with a very broad diffused beam came on. The flashlight was attached to him by a belt that held it above the breast bone. He bent forward so that the soft light shone on the girl’s face.

The intruder examined the girl’s face for several minutes. One of his hands came up and took the sheet at her chin and softly drew the sheet down to the end of the bed. The hand that drew down the sheet was not a hand. It was a pair of articulated steel pincers at the end of a metal stalk that disappeared into a black silk sleeve. It was a mechanical hand.

The man gazed for a long time at the naked body, moving his chest to and fro so that every corner of the body came under the light. Then the claw came out again and delicately lifted a corner of the sheet from the bottom of the bed and drew it back over the girl. The man stood for another moment gazing down at the sleeping face, then he switched off the torch on his chest and moved quietly away across the room to the open door through which Bond was sleeping.

The man spent longer beside Bond’s bed. He scrutinized every line, every shadow on the dark, rather cruel <a id="calibre_link-2263"></a>face that lay drowned, almost extinct, on the pillow. He watched the pulse in the neck and counted it and, when he had pulled down the sheet, he did the same with the area round the heart. He gauged the curve of the muscles on Bond’s arms and thighs and looked thoughtfully at the hidden strength in the flat stomach. He even bent down close over the outflung open right hand and examined its life and fate lines.

Finally, with infinite care, the steel claw drew the sheet back up to Bond’s neck. For another minute the tall figure stood over the sleeping man, then it swished softly away and out into the corridor and the door closed with a click.

<a id="calibre_link-2265"></a>14 COME INTO MY PARLOUR

The electric clock in the cool dark room in the heart of the mountain showed four-thirty.

Outside the mountain, Crab Key had sweltered and stunk its way through another day. At the eastern end of the island, the mass of birds, Louisiana herons, pelicans, avocets, sandpipers, egrets, flamingoes and the few roseate spoonbills, went on with building their nests or fished in the shallow waters of the lake. Most of the birds had been disturbed so often that year that they had given up any idea of building. In the past few months they had been raided at regular intervals by the monster that came at night and burned down their roosting places and the beginnings of their nests. This year many would not breed. There would be vague movements to migrate and many would die of the nervous hysteria that seizes bird colonies when they no longer have peace and privacy.

<a id="calibre_link-2266"></a>At the other end of the island, on the guanera that gave the mountain its snow-covered look, the vast swarm of cormorants had passed their usual day of gorging themselves with fish and paying back the ounce of precious manure to their owner and protector. Nothing had interfered with their nesting season. Now they were noisily fiddling with the untidy piles of sticks that would be their nests – each pile at exactly sixty centimetres from the next, for the guanay is a quarrelsome bird and this sixty-centimetre ring represents their sparring space. Soon the females would be laying the three eggs from which their master’s flock would be increased by an average of two young cormorants.

Below the peak, where the diggings began, the hundred or so negro men and women who were the labour force were coming to the end of the day’s shift. Another fifty cubic yards of guano had been dug out of the mountainside and another twenty yards of terrace had been added to the working level. Below, the mountainside looked like terraced vineyards in Upper Italy, except that here there were no vines, only deep barren shelves cut in the mountainside. And here, instead of the stink of marsh gas on the rest of the island, there was a strong ammoniac smell, and the ugly hot wind that kept the diggings dry blew the freshly turned whitish-brown dust into the eyes and ears and noses of the diggers. But the workers were used to the smell and <a id="calibre_link-2267"></a>the dust, and it was easy, healthy work. They had no complaints.

The last iron truck of the day started off on the Decauderville Track that snaked down the mountainside to the crusher and separator. A whistle blew and the workers shouldered their clumsy picks and moved lazily down towards the high-wired group of Quonset huts that was their compound. Tomorrow, on the other side of the mountain, the monthly ship would be coming in to the deep-water quay they had helped to build ten years before, but which, since then, they had never seen. That would mean fresh stores and fresh goods and cheap jewellery at the canteen. It would be a holiday. There would be rum and dancing and a few fights. Life was good.

Life was good, too, for the senior outside staff – all Chinese negroes like the men who had hunted Bond and Quarrel and the girl. They also stopped work in the garage and the machine shops and at the guard posts and filtered off to the ‘officers” quarters. Apart from watch and loading duties, tomorrow would also be a holiday for most of them. They too would have their drinking and dancing, and there would be a new monthly batch of girls from ‘inside’. Some ‘marriages’ from the last lot would continue for further months or weeks according to the taste of the ‘husband’, but for the others there would be a fresh choice. There would be some of <a id="calibre_link-2268"></a>the older girls who had had their babies in the creche and were coming back for a fresh spell of duty ‘outside’, and there would be a sprinkling of young ones who had come of age and would be ‘coming out’ for the first time. There would be fights over these and blood would be shed, but in the end the officers’ quarters would settle down for another month of communal life, each officer with his woman to look after his needs.

Deep down in the cool heart of the mountain, far below this well-disciplined surface life, Bond awoke in his comfortable bed. Apart from a slight nembutal headache he felt fit and rested. Lights were on in the girl’s room and he could hear her moving about. He swung his feet to the ground and, avoiding the fragments of glass from the broken lamp, walked softly over to the clothes cupboard and put on the first kimono that came to his hand. He went to the door. The girl had a pile of kimonos out on the bed and was trying them on in front of the wall mirror. She had on a very smart one in sky-blue silk. It looked wonderful against the gold of her skin. Bond said, ‘That’s the one.’

She whirled round, her hand at her mouth. She took it down. ‘Oh, it’s you!’ She smiled at him. ‘I thought you’d never wake up. I’ve been to look at you several times. I’d made up my mind to wake you at five. It’s half-past four and I’m hungry. Can you get us something to eat?’

<a id="calibre_link-2269"></a>‘Why not.’ Bond walked across to her bed. As he passed her he put his arm round her waist and took her with him. He examined the bells. He pressed the one marked ‘Room Service’. He said, ‘What about the others? Let’s have the full treatment.’

She giggled. ‘But what’s a manicurist?’

‘Someone who does your nails. We must look our best for Doctor No.’ At the back of Bond’s mind was the urgent necessity to get his hands on some kind of weapon – a pair of scissors would be better than nothing. Anything would do.

He pressed two more bells. He let her go and looked round the room. Someone had come while they were asleep and taken away the breakfast things. There was a drink tray on a sideboard against the wall. Bond went over and examined it. It had everything. Propped among the bottles were two menus, huge double-folio pages covered with print. They might have been from the Savoy Grill, or the ‘21’, or the Tour d’Argent. Bond ran his eye down one of them. It began with Caviar double de Beluga and ended with Sorbet à la Champagne. In between was every dish whose constituents would not be ruined by a deep freeze. Bond tossed it down. One certainly couldn’t grumble about the quality of the cheese in the trap!

There was a knock on the door and the exquisite May came in. She was followed by two other twittering <a id="calibre_link-2270"></a>Chinese girls. Bond brushed aside their amiabilities, ordered tea and buttered toast for Honeychile and told them to look after her hair and nails. Then he went into the bathroom and had a couple of Aspirins and a cold shower. He put on his kimono again, reflected that he looked idiotic in it, and went back into the room. A beaming May asked if he would be good enough to select what he and Mrs Bryce could care to have for dinner. Without enthusiasm, Bond ordered caviar, grilled lamb cutlets and salad, and angels on horseback for himself. When Honeychile refused to make any suggestions, he chose melon, roast chicken à l’Anglaise and vanilla icecream with hot chocolate sauce for her.

May dimpled her enthusiasm and approval. ‘The Doctor asks if seven forty-five for eight would be convenient.’

Bond said curtly that it would.

‘Thank you so much, Mr Bryce. I will call for you at seven forty-four.’

Bond walked over to where Honeychile was being ministered to at the dressing table. He watched the busy delicate fingers at work on her hair and her nails. She smiled at him excitedly in the mirror. He said gruffly, ‘Don’t let them make too much of a monkey out of you,’ and went to the drink tray. He poured himself out a stiff Bourbon and soda and took it into his own room. So much for his idea of getting hold of a weapon. <a id="calibre_link-2271"></a>The scissors and files and probes were attached to the manicurist’s waist by a chain. So were the scissors of the hairdresser. Bond sat down on his rumpled bed and lost himself in drink and gloomy reflections.

The women went. The girl looked in at him. When he didn’t lift his head she went back into her room and left him alone. In due course Bond came into her room to get himself another drink. He said perfunctorily, ‘Honey, you look wonderful.’ He glanced at the clock on the wall and went back and drank his drink and put on another of the idiotic kimonos, a plain black one.

In due course there came the soft knock on the door and the two of them went silently out of the room and along the empty, gracious corridor. May stopped at the lift. Its doors were held open by another eager Chinese girl. They walked in and the doors shut. Bond noticed that the lift was made by Waygood Otis. Everything in the prison was de luxe. He gave an inward shudder of distaste. He noticed the reaction. He turned to the girl. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. Got a bit of a headache.’ He didn’t want to tell her that all this luxury play-acting was getting him down, that he hadn’t the smallest idea what it was all about, that he knew it was bad news, and that he hadn’t an inkling of a plan of how to get them out of whatever situation they were in. That was the worst of it. There was nothing that depressed Bond’s spirit so much as the knowledge that he hadn’t one line of either attack or defence.

<a id="calibre_link-2272"></a>The girl moved closer to him. She said, ‘I’m sorry, James. I hope it will go away. You’re not angry with me about anything?’

Bond dredged up a smile. He said, ‘No, darling. I’m only angry with myself.’ He lowered his voice: ‘Now, about this evening. Just leave the talking to me. Be natural and don’t be worried by Doctor No. He may be a bit mad.’

She nodded solemnly. ‘I’ll do my best.’

The lift sighed to a stop. Bond had no idea how far down they had gone – a hundred feet, two hundred? The automatic doors hissed back and Bond and the girl stepped out into a large room.

It was empty. It was a high-ceilinged room about sixty feet long, lined on three sides with books to the ceiling. At first glance, the fourth wall seemed to be made of solid blue-black glass. The room appeared to be a combined study and library. There was a big paper-strewn desk in one corner and. a central table with periodicals and newspapers. Comfortable club chairs, upholstered in red leather, were dotted about. The carpet was dark green, and the lighting, from standard lamps, was subdued. The only odd feature was that the drink tray and sideboard were up against the middle of the long glass wall, and chairs and occasional tables with ashtrays were arranged in a semi-circle round it so that the room was centred in front of the empty wall.

<a id="calibre_link-2273"></a>Bond’s eye caught a swirl of movement in the dark glass. He walked across the room. A silvery spray of small fish with a bigger fish in pursuit fled across the dark blue. They disappeared, so to speak, off the edge of the screen. What was this? An aquarium? Bond looked upwards. A yard below the ceiling, small waves were lapping at the glass. Above the waves was a strip of greyer blue-black, dotted with sparks of light. The outlines of Orion were the clue. This was not an aquarium. This was the sea itself and the night sky. The whole of one side of the room was made of armoured glass. They were under the sea, looking straight into its heart, twenty feet down.

Bond and the girl stood transfixed. As they watched, there was the glimpse of two great goggling orbs. A golden sheen of head and deep flank showed for an instant and was gone. A big grouper? A silver swarm of anchovies stopped and hovered and sped away. The twenty-foot tendrils of a Portuguese man-o’-war drifted slowly across the window, glinting violet as they caught the light. Up above there was the dark mass of its under-belly and the outline of its inflated bladder, steering with the breeze.

Bond walked along the wall, fascinated by the idea of living with this slow, endlessly changing moving picture. A big tulip shell was progressing slowly up the window from the floor level, a frisk of demoiselles and angel fish <a id="calibre_link-2274"></a>and a ruby-red moonlight snapper were nudging and rubbing themselves against a corner of the glass and a sea centipede quested along, nibbling at the minute algae that must grow every day on the outside of the window. A long dark shadow paused in the centre of the window and then moved slowly away. If only one could see more!

Obediently, two great shafts of light, from off the ‘screen’, lanced out into the water. For an instant they searched independently. Then they converged on the departing shadow and the dull grey torpedo of a twelve-foot shark showed up in all its detail. Bond could even see the piglike pink eyes roll inquisitively in the light and the slow pulse of the slanting gill-rakers. For an instant the shark turned straight into the converged beam and the white half-moon mouth showed below the flat reptile’s head. It stood poised for a second and then, with an elegant, disdainful swirl, the great swept-back tail came round and with a lightning quiver the shark had gone.

The searchlights went out. Bond turned slowly. He expected to see Doctor No, but still the room was empty. It looked static and lifeless compared with the pulsing mysteries outside the window. Bond looked back. What must this be like in the colours of day, when one could see everything perhaps for twenty yards or more? What must it be like in a storm when the waves crashed noiselessly against the glass, delving almost to the floor <a id="calibre_link-2275"></a>and then sweeping up and out of sight. What must it be like in the evening when the last golden shafts of the sun shone into the upper half of the room and the waters below were full of dancing motes and tiny water insects? What an amazing man this must be who had thought of this fantastically beautiful conception, and what an extraordinary engineering feat to have carried it out! How had he done it? There could only be one way. He must have built the glass wall deep inside the cliff and then delicately removed layer after layer of the outside rock until the divers could prise off the last skin of coral. But how thick was the glass? Who had rolled it for him? How had he got it to the island? How many divers had he used? How much, God in heaven, could it have cost?

‘One million dollars.’

It was a cavernous, echoing voice, with a trace of American accent.

Bond turned slowly, almost reluctantly, away from the window.

Doctor No had come through a door behind his desk. He stood looking at them benignly, with a thin smile on his lips.

‘I expect you were wondering about the cost. My guests usually think about the material side after about fifteen minutes. Were you?’

‘I was.’

<a id="calibre_link-2276"></a>Still smiling (Bond was to get used to that thin smile), Doctor No came slowly out from behind the desk and moved towards them. He seemed to glide rather than take steps. His knees did not dent the matt, gunmetal sheen of his kimono and no shoes showed below the sweeping hem.

Bond’s first impression was of thinness and erectness and height. Doctor No was at least six inches taller than Bond, but the straight immovable poise of his body made him seem still taller. The head also was elongated and tapered from a round, completely bald skull down to a sharp chin so that the impression was of a reversed rain-drop – or rather oildrop, for the skin was of a deep almost translucent yellow.

It was impossible to tell Doctor No’s age: as far as Bond could see, there were no lines on the face. It was odd to see a forehead as smooth as the top of the polished skull. Even the cavernous indrawn cheeks below the prominent cheekbones looked as smooth as fine ivory. There was something Dali-esque about the eyebrows, which were fine and black and sharply upswept as if they had been painted on as make-up for a conjurer. Below them, slanting jet black eyes stared out of the skull. They were without eyelashes. They looked like the mouths of two small revolvers, direct and unblinking and totally devoid of expression. The thin fine nose ended very close above a wide compressed wound of a mouth which, despite its <a id="calibre_link-2277"></a>almost permanent sketch of a smile, showed only cruelty and authority. The chin was indrawn towards the neck. Later Bond was to notice that it rarely moved more than slightly away from centre, giving the impression that the head and the vertebra were in one piece.

The bizarre, gliding figure looked like a giant venomous worm wrapped in grey tin-foil, and Bond would not have been surprised to see the rest of it trailing slimily along the carpet behind.

Doctor No came within three steps of them and stopped. The wound in the tall face opened. ‘Forgive me for not shaking hands with you,’ the deep voice was flat and even. ‘I am unable to.’ Slowly the sleeves parted and opened. ‘I have no hands.’

The two pairs of steel pincers came out on their gleaming stalks and were held up for inspection like the hands of a praying mantis. Then the two sleeves joined again.

Bond felt the girl at his side give a start.

The black apertures turned towards her. They slid down to her nose. The voice said flatly, ‘It is a misfortune.’ The eyes came back to Bond. ‘You were admiring my aquarium.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Man enjoys the beasts and the birds. I decided to enjoy also the fish. I find them far more varied and interesting. I am sure you both share my enthusiasm.’

Bond said, ‘I congratulate you. I shall never forget this room.’

<a id="calibre_link-2278"></a>‘No.’ Again a statement, perhaps with a sardonic inflection, of fact. ‘But we have much to talk about. And so little time. Please sit down. You will have a drink? Cigarettes are beside your chairs.’

Doctor No moved to a high leather chair and folded himself down on to the seat. Bond took the chair opposite. The girl sat between them and slightly back.

Bond felt a movement behind him. He looked over his shoulder. A short man, a Chinese negro, with the build of a wrestler, stood at the drink tray. He was dressed in black trousers and a smart white jacket. Black almond eyes in a wide moon face met his and slid incuriously away.

Doctor No said, ‘This is my bodyguard. He is expert in many things. There is no mystery about his sudden appearance. I always carry what is known as a walkie-talkie here,’ he inclined his chin towards the bosom of his kimono. ‘Thus I can summon him when he is needed. What will the girl have?’

Not ‘Your Wife’. Bond turned to Honeychile. Her eyes were wide and staring. She said quietly, ‘A Coca-Cola, please.’

Bond felt a moment of relief. At least she was not being got down by the performance. Bond said, ‘And I would like a medium Vodka dry Martini – with a slice of lemon peel. Shaken and not stirred, please. I would prefer Russian or Polish vodka.’

<a id="calibre_link-2279"></a>Doctor No gave his thin smile an extra crease. ‘I see you are also a man who knows what he wants. On this occasion your desires will be satisfied. Do you not find that it is generally so? When one wants a thing one gets it? That is my experience.’

‘The small things.’

‘If you fail at the large things it means you have not large ambitions. Concentration, focus – that is all. The aptitudes come, the tools forge themselves. “Give me a fulcrum and I will move the world” – but only if the desire to move the world is there.’ The thin lips bent minutely downwards in deprecation. ‘But this is chatter. We are making conversation. Instead, let us talk. Both of us, I am sure, prefer talk to conversation. Is the Martini to your liking? You have cigarettes – enough and the right sort to cosset your cancer? So be it. Sam-sam, put the shaker beside the man and another bottle of Coca-Cola beside the girl. It should now be eight-ten. We will have dinner at nine o’clock precisely.’

Doctor No sat slightly more upright in his chair. He inclined himself forward, staring at Bond. There was a moment’s silence in the room. Then Doctor No said, ‘And now Mister James Bond of the Secret Service, let us tell each other our secrets. First, to show you that I hide nothing, I will tell you mine. Then you will tell me yours.’ Doctor No’s eyes blazed darkly. ‘But let us tell each other the truth.’ He drew one steel claw out of the wide sleeve <a id="calibre_link-2280"></a>and held it upwards. He paused, ‘I shall do so. But you must do the same. If you do not, these,’ he pointed the claw at his eyes, ‘will know that you are lying.’

Doctor No brought the steel claw delicately in front of each eye and tapped the centre of each eyeball.

Each eyeball in turn emitted a dull ting. ‘These,’ said Doctor No, ‘see everything.’

<a id="calibre_link-2282"></a>15 PANDORA’S BOX

James Bond picked up his glass and sipped at it thoughtfully. It seemed pointless to go on bluffing. His story of representing the Audubon Society was anyway a thin one which could be punctured by anyone who knew about birds. It was obvious that his own cover was in shreds. He must concentrate on protecting the girl. To begin with he must reassure her.

Bond smiled at Doctor No. He said, ‘I know about your contact in King’s House, Miss Taro. She is your agent. I have recorded the fact and it will be divulged in certain circumstances’ – Doctor No’s expression showed no interest – ‘as will other facts. But, if we are to have a talk, let us have it without any more stage effects. You are an interesting man. But it is not necessary to make yourself more interesting than you are. You have suffered the misfortune of losing your hands. <a id="calibre_link-2283"></a>You wear mechanical hands. Many men wounded in the war wear them. You wear contact lenses instead of spectacles. You use a walkie-talkie instead of a bell to summon your servant. No doubt you have other tricks. But, Doctor No, you are still a man who sleeps and eats and defecates like the rest of us. So no more conjuring tricks, please. I am not one of your guano diggers and I am not impressed by them.’

Doctor No inclined his head a fraction. ‘Bravely spoken, Mister Bond. I accept the rebuke. I have no doubt developed annoying mannerisms from living too long in the company of apes. But do not mistake these mannerisms for bluff. I am a technician. I suit the tool to the material. I possess also a range of tools for working with refractory materials. However,’ Doctor No raised his joined sleeves an inch and let them fall back in his lap, ‘let us proceed with our talk. It is a rare pleasure to have an intelligent listener and I shall enjoy telling you the story of one of the most remarkable men in the world. You are the first person to hear it. I have not told it before. You are the only person I have ever met who will appreciate my story and also –’ Doctor No paused for the significance of the last words to make itself felt – ‘keep it to himself.’ He continued, ‘The second of these considerations also applies to the girl.’

So that was it. There had been little doubt in Bond’s mind ever since the Spandau had opened up on them, <a id="calibre_link-2284"></a>and since, even before then, in Jamaica, where the attempts on him had not been half-hearted. Bond had assumed from the first that this man was a killer, that it would be a duel to the death. He had had his usual blind faith that he would win the duel – all the way until the moment when the flame-thrower had pointed at him. Then he had begun to doubt. Now he knew. This man was too strong, too well equipped.

Bond said, ‘There is no point in the girl hearing this. She has nothing to do with me. I found her yesterday on the beach. She is a Jamaican from Morgan’s Harbour. She collects shells. Your men destroyed her canoe so I had to bring her with me. Send her away now and then back home. She won’t talk. She will swear not to.’

The girl interrupted fiercely. ‘I will talk! I shall tell everything. I’m not going to move. I’m going to stay with you.’

Bond looked at her. He said icily, ‘I don’t want you.’

Doctor No said softly, ‘Do not waste your breath on these heroics. Nobody who comes to this island has ever left it. Do you understand? Nobody – not even the simplest fisherman. It is not my policy. Do not argue with me or attempt to bluff me. It is entirely useless.’

Bond examined the face. There was no anger in it, no obstinacy – nothing but a supreme indifference. He shrugged his shoulders. He looked at the girl and smiled. He said, ‘All right, Honey. And I didn’t mean it. I’d hate <a id="calibre_link-2285"></a>you to go away. We’ll stay together and listen to what the maniac has to say.’

The girl nodded happily. It was as if her lover had threatened to send her out of the cinema and now had relented.

Doctor No said, in the same soft resonant voice, ‘You are right. Mister Bond. That is just what I am, a maniac. All the greatest men are maniacs. They are possessed by a mania which drives them forward towards their goal. The great scientists, the artists, the philosophers, the religious leaders – all maniacs. What else but a blind singleness of purpose could have given focus to their genius, would have kept them in the groove of their purpose? Mania, my dear Mister Bond, is as priceless as genius. Dissipation of energy, fragmentation of vision, loss of momentum, the lack of follow-through – these are the vices of the herd.’ Doctor No sat slightly back in his chair. ‘I do not possess these vices. I am, as you correctly say, a maniac – a maniac, Mister Bond, with a mania for power. That’ – the black holes glittered blankly at Bond through the contact lenses – ‘is the meaning of my life. That is why I am here. That is why you are here. That is why here exists.’

Bond picked up his glass and drained it. He filled it again from the shaker. He said, ‘I’m not surprised. It’s the old business of thinking you’re the King of England, or the President of the United States, or God. The <a id="calibre_link-2286"></a>asylums are full of them. The only difference is that instead of being shut up, you’ve built your own asylum and shut yourself up in it. But why did you do it? Why does sitting shut up in this cell give you the illusion of power?’

Irritation flickered at the corner of the thin mouth. ‘Mister Bond, power is sovereignty. Clausewitz’s first principle was to have a secure base. From there one proceeds to freedom of action. Together, that is sovereignty. I have secured these things and much besides. No one else in the world possesses them to the same degree. They cannot have them. The world is too public. These things can only be secured in privacy. You talk of kings and presidents. How much power do they possess? As much as their people will allow them. Who in the world has the power of life or death over his people? Now that Stalin is dead, can you name any man except myself? And how do I possess that power, that sovereignty? Through privacy. Through the fact that nobody knows. Through the fact that I have to account to no one.’

Bond shrugged. ‘That is only the illusion of power, Doctor No. Any man with a loaded revolver has the power of life and death over his neighbour. Other people beside you have murdered in secret and got away with it. In the end they generally get their deserts. A greater power than they possess is exerted upon them by the <a id="calibre_link-2287"></a>community. That will happen to you, Doctor No. I tell you, your search for power is an illusion because power itself is an illusion.’

Doctor No said equably, ‘So is beauty, Mister Bond. So is art, so is money, so is death. And so, probably, is life. These concepts are relative. Your play upon words does not shake me. I know philosophy, I know ethics, and I know logic – better than you do, I daresay. But let us move away from this sterile debate. Let us return to where I began, with my mania for power, or, if you wish it, for the illusion of power. And please, Mister Bond,’ again the extra crease in the fixed smile, ‘please do not imagine that half an hour’s conversation with you will alter the pattern of my life. Interest yourself rather in the history of my pursuit, let us put it, of an illusion.’

‘Go ahead.’ Bond glanced at the girl. She caught his eyes. She put her hand up to her mouth as if to conceal a yawn. Bond grinned at her. He wondered when it would amuse Doctor No to crack her pose of indifference.

Doctor No said benignly, ‘I shall endeavour not to bore you. Facts are so much more interesting than theories, don’t you agree?’ Doctor No was not expecting a reply. He fixed his eye on the elegant tulip shell that had now wandered halfway up the outside of the dark window. Some small silver fish squirted across the black <a id="calibre_link-2288"></a>void. A bluish prickle of phosphorescence meandered vaguely. Up by the ceiling, the stars shone more brightly through the glass.

The artificiality of the scene inside the room – the three people sitting in the comfortable chairs, the drinks on the sideboard, the rich carpet, the shaded lights, suddenly seemed ludicrous to Bond. Even the drama of it, the danger, were fragile things compared with the progress of the tulip shell up the glass outside. Supposing the glass burst. Supposing the stresses had been badly calculated, the workmanship faulty. Supposing the sea decided to lean a little more heavily against the window.

Doctor No said, ‘I was the only son of a German Methodist missionary and a Chinese girl of good family. I was born in Peking, but on what is known as “the wrong side of the blanket”. I was an encumbrance. An aunt of my mother was paid to bring me up.’ Doctor No paused. ‘No love, you see, Mister Bond. Lack of parental care.’ He went on, ‘The seed was sown. I went to work in Shanghai. I became involved with the Tongs, with their illicit proceedings. I enjoyed the conspiracies, the burglaries, the murders, the arson of insured properties. They represented revolt against the father figure who had betrayed me. I loved the death and destruction of people and things. I became adept in the technique of criminality – if you wish to call it that. Then there was trouble. I had to be got out of the way. The Tongs <a id="calibre_link-2289"></a>considered me too valuable to kill. I was smuggled to the United States. I settled in New York. I had been given a letter of introduction, in code, to one of the two most powerful Tongs in America – the Hip Sings. I never knew what the letter said, but they took me on at once as a confidential clerk. In due course, at the age of thirty, I was made the equivalent of treasurer. The treasury contained over a million dollars. I coveted this money. Then began the great Tong wars of the late ’twenties. The two great New York Tongs, my own, the Hip Sings, and our rival, the On Lee Ongs, joined in combat. Over the weeks hundreds on both sides were killed and their houses and properties burned to the ground. It was a time of torture and murder and arson in which I joined with delight. Then the riot squads came. Almost the whole police force of New York was mobilized. The two underground armies were prised apart and the headquarters of the two Tongs were raided and the ringleaders sent to jail. I was tipped off about the raid on my own Tong, the Hip Sings. A few hours before it was due, I got to the safe and rifled the million dollars in gold and disappeared into Harlem and went to ground. I was foolish. I should have left America, gone to the farthest corner of the earth. Even from the condemned cells in Sing Sing the heads of my Tong reached out for me. They found me. The killers came in the night. They tortured me. I would not say where <a id="calibre_link-2290"></a>the gold was. They tortured me all through the night. Then, when they could not break me, they cut off my hands to show that the corpse was that of a thief, and they shot me through the heart and went away. But they did not know something about me. I am the one man in a million who has his heart on the right side of his body. Those are the odds against it, one in a million. I lived. By sheer willpower I survived the operation and the months in hospital. And all the time I planned and planned how to get away with the money – how to keep it, what to do with it.’

Doctor No paused. There was a slight flush at his temples. His body fidgeted inside his kimono. His memories had excited him. For a moment he closed his eyes, composing himself. Bond thought, now! Shall I leap at him and kill him? Break off my glass and do it with the jagged stem?

The eyes opened. ‘I am not boring you? You are sure? For an instant I felt your attention wandering.’

‘No.’ The moment had passed. Would there be others? Bond measured the inches of the leap: noted that the jugular vein was in full view above the neck of the kimono.

The thin purple lips parted and the story went on. ‘It was, Mister Bond, a time for clear, firm decisions. When they let me out of the hospital I went to Silberstein, the greatest stamp dealer in New York. I bought an envelope, <a id="calibre_link-2291"></a>just one envelope, full of the rarest postage stamps in the world. It took weeks to get them together. But I didn’t mind what I paid – in New York, London, Paris, Zurich. I wanted my gold to be mobile. I invested it all in these stamps. I had foreseen the World War. I knew there would be inflation. I knew the best would appreciate, or at least hold its value. And meanwhile I was changing my appearance. I had all my hair taken out by the roots, my thick nose made thin, my mouth widened, my lips sliced. I could not get smaller, so I made myself taller. I wore built up shoes. I had weeks of traction on my spine. I held myself differently. I put away my mechanical hands and wore hands of wax inside gloves. I changed my name to Julius No – the Julius after my father and the No for my rejection of him and of all authority. I threw away my spectacles and wore contact lenses – one of the first pairs ever built. Then I went to Milwaukee, where there are no Chinamen, and enrolled myself in the faculty of medicine. I hid myself in the academic world, the world of libraries and laboratories and classrooms and campuses. And there, Mister Bond, I lost myself in the study of the human body and the human mind. Why? Because I wished to know what this clay is capable of. I had to learn what my tools were before I put them to use on my next goal – total security from physical weaknesses, from material dangers and from the hazards of living. Then, Mister Bond, from <a id="calibre_link-2292"></a>that secure base, armoured even against the casual slings and arrows of the world, I would proceed to the achievement of power – the power, Mister Bond, to do unto others what had been done unto me, the power of life and death, the power to decide, to judge, the power of absolute independence from outside authority. For that, Mister Bond, whether you like it or not, is the essence of temporal power.’

Bond reached for the shaker and poured himself a third drink. He looked at Honeychile. She seemed composed and indifferent – as if her mind was on other things. She smiled at him.

Doctor No said benignly, ‘I expect you are both hungry. Pray be patient. I will be brief. So, if you recall, there I was, in Milwaukee. In due course, I completed my studies and I left America and went by easy stages round the world. I called myself “doctor” because doctors receive confidences and they can ask questions without arousing suspicion. I was looking for my headquarters. It had to be safe from the coming war, it had to be an island, it had to be entirely private, and it had to be capable of industrial development. In the end I purchased Crab Key. And here I have remained for fourteen years. They have been secure and fruitful years, without a cloud on the horizon. I was entertained by the idea of converting bird dung into gold, and I attacked the problem with passion. It seemed to me the ideal industry. There was <a id="calibre_link-2293"></a>a constant demand for the product. The birds require no care except to be left in peace. Each one is a simple factory for turning fish into dung. The digging of the guano is only a question of not spoiling the crop by digging too much. The sole problem is the cost of the labour. It was 1942. The simple Cuban and Jamaican labourer was earning ten shillings a week cutting cane. I tempted a hundred of them over to the island by paying them twelve shillings a week. With guano at fifty dollars a ton I was well placed. But on one condition – that the wages remained constant. I ensured that by isolating my community from world inflation. Harsh methods have had to be used from time to time, but the result is that my men are content with their wages because they are the highest wages they have ever known. I brought in a dozen Chinese negroes with their families to act as overseers. They receive a pound a week per man. They are tough and reliable. On occasion I had to be ruthless with them, but they soon learned. Automatically my people increased in numbers. I added some engineers and some builders. We set to work on the mountain. Occasionally I brought in teams of specialists on high wages. They were kept apart from the others. They lived inside the mountain until their work was done and then left by ship. They put in the lighting and the ventilation and the lift. They built this room. Stores and furnishings came in from all over the world. These people built the <a id="calibre_link-2294"></a>sanatorium façade which will cover my operations in case one day there is a shipwreck or the Governor of Jamaica decides to pay me a call.’ The lips glazed into a smile. ‘You must admit that I am able, if I wish, to accord visitors a most fragrant reception – a wise precaution for the future! And gradually, methodically, my fortress was built while the birds defecated on top of it. It has been hard, Mister Bond.’ The black eyes did not look for sympathy or praise. ‘But by the end of last year the work was done. A secure, well-camouflaged base had been achieved. I was ready to proceed to the next step – an extension of my power to the outside world.’

Doctor No paused. He lifted his arms an inch and dropped them again resignedly in his lap. ‘Mister Bond, I said that there was not a cloud in the sky during all these fourteen years. But one was there, all the time, below the horizon. And do you know what it was? It was a bird, a ridiculous bird called a roseate spoonbill! I will not weary you with the details, Mister Bond. You are already aware of some of the circumstances. The two wardens, miles away in the middle of the lake, were provisioned by launch from Cuba. They sent out their reports by the launch. Occasionally, ornithologists from America came by the launch and spent some days at the camp. I did not mind. The area is out of bounds to my men. The wardens were not allowed near my compounds. There was no contact. From the first I made it clear to <a id="calibre_link-2295"></a>the Audubon Society that I would not meet their representatives. And then what happens? One day, out of a clear sky, I get a letter by the monthly boat, The roseate spoonbills have become one of the bird wonders of the world. The Society gives me formal notification that they intend to build a hotel on their leasehold, near the river up which you came. Bird lovers from all over the world will come to observe the birds. Films will be taken. Crab Key, they told me in their flattering, persuasive letter, would become famous.

‘Mister Bond,’ the arms were raised and dropped back. Irony gathered at the edges of the set smile. ‘Can you believe it? This privacy I had achieved! The plans I had for the future! To be swept aside because of a lot of old women and their birds! I examined the lease. I wrote offering a huge sum to buy it. They refused. So I studied these birds. I found out about their habits. And suddenly the solution was there. And it was easy. Man had always been the worst predator on these birds. Spoonbills are extremely shy. They frighten easily. I sent to Florida for a marsh buggy – the vehicle that is used for oil prospecting, that will cover any kind of terrain. I adapted it to frighten and to burn – not only birds, but humans as well, for the wardens would have to go too. And, one night in December, my marsh buggy howled off across the lake. It smashed the camp, both wardens were reported killed – though one, it turned out, escaped to <a id="calibre_link-2296"></a>die in Jamaica – it burned the nesting places, it spread terror among the birds. Complete success! Hysteria spread among the spoonbills. They died in thousands. But then I get a demand for a plane to land on my airstrip. There was to be an investigation. I decide to agree. It seemed wiser. An accident is arranged. A lorry goes out of control down the airstrip as the plane is coming in. The plane is destroyed. All signs of the lorry are removed. The bodies are reverently placed in coffins and I report the tragedy. As I expected, there is further investigation. A destroyer arrives. I receive the captain courteously. He and his officers are brought round by sea and then led inland. They are shown the remains of the camp. My men suggest that the wardens went mad with loneliness and fought each other. The survivor set fire to the camp and escaped in his fishing canoe. The airstrip is examined. My men report that the plane was coming in too fast. The tyres must have burst on impact. The bodies are handed over. It is very sad. The officers are satisfied. The ship leaves. Peace reigns again.’

Doctor No coughed delicately. He looked from Bond to the girl and back again, ‘And that, my friends, is my story – or rather the first chapter of what I am confident will be a long and interesting tale. Privacy has been re-established. There are now no roseate spoonbills, so there will be no wardens. No doubt the Audubon Society will decide to accept my offer for the rest of their lease. <a id="calibre_link-2297"></a>No matter. If they start their puny operations again, other misfortunes will befall them. This has been a warning to me. There will be no more interference.’

‘Interesting,’ said Bond. ‘An interesting case history. So that was why Strangways had to be removed. What did you do with him and his girl?’

‘They are at the bottom of the Mona Reservoir. I sent three of my best men. I have a small but efficient machine in Jamaica. I need it. I have established a watch on the intelligence services in Jamaica and Cuba. It is necessary for my further operations. Your Mister Strangways became suspicious and started ferreting about. Fortunately, by this time, the routines of this man were known to me. His death and the girl’s were a simple matter of timing. I had hoped to deal with you with similar expedition. You were fortunate. But I knew what type of a man you were from the files at King’s House. I guessed that the fly would come to the spider. I was ready for you, and when the canoe showed up on the radar screen I knew you would not get away.’

Bond said, ‘Your radar is not very efficient. There were two canoes. The one you saw was the girl’s. I tell you she had nothing to do with me.’

‘Then she is unfortunate. I happen to be needing a white woman for a small experiment. As we agreed earlier, Mister Bond, one generally gets what one wants.’

Bond looked thoughtfully at Doctor No. He wondered <a id="calibre_link-2298"></a>if it was worth while even trying to make a dent in this impregnable man. Was it worth wasting breath by threatening or bluffing? Bond had nothing but a miserable two of clubs up his sleeve. The thought of playing it almost bored him. Casually, indifferently he threw it down.

‘Then you’re out of luck, Doctor No. You are now a file in London. My thoughts on this case, the evidence of the poisoned fruit and the centipede and the crashed motor car, are on record. So are the names of Miss Chung and Miss Taro. Instructions were left with someone in Jamaica that my report should be opened and acted upon if I failed to return from Crab Key within three days.’

Bond paused. The face of Doctor No was impassive. Neither the eyes nor the mouth had flickered. The jugular vein throbbed evenly. Bond bent forward. He said softly, ‘But because of the girl, and only because of her, Doctor No, I will strike a bargain. In exchange for our safe return to Jamaica, you may have a week’s start. You may take your aeroplane and your packet of stamps and try to get away.’

Bond sat back. ‘Any interest, Doctor No?’

<a id="calibre_link-2300"></a>16 HORIZONS OF AGONY

A voice behind Bond said quietly, ‘Dinner is served.’ Bond swung round. It was the bodyguard. Beside him was another man who might have been his twin. They stood there, two stocky barrels of muscle, their hands buried in the sleeves of their kimonos, and looked over Bond’s head at Doctor No.

‘Ah, nine o’clock already.’ Doctor No rose slowly to his feet. ‘Come along. We can continue our conversation in more intimate surroundings. It is kind of you both to have listened to me with such exemplary patience. I hope the modesty of my cuisine and my cellar will not prove a further imposition.’

Double doors stood open in the wall behind the two white-jacketed men. Bond and the girl followed Doctor No through into a small octagonal mahogany panelled room lit by a central chandelier in silver with storm <a id="calibre_link-2301"></a>glasses round the candles. Beneath it was a round mahogany table laid for three. Silver and glass twinkled warmly. The plain dark blue carpet was luxuriously deep. Doctor No took the centre high-backed chair and bowed the girl into the chair on his right. They sat down and unfolded napkins of white silk.

The hollow ceremony and the charming room maddened Bond. He longed to break it up with his own hands – to wind his silk napkin round Doctor No’s throat and squeeze until the contact lenses popped out of the black, damnable eyes.

The two guards wore white cotton gloves. They served the food with a suave efficiency that was prompted by an occasional word in Chinese from Doctor No.

At first, Doctor No seemed preoccupied. He slowly ate through three bowls of different soup, feeding himself with a spoon with a short handle that fitted neatly between the pincers. Bond concentrated on hiding his fears from the girl. He sat relaxed and ate and drank with a forced good appetite. He talked cheerfully to the girl about Jamaica – about the birds and the animals and the flowers which were an easy topic for her. Occasionally his feet felt for hers under the table. She became almost gay. Bond thought they were putting on an excellent imitation of an engaged couple being given dinner by a detested uncle.

Bond had no idea if his thin bluff had worked. He didn’t give much for their chances. Doctor No, and <a id="calibre_link-2302"></a>Doctor No’s story, exuded impregnability. The incredible biography rang true. Not a word of it was impossible. Perhaps there were other people in the world with their private kingdoms – away from the beaten track, where there were no witnesses, where they could do what they liked. And what did Doctor No plan to do next, after he had squashed the flies that had come to annoy him? And if – when – he killed Bond and the girl, would London pick up the threads that Bond had picked up? Probably they would. There would be Pleydell-Smith. The evidence of the poisoned fruit. But where would Bond’s replacement get with Doctor No? Not far. Doctor No would shrug his shoulders over the disappearance of Bond and Quarrel. Never heard of them. And there would be no link with the girl. In Morgan’s Harbour they would think she had been drowned on one of her expeditions. It was hard to see what could interfere with Doctor No – with the second chapter of his life, whatever it was.

Underneath his chatter with the girl, Bond prepared for the worst. There were plenty of weapons beside his plate. When the cutlets came, perfectly cooked, Bond fiddled indecisively with the knives and chose the bread knife to eat them with. While he ate and talked, he edged the big steel meat knife towards him. An expansive gesture of his right hand knocked over his glass of champagne and in the split second of the crash his left hand <a id="calibre_link-2303"></a>flicked the knife into the deep sleeve of his kimono. In the midst of Bond’s apologies and the confusion as he and the bodyguard mopped up the spilled champagne, Bond raised his left arm and felt the knife slip back to below his armpit and then fall inside the kimono against his ribs. When he had finished his cutlets he tightened the silk belt round his waist, shifting the knife across his stomach. The knife nestled comfortingly against his skin and gradually the steel grew warm.

Coffee came and the meal was ended. The two guards came and stood close behind Bond’s chair and the girl’s. They stood with their arms crossed on their chests, impassive, motionless, like executioners.

Doctor No put his cup softly down on his saucer. He laid his two steel claws down on the table in front of him. He sat a fraction more upright. He turned his body an inch in Bond’s direction. Now there was no preoccupation in his face. The eyes were hard and direct. The thin mouth creased and opened. ‘You have enjoyed your dinner, Mister Bond?’

Bond took a cigarette from the silver box in front of him and lit it. He played with the silver table-lighter. He smelled bad news coming. He must somehow pocket the lighter. Fire might perhaps be another weapon. He said easily, ‘Yes. It was excellent.’ He looked across at the girl. He leant forward in his chair and rested his forearms on the table. He crossed them, enveloping the <a id="calibre_link-2304"></a>lighter. He smiled at her. ‘I hope I ordered what you like.’

‘Oh yes, it was lovely.’ For her the party was still going on.

Bond smoked busily, agitating his hands and forearms to create an atmosphere of movement. He turned to Doctor No. He stubbed out his cigarette and sat back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest. The lighter was in his left armpit. He smiled cheerfully. ‘And what happens now, Doctor No?’

‘We can proceed to our after-dinner entertainment, Mister Bond.’ The thin smile creased and vanished. ‘I have examined your proposition from every angle. I do not accept it.’

Bond shrugged his shoulders. ‘You are unwise.’

‘No, Mister Bond. I suspect that your proposition is a gold brick. People in your trade do not behave as you suggest. They make routine reports to their headquarters. They keep their chief aware of the progress of their investigations. I know these things. Secret agents do not behave as you suggest you have done. You have been reading too many novels of suspense. Your little speech reeked of grease-paint and cardboard. No, Mister Bond, I do not accept your story. If it is true, I am prepared to face the consequences. I have too much at stake to be turned from my path. So the police come, the soldiers come. Where are a man and a girl? What <a id="calibre_link-2305"></a>man and what girl? I know nothing. Please go away. You are disturbing my guanera. Where is your evidence? Your search warrant? The English law is strict, gentlemen. Go home and leave me in peace with my beloved cormorants. You see, Mister Bond? And let us even say that the worst comes to the worst. That one of my agents talks, which is highly improbable (Bond remembered the fortitude of Miss Chung). What have I to lose? Two more deaths on the charge sheet. But, Mister Bond, a man can only be hanged once.’ The tall pear-shaped head shook gently from side to side. ‘Have you anything else to say? Any questions to ask? You both have a busy night ahead of you. Your time is getting short. And I must get my sleep. The monthly ship is putting in tomorrow and I have the loading to supervise. I shall have to spend the whole day down on the quay. Well, Mister Bond?’

Bond looked across at the girl. She had gone deathly pale. She was gazing at him, waiting for the miracle he would work. He looked down at his hands. He examined his nails carefully. He said, playing for time, ‘And then what? After your busy day with the bird dung, what comes next on your programme? What is the next chapter you think you’re going to write?’

Bond didn’t look up. The deep quiet authoritative voice came to him as if it was coming down from the night sky.

<a id="calibre_link-2306"></a>‘Ah, yes. You must have been wondering, Mister Bond. You have the habit of inquiry. It persists even to the last, even into the shadows. I admire such qualities in a man with only a few hours to live. So I will tell you. I will turn over the next page. It will console you. There is more to this place than bird dung. Your instincts did not betray you.’ Doctor No paused for emphasis. ‘This island, Mister Bond, is about to be developed into the most valuable technical intelligence centre in the world.’

‘Really?’ Bond kept his eyes bent on his hands.

‘Doubtless you know that Turks Island, about three hundred miles from here through the Windward Passage, is the most important centre for testing the guided missiles of the United States?’

‘It is an important centre, yes.’

‘Perhaps you have read of the rockets that have been going astray recently? The multi-stage SNARK, for instance, that ended its flight in the forests of Brazil instead of the depths of the South Atlantic?’

‘Yes.’

‘You recall that it refused to obey the telemetred instructions to change its course, even to destroy itself. It developed a will of its own?’

‘I remember.’

‘There have been other failures, decisive failures, from the long list of prototypes - the ZUNI, MATADOR, PETREL, REGULUS, BOMARC – so many names, so many <a id="calibre_link-2307"></a>changes, I can’t even remember them all. Well, Mister Bond,’ Doctor No could not keep a note of pride out of his voice, ‘it may interest you to know that the vast majority of those failures have been caused from Crab Key.’

‘Is that so?’

‘You do not believe me? No matter. Others do. Others who have seen the complete abandonment of one series, the MASTODON, because of its recurring navigational errors, its failure to obey the radio directions from Turks Island. Those others are the Russians. The Russians are my partners in this venture. They trained six of my men, Mister Bond. Two of those men are on watch at this moment, watching the radio frequencies, the beams on which these weapons travel. There is a million dollars’ worth of equipment up above us in the rock galleries, Mister Bond, sending fingers up into the Heavyside Layer, waiting for the signals, jamming them, countering beams with other beams. And from time to time a rocket soars up on its way a hundred, five hundred miles into the Atlantic. And we track it, as accurately as they are tracking it in the Operations Room on Turks Island. Then, suddenly, our pulses go out to the rocket, its brain is confused, it goes mad, it plunges into the sea, it destroys itself, it roars off at a tangent. Another test has failed. The operators are blamed, the designers, the manufacturers. There is panic in the Pentagon. Something else must be tried, different <a id="calibre_link-2308"></a>frequencies, different metals, a different radio brain. Of course,’ Doctor No was fair, ‘we too have our difficulties. We track many practice shoots without being able to get through to the brain of the new rocket. But then we communicate urgently with Moscow. Yes, they have even given us a cipher machine with our own frequencies and routines. And the Russians get thinking. They make suggestions. We try them out. And then, one day, Mister Bond, it is like catching the attention of a man in a crowd. Up in the stratosphere the rocket acknowledges our signal. We are recognized and we can speak to it and change its mind.’ Doctor No paused. ‘Do you not find that interesting, Mister Bond, this little sideline to my business in guano? It is, I assure you, most profitable. It might be still more so. Perhaps Communist China will pay more. Who knows? I already have my feelers out.’

Bond lifted his eyes. He looked thoughtfully at Doctor No. So he had been right. There had been more, much more, in all this than met the eye. This was a big game, a game that explained everything, a game that was certainly, in the international espionage market, well worth the candle. Well, well! Now the pieces in the puzzle fell firmly into place. For this it was certainly worth scaring away a few birds and wiping out a few people. Privacy? Of course Doctor No would have to kill him and the girl. Power? This was it. Doctor No had really got himself into business.

<a id="calibre_link-2309"></a>Bond looked into the two black holes with a new respect. He said, ‘You’ll have to kill a lot more people to keep this thing in your hands, Doctor No. It’s worth a lot of money. You’ve got a good property here – a better one than I thought. People are going to want to cut themselves a piece of this cake. I wonder who will get to you first and kill you. Those men up there,’ he gestured towards the ceiling, ‘who were trained in Moscow? They’re the technicians. I wonder what Moscow is telling them to do? You wouldn’t know that, would you?’

Doctor No said, ‘You persist in underestimating me, Mister Bond. You are an obstinate man, and stupider than I had expected. I am aware of these possibilities. I have taken one of these men and made him into a private monitor. He has duplicates of the ciphers and of the cipher machine. He lives in another part of the mountain. The others think that he died. He watches on all the routine times. He gives me a second copy of all the traffic that passes. So far, the signals from Moscow have been innocent of any sign of conspiracy. I am thinking of these things constantly, Mister Bond. I take precautions and I shall take further precautions. As I said, you underestimate me.’

‘I don’t underestimate you, Doctor No. You’re a very careful man, but you’ve got too many files open on you. In my line of business, the same thing applies to me. I <a id="calibre_link-2310"></a>know the feeling. But you’ve got some really bad ones. The Chinese one, for instance. I wouldn’t like to have that one. The F.B.I. should be the least painful – robbery and false identity. But do you know the Russians as well as I do? You’re a “best friend” at the moment. But the Russians don’t have partners. They’ll want to take you over – buy you out with a bullet. Then there’s the file you’ve started with my Service. You really want me to make that one fatter? I shouldn’t do it if I were you, Doctor No. They’re a tenacious lot of people in my Service. If anything happens to me and the girl, you’ll find Crab Key’s a very small and naked little island.’

‘You cannot play for high stakes without taking risks, Mister Bond. I accept the dangers and, so far as I can, I have equipped myself against them. You see, Mister Bond,’ the deep voice held a hint of greed, ‘I am on the edge of still greater things. The Chapter Two to which I referred holds the promise of prizes which no one but a fool would throw away because he was afraid. I have told you that I can bend the beams on which these rockets fly, Mister Bond. I can make them change course and ignore their radio control. What would you say, Mister Bond, if I could go further? If I could bring them down into the sea near this island and salvage the secrets of their construction. At present American destroyers, far out in the South Atlantic, salvage these missiles when they come to the end of their fuel and <a id="calibre_link-2311"></a>parachute down into the sea. Sometimes the parachutes fail to open. Sometimes the self-destruction devices fail to operate. No one on Turks Island would be surprised if every now and then the prototype of a new series broke off its flight and came down near Crab Key. To begin with, at least, it would be put down to mechanical failure. Later, perhaps, they would discover that other radio signals besides theirs were guiding their rockets. A jamming war would start. They would try and locate the origin of the false signals. Directly I found they were looking for me, I would have one last fling. Their rockets would go mad. They would land on Havana, on Kingston. They would turn round and home on Miami. Even without warheads, Mister Bond, five tons of metal arriving at a thousand miles an hour can cause plenty of damage in a crowded town. And then what? There would be panic, a public outcry. The experiments would have to cease. The Turks Island base would have to close down. And how much would Russia pay for that to happen, Mister Bond? And how much for each of the prototypes I captured for them? Shall we say ten million dollars for the whole operation? Twenty million? It would be a priceless victory in the armaments race. I could name my figure. Don’t you agree, Mister Bond? And don’t you agree that these considerations make your arguments and threats seem rather puny?’

<a id="calibre_link-2312"></a>Bond said nothing. There was nothing to say. Suddenly he was back in the quiet room high up above Regent’s Park. He could hear the rain slashing softly against the window and M’s voice, impatient, sarcastic, saying, ‘Oh, some damned business about birds … holiday in the sun’ll do you good … routine inquiry.’ And he, Bond, had taken a canoe and a fisherman and a picnic lunch and had gone off – how many days, how many weeks ago? – ‘to have a look’. Well, he had had his look into Pandora’s Box. He had found out the answers, been told the secrets – and now? Now he was going to be politely shown the way to his grave, taking the secrets with him and the waif he had picked up and dragged along with him on his lunatic adventure. The bitterness inside Bond came up into his mouth so that for a moment he thought he was going to retch. He reached for his champagne and emptied the glass. He said harshly, ‘All right, Doctor No. Now let’s get on with the cabaret. What’s the programme – knife, bullet, poison, rope? But make it quick, I’ve seen enough of you.’

Doctor No’s lips compressed into a thin purple line. The eyes were hard as onyx under the billiard-ball forehead and skull. The polite mask had gone. The Grand Inquisitor sat in the high-backed chair. The hour had struck for the peine forte et dure.

Doctor No spoke a word and the two guards took a step forward and held the two victims above the elbows, <a id="calibre_link-2313"></a>forcing their arms back against the sides of their chairs. There was no resistance. Bond concentrated on holding the lighter in his armpit. The white-gloved hands on his biceps felt like steel bands. He smiled across at the girl. ‘I’m sorry about this, Honey. I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to play together after all.’

The girl’s eyes in the pale face were blue-black with fear. Her lips trembled. She said, ‘Will it hurt?’

‘Silence!’ Doctor No’s voice was the crack of a whip. ‘Enough of this foolery. Of course it will hurt. I am interested in pain. I am also interested in finding out how much the human body can endure. From time to time I make experiments on those of my people who have to be punished. And on trespassers like yourselves. You have both put me to a great deal of trouble. In exchange I intend to put you to a great deal of pain. I shall record the length of your endurance. The facts will be noted. One day my findings will be given to the world. Your deaths will have served the purposes of science. I never waste human material. The German experiments on live humans during the war were of great benefit to science. It is a year since I put a girl to death in the fashion I have chosen for you, woman. She was a negress. She lasted three hours. She died of terror. I have wanted a white girl for comparison. I was not surprised when your arrival was reported. I get what I want.’ Doctor No sat back in his chair. His eyes were now fixed on the <a id="calibre_link-2314"></a>girl, watching her reactions. She stared back at him, half hypnotized, like a bush mouse in front of a rattlesnake.

Bond set his teeth.

‘You are a Jamaican, so you will know what I am talking about. This island is called Crab Key. It is called by that name because it is infested with crabs, land crabs – what they call in Jamaica “black crabs”. You know them. They weigh about a pound each and they are as big as saucers. At this time of year they come up in thousands from their holes near the shore and climb up towards the mountain. There, in the coral uplands, they go to ground again in holes in the rock and spawn their broods. They march up in armies of hundreds at a time. They march through everything and over everything. In Jamaica they go through houses that are in their path. They are like the lemmings of Norway. It is a compulsive migration.’ Doctor No paused. He said softly, ‘But there is a difference. The crabs devour what they find in their path. And at present, woman, they are “running”. They are coming up the mountainside in their tens of thousands, great red and orange and black waves of them, scuttling and hurrying and scraping against the rock above us at this moment. And tonight, in the middle of their path, they are going to find the naked body of a woman pegged out – a banquet spread for them – and they will feel the warm body with their feeding pincers, <a id="calibre_link-2315"></a>and one will make the first incision with his fighting claws and then … and then …’

There was a moan from the girl. Her head fell forward slackly on to her chest. She had fainted. Bond’s body heaved in his chair. A string of obscenities hissed out between his clenched teeth. The huge hands of the guard were like fire round his arms. He couldn’t even move the chair-legs on the floor. After a moment he desisted. He waited for his voice to steady, then he said, with all the venom he could put into the words, ‘You bastard. You’ll fry in hell for this.’

Doctor No smiled thinly. ‘Mister Bond, I do not admit the existence of hell. Console yourself. Perhaps they will start at the throat or the heart. The movement of the pulse will attract them. Then it will not be long.’ He spoke a sentence in Chinese. The guard behind the girl’s chair leant forward and plucked her bodily out of the chair as if she had been a child and slung the inert body over his shoulder. Between the dangling arms the hair fell down in a golden shower. The guard went to the door and opened it and went out, closing it noiselessly behind him.

For a moment there was silence in the room. Bond thought only of the knife against his skin and of the lighter under his armpit. How much damage could he do with the two pieces of metal? Could he somehow get within range of Doctor No?

<a id="calibre_link-2316"></a>Doctor No said quietly, ‘You said that power was an illusion, Mister Bond. Do you change your mind? My power to select this particular death for the girl is surely not an illusion. However, let us proceed to the method of your departure. That also has its novel aspects. You see, Mister Bond, I am interested in the anatomy of courage – in the power of the human body to endure. But how to measure human endurance? How to plot a graph of the will to survive, the tolerance of pain, the conquest of fear? I have given much thought to the problem, and I believe I have solved it. It is, of course, only a rough and ready method, and I shall learn by experience as more and more subjects are put to the test. I have prepared you for the experiment as best I could. I gave you a sedative so that your body should be rested and I have fed you well so that you may be at full strength. Future – what shall I call them – patients, will have the same advantages. All will start equal in that respect. After that it will be a question of the individual’s courage and powers of endurance.’ Doctor No paused, watching Bond’s face. ‘You see, Mister Bond, I have just finished constructing an obstacle race, an assault course against death. I will say no more about it because the element of surprise is one of the constituents of fear. It is the unknown dangers that are the worst, that bear most heavily on the reserves of courage. And I flatter myself that the <a id="calibre_link-2317"></a>gauntlet you will run contains a rich assortment of the unexpected. It will be particularly interesting, Mister Bond, that a man of your physical qualities is to be my first competitor. It will be most interesting to observe how far you get down the course I have devised. You should put up a worthy target figure for future runners. I have high expectations of you. You should go far, but when, as is inevitable, you have finally failed at an obstacle, your body will be recovered and I shall most meticulously examine the physical state of your remains. The data will be recorded. You will be the first dot on a graph. Something of an honour, is it not, Mister Bond?’

Bond said nothing. What the hell did all this mean? What could this test consist of? Would it be possible to survive it? Could he conceivably escape from it and get to the girl before it was too late, even if it was only to kill her and save her from her torture? Silently Bond gathered his reserves of courage, steeling his mind against the fear of the unknown that already had him by the throat, focusing his whole will on survival. Somehow, above all else, he must cling to his weapons.

Doctor No rose and stepped away from his chair. He walked slowly to the door and turned. The menacing black holes looked back at Bond from just below the lintel of the door. The head was inclined a fraction. <a id="calibre_link-2318"></a>The purple lips creased back. ‘Run a good race for me, Mister Bond. My thoughts, as they say, will be with you.’

Doctor No turned away and the door closed softly behind the long thin gunmetal back.

<a id="calibre_link-2320"></a>17 THE LONG SCREAM

There was a man on the lift. The doors were open, waiting. James Bond, his arms still locked to his sides, was marched in. Now the dining-room would be empty. How soon would the guards go back, start clearing away the dinner, notice the missing things? The doors hissed shut. The liftman stood in front of the buttons so that Bond could not see which he had pressed. They were going up. Bond tried to estimate the distance. The lift sighed to a stop. The time seemed rather less than when he had come down with the girl. The doors opened on to an uncarpeted corridor with rough grey paint on the stone walls. It ran about twenty yards straight ahead.

‘Hold it, Joe,’ said Bond’s guard to the liftman. ‘Be right with you.’

Bond was marched down the corridor past doors numbered with letters of the alphabet. There was a faint <a id="calibre_link-2321"></a>hum of machinery in the air and behind one door Bond thought he could catch the crackle of radio static. It sounded as if they might be in the engine-room of the mountain. They came to the end door. It was marked with a black Q. It was ajar and the guard pushed Bond into the door so that it swung open. Through the door was a grey painted stone cell about fifteen feet square. There was nothing in it except a wooden chair on which lay, laundered and neatly folded, Bond’s black canvas jeans and his blue shirt.

The guard let go of Bond’s arms. Bond turned and looked into the broad yellow face below the crinkly hair. There was a hint of curiosity and pleasure in the liquid brown eyes. The man stood holding the door handle. He said, ‘Well, this is it, bud. You’re at the starting gate. You can either sit here and rot or find your way out on to the course. Happy landings.’

Bond thought it was just worth trying. He glanced past the guard to where the liftman was standing beside his open doors, watching them. He said softly, ‘How would you like to earn ten thousand dollars, guaranteed, and a ticket to anywhere in the world?’ He watched the man’s face. The mouth spread in a wide grin to show brownish teeth worn to uneven points by years of chewing sugar-cane.

‘Thanks, Mister. I’d rather stay alive.’ The man made to close the door. Bond whispered urgently, ‘We could get out of here together.’

<a id="calibre_link-2322"></a>The thick lips sneered. The man said, ‘Shove it!’ The door shut with a solid click.

Bond shrugged his shoulders. He gave the door a cursory glance. It was made of metal and there was no handle on the inside. Bond didn’t waste his shoulder on it. He went to the chair and sat down on the neat pile of his clothes and looked round the cell. The walls were entirely naked except for a ventilation grille of thick wire in one corner just below the ceiling. It was wider than his shoulders. It was obviously the way out into the assault course. The only other break in the walls was a thick glass porthole, no bigger than Bond’s head, just above the door. Light from the corridor filtered through it into the cell. There was nothing else. It was no good wasting any more time. It would now be about ten-thirty. Outside, somewhere on the slope of the mountain, the girl would already be lying, waiting for the rattle of claws on the grey coral. Bond clenched his teeth at the thought of the pale body spreadeagled out there under the stars. Abruptly he stood up. What the hell was he doing sitting still. Whatever lay on the other side of the wire grille, it was time to go.

Bond took out his knife and the lighter and threw off the kimono. He dressed in the trousers and shirt and stowed the lighter in his hip pocket. He tried the edge of the knife with his thumb. It was very sharp. It would be better still if he could get a point on it. He knelt on <a id="calibre_link-2323"></a>the floor and began whittling the rounded end on the stone. After a precious quarter of an hour he was satisfied. It was no stiletto, but it would serve to stab as well as cut. Bond put the knife between his teeth and set the chair below the grille, and climbed on to it. The grille! Assuming he could tear it off its hinges, the frame of quarter-inch wire might straighten into a spear. That would make a third weapon. Bond reached up with crooked fingers.

The next thing he knew was a searing pain up his arm and the crack of his head hitting the stone floor. He lay, stunned, with only the memory of a blue flash and the hiss and crackle of electricity to tell him what had hit him.

Bond got to his knees and stayed there. He bent his head down and shook it slowly from side to side like a wounded animal. He noticed a smell of burning flesh. He lifted his right hand up to his eyes. There was the red smear of an open burn across the inside of his fingers. Seeing it brought the pain. Bond spat out a four-letter word. Slowly he got to his feet. He squinted up at the wire grille as if it might strike at him again, like a snake. Grimly he set the chair upright against the wall. He picked up his knife and cut a strip off the discarded kimono and tied it firmly across his fingers. Then he climbed up again on to the chair and looked at the grille. He was meant to get through it. The shock had been to <a id="calibre_link-2324"></a>soften him up – a taste of pain to come. Surely he had fused the blasted thing. Surely they would have switched off the current. He looked at it only for an instant, then the fingers of his left hand crooked and went straight up to the impersonal wire mesh. His fingers went through the wire rim and gripped.

Nothing! Nothing at all – just wire. Bond grunted. He felt his nerves slacken. He tugged at the wire. It gave an inch. He tugged again and it came away in his hand and dangled down from two strands of copper flex that disappeared into the wall. Bond pulled the grille loose from the flex and got down from the chair. Yes, there was a join in the frame. He set to work unravelling the mesh. Then using the chair as a hammer, he straightened the heavy wire.

After ten minutes, Bond had a crooked spear about four feet long. One end, where it had originally been cut by the pliers, was jagged. It would not pierce a man’s clothes, but it would be good enough for the face and neck. By using all his strength and the crack at the bottom of the metal door, Bond turned the blunt end into a clumsy crook. He measured the wire against his leg. It was too long. He bent it double and slipped the spear down a trouser leg. Now it hung from his waistband to just above the knee. He went back to the chair and climbed up again and reached, nervously, for the edge of the ventilator shaft. There was no shock. Bond heaved <a id="calibre_link-2325"></a>up and through the opening and lay on his stomach looking along the shaft.

The shaft was about four inches wider than Bond’s shoulders. It was circular and of polished metal. Bond reached for his lighter, blessing the inspiration that had made him take it, and flicked it on. Yes, zinc sheeting that looked new. The shaft stretched straight ahead, featureless except for the ridges where the sections of pipe joined. Bond put the lighter back in his pocket and snaked forward.

It was easy going. Cool air from the ventilating system blew strongly in Bond’s face. The air held no smell of the sea – it was the canned stuff that comes from an air-conditioning plant. Doctor No must have adapted one of the shafts to his purpose. What hazards had he built into it to test out his victims? They would be ingenious and painful – designed to reduce the resistance of the victim. At the winning post, so to speak, there would be the coup de grâce – if the victim ever got that far. It would be something conclusive, something from which there would be no escape, for there would be no prizes in this race except oblivion – an oblivion, thought Bond, he might be glad to win. Unless of course Doctor No had been just a bit too clever. Unless he had underestimated the will to survive. That, thought Bond, was his only hope – to try to survive the intervening hazards, to get through at least to the last ditch.

<a id="calibre_link-2326"></a>There was a faint luminosity ahead. Bond approached it carefully, his senses questing in front of him like antennae. It grew brighter. It was the glint of light against the end of the lateral shaft. He went on until his head touched the metal. He twisted over on his back. Straight above him, at the top of fifty yards or so of vertical shaft, was a steady glimmer. It was like looking up a long gun barrel. Bond inched round the square bend and stood upright. So he was supposed to climb straight up this shining tube of metal without a foothold! Was it possible? Bond expanded his shoulders. Yes, they gripped the sides. His feet could also get a temporary purchase, though they would slip except where the ridges at the joints gave him an ounce of upward leverage. Bond shrugged his shoulders and kicked off his shoes. It was no good arguing. He would just have to try.

Six inches at a time, Bond’s body began to worm up the shaft – expand shoulders to grip the sides, lift feet, lock knees, force the feet outwards against the metal and, as the feet slipped downwards with his weight, contract shoulders and raise them a few inches higher. Do it again, and again and again and again. Stop at each tiny bulge where the sections joined and use the millimetre of extra support to get some breath and measure the next lap. Otherwise don’t look up, think only of the inches of metal that have to be conquered one by one. Don’t worry about the glimmer of light that never <a id="calibre_link-2327"></a>grows brighter or nearer. Don’t worry about losing your grip and falling to smash your ankles at the bottom of the shaft. Don’t worry about cramp. Don’t worry about your screaming muscles or the swelling bruises on your shoulders and the sides of your feet. Just take the silver inches as they come, one by one, and conquer them.

But then the feet began to sweat and slip. Twice Bond lost a yard before his shoulders, scalding with the friction, could put on the brake. Finally he had to stop altogether to let his sweat dry in the downward draught of air. He waited for a full ten minutes, staring at his faint reflection in the polished metal, the face split in half by the knife between the teeth. Still he refused to look up to see how much more there was. It might be too much to bear. Carefully Bond wiped each foot against a trouser-leg and began again.

Now half Bond’s mind was dreaming while the other half fought the battle. He wasn’t even conscious of the strengthening breeze or the slowly brightening light. He saw himself as a wounded caterpillar crawling up a waste pipe towards the plug-hole of a bath. What would he see when he got through the plug-hole? A naked girl drying herself? A man shaving? Sunlight streaming through an open window into an empty bathroom?

Bond’s head bumped against something. The plug was in the plug-hole! The shock of disappointment made him slip a yard before his shoulders got a fresh grip. <a id="calibre_link-2328"></a>Then he realized. He was at the top! Now he noticed the bright light and the strong wind. Feverishly, but with a more desperate care, he heaved up again until his head touched. The wind was coming into his left ear. Cautiously he turned his head. It was another lateral shaft. Above him light was shining through a thick porthole. All he had to do was inch himself round and grip the edge of the new shaft and somehow gather enough strength to heave himself in. Then he would be able to lie down.

With an extra delicacy, born of panic that something might now go wrong, that he might make a mistake and plummet back down the shaft to land in a crackle of bone, Bond, his breath steaming against the metal, carried out the manoeuvre and, with his last ounce of strength, jack-knifed into the opening and crumpled full length on his face.

Later – how much later? – Bond’s eyes opened and his body stirred. The cold had woken him from the fringe of total unconsciousness into which his body had plunged. Painfully he rolled over on his back, his feet and shoulders screaming at him, and lay gathering his wits and summoning more strength. He had no idea what time it was or whereabouts he was inside the mountain. He lifted his head and looked back at the porthole above the yawning tube out of which he had come. The light was yellowish and the glass looked thick. He <a id="calibre_link-2329"></a>remembered the porthole in Room Q. There had been nothing breakable about that one, nor, he guessed, would there be here.

Suddenly, behind the glass, he saw movement. As he watched, a pair of eyes materialized from behind the electric light bulb. They stopped and looked at him, the bulb making a yellow glass nose between them. They gazed incuriously at him and then they were gone. Bond’s lips snarled back from his teeth. So his progress was going to be observed, reported back to Doctor No!

Bond said out loud, viciously, ‘—them all,’ and turned sullenly back on his stomach. He raised his head and looked forward. The tunnel shimmered away into blackness. Come on! No good hanging about. He picked up his knife and put it back between his teeth and winced his way forward.

Soon there was no more light. Bond stopped from time to time and used the lighter, but there was nothing but blackness ahead. The air began to get warmer in the shaft, and, perhaps fifty yards further, definitely hot. There was the smell of heat in the air, metallic heat. Bond began to sweat. Soon his body was soaked and he had to pause every few minutes to wipe his eyes. There came a right-hand turn in the shaft. Round it the metal of the big tube was hot against his skin. The smell of heat was very strong. There came another right-angled turn. As soon as Bond’s head got round he quickly pulled <a id="calibre_link-2330"></a>out his lighter and lit it and then snaked back and lay panting. Bitterly he examined the new hazard, probing it, cursing it. His light had flickered on discoloured, oyster-hued zinc. The next hazard was to be heat!

Bond groaned aloud. How could his bruised flesh stand up to that? How could he protect his skin from the metal? But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. He could either go back, or stay where he was, or go on. There was no other decision to make, no other shift or excuse. There was one, and only one, grain of consolation. This would not be heat that would kill, only maim. This would not be the final killing ground – only one more test of how much he could take.

Bond thought of the girl and of what she was going through. Oh well. Get on with it. Now, let’s see …

Bond took his knife and cut off the whole front of his shirt and sliced it into strips. The only hope was to put some wrapping round the parts of his body that would have to bear the brunt – his hands and his feet. His knees and elbows would have to get along with their single covering of cotton fabric. Wearily he set to work, cursing softly.

Now he was ready. One, two, three …

Bond turned the corner and forged forward into the heat stench.

Keep your naked stomach off the ground! Contract your shoulders! Hands, knees, toes; hands, knees, toes. <a id="calibre_link-2331"></a>Faster, faster! Keep going fast so that each touch on the ground is quickly taken over by the next.

The knees were getting it worst, taking the bulk of Bond’s weight. Now the padded hands were beginning to smoulder. There was a spark, and another one, and then a worm of red as the sparks began to run. The smoke from the stuff smarted in Bond’s sweating eyes. God, he couldn’t do any more! There was no air. His lungs were bursting. Now his two hands shed sparks as he thrust them forward. The stuff must be nearly gone. Then the flesh would burn. Bond lurched and his bruised shoulder hit the metal. He screamed. He went on screaming, regularly, with each contact of hand or knee or toes. Now he was finished. Now it was the end. Now he would fall flat and slowly fry to death. No! He must drive on, screaming, until his flesh was burned to the bone. The skin must have already gone from the knees. In a moment the balls of his hands would meet the metal. Only the sweat running down his arms could be keeping the pads of stuff damp. Scream, scream, scream! It helps the pain. It tells you you’re alive. Go on! Go on! It can’t be much longer. This isn’t where you’re supposed to die. You are still alive. Don’t give up! You can’t!

Bond’s right hand hit something that gave before it. There was a stream of ice-cold air. His other hand hit, then his head. There was a tinny noise. Bond felt the lower edge of an asbestos baffle scrape down his back. <a id="calibre_link-2332"></a>He was through. He heard the baffle bang shut. His hands came up against solid wall. They quested to left and right. It was a right-angled bend. His body followed blindly round the corner. The cool air felt like daggers in his lungs. Gingerly he laid his fingers down on the metal. It was cold! With a groan Bond fell on his face and lay still.

Sometime later the pain revived him. Bond turned sluggishly over on his back. Vaguely he noticed the lighted porthole above him. Vaguely he took in the eyes gazing down on him. Then he let the black waves take him away again.

Slowly, in the darkness, the blisters formed across the skin and the bruised feet and shoulders stiffened. The sweat dried on the body and then on the rags of clothing, and the cool air soaked down into the overheated lungs and began its insidious work. But the heart beat on, strongly and regularly inside the tortured envelope, and the healing sorceries of oxygen and rest pumped life back into the arteries and veins and recharged the nerves.

Years later, Bond awoke. He stirred. As his eyes opened and met the other pair, inches away behind the glass, pain took him and shook him like a rat. He waited for the shock to die. He tried again, and then again, until he had measured the strength of his adversary. Then Bond, to hide himself away from the witness, turned over on his stomach and took the full blast of it. Again <a id="calibre_link-2333"></a>he waited, exploring his body for its reactions, testing the strength of the resolve that was left in the batteries. How much more could he take now? Bond’s lips drew back from his teeth and he snarled into the darkness. It was an animal sound. He had come to the end of his human reactions to pain and adversity. Doctor No had got him cornered. But there were animal reserves of desperation left and, in a strong animal, those reserves are deep.

Slowly, agonizingly, Bond snaked a few yards away from the eyes and then reached for his lighter and lit it. Ahead there was only the black full moon, the yawning circular mouth that led into the stomach of death. Bond put back the lighter. He took a deep breath and got to his hands and knees. The pain was no greater, only different. Slowly, stiffly, he winced forward.

The cotton fabric at Bond’s knees and elbows had burned away. Numbly his mind registered the moisture as his blisters burst against the cool metal. As he moved, he flexed his fingers and toes, testing the pain. Slowly he got the measure of what he could do, what hurt most. This pain is supportable, he argued to himself. If I had been in an aeroplane crash, they would only diagnose superficial contusions and burns. I would be out of hospital in a few days. There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m a survivor from the crash. It hurts, but it’s nothing. Think of the bits and pieces of the other passengers. Be <a id="calibre_link-2334"></a>thankful. Put it out of your mind. But, nagging behind these reflections, was the knowledge that he had not yet had the crash – that he was still on his way towards it, his resistance, his effectiveness reduced. When would it come? What shape would it take? How much more was he to be softened up before he reached the killing ground?

Ahead in the darkness the tiny red pin-points might have been an hallucination, specks before the eyes as a result of exhaustion. Bond stopped and screwed up his eyes. He shook his head. No, they were still there. Slowly he snaked closer. Now they were moving. Bond stopped again. He listened. Above the quiet thumping of his heart there was a soft, delicate rustling. The pin-points had increased in number. Now there were twenty or thirty, shifting to and fro, some quickly, some slowly, all over the circle of blackness ahead. Bond reached for his lighter. He held his breath as he lit the little yellow flame. The red pin-points went out. Instead, a yard ahead of him, very narrow mesh wire, almost as fine as muslin, blocked the shaft.

Bond inched forward, the lighter held before him. It was some sort of a cage with small things living in it. He could hear them scuttling back, away from the light. A foot away from the mesh he dowsed the light and waited for his eyes to get used to the dark. As he waited, listening, he could hear the tiny scuttling back towards <a id="calibre_link-2335"></a>him, and gradually the forest of red pin-points gathered again, peering at him through the mesh.

What was it? Bond listened to the pounding of his heart. Snakes? Scorpions? Centipedes?

Carefully he brought his eyes close up to the little glowing forest. He inched the lighter up beside his face and suddenly pressed the lever. He caught a glimpse of tiny claws hooked through the mesh and of dozens of thick furry feet and of furry sacklike stomachs topped by big insect heads that seemed to be covered with eyes. The things plopped hurriedly off the wire on to the tin and scurried back and huddled in a grey-brown furry mass at the end of the cage.

Bond squinted through the mesh, moving the light back and forward. Then he dowsed the light, to save fuel, and let the breath come through his teeth in a quiet sigh.

They were spiders, giant tarantulas, three or four inches long. There were twenty of them in the cage. And somehow he had to get past them.

Bond lay and rested and thought while the red eyes gathered again in front of his face.

How deadly were these things? How much of the tales about them were myth? They could certainly kill animals, but how mortal to men were these giant spiders with the long soft friendly fur of a borzoi? Bond shuddered. He remembered the centipede. The touch of the <a id="calibre_link-2336"></a>tarantulas would be much softer. They would be like tiny teddy bears’ paws against one’s skin – until they bit and emptied their poison sacs into you.

But again, would this be Doctor No’s killing ground? A bite or two perhaps – to send one into a delirium of pain. The horror of having to burst through the mesh in the darkness – Doctor No would not have reckoned with Bond’s lighter – and squash through the forest of eyes, crushing some soft bodies, but feeling the jaws of the others lance home. And then more bites from the ones that had caught in the clothing. And then the creeping agony of the poison. That would have been the way Doctor No’s mind would have worked – to send one screaming on one’s way. To what? To the final fence?

But Bond had the lighter and the knife and the wire spear. All he needed was the nerve, and infinite, infinite precision.

Bond softly opened the jaws of the lighter and pulled the wick out an inch with his thumb and fingernail to give a bigger flame. He lit it and, as the spiders scuttled back, he pierced the thin wire mesh with his knife. He made a hole near the frame and cut down sideways and round. Then he seized the flap of wire and wrenched it out of the frame. It tore like stiff calico and came away in one piece. He put the knife back between his teeth and snaked through the opening. The spiders cowered before the flame of the lighter and crowded back on top <a id="calibre_link-2337"></a>of each other. Bond slid the wire spear out of his trousers and jabbed the blunt, doubled wire into the middle of them. He jabbed again and again, fiercely pulping the bodies. When some of the spiders tried to escape towards him he waved the light at them and smashed the fugitives one by one. Now the living spiders were attacking the dead and wounded and all Bond had to do was bash and bash into the writhing, sickening mess of blood and fur.

Slowly all movement slackened and then ceased. Were they all dead? Were some shamming? The flame of the lighter was beginning to die. He would have to chance it. Bond reached forward and shovelled the dead mess to one side. Then he took his knife from between his teeth and reached out and slashed open the second curtain of wire, bending the flap down over the heap of pulped bodies. The light flickered and became a red glow. Bond gathered himself and shot his body over the bloody pile of corpses and through the jagged frame.

He had no idea what bits of metal he touched or whether he had put his knee or his foot among the spiders. All he knew was that he had got through. He heaved himself yards on along the shaft and stopped to gather his breath and his nerve.

Above him a dim light came on. Bond squinted sideways and upwards, knowing what he would see. The slanting yellow eyes behind the thick glass looked keenly <a id="calibre_link-2338"></a>down at him. Slowly, behind the bulb, the head moved from side to side. The eyelids dropped in mock pity. A closed fist, the thumb pointing downwards in farewell and dismissal, inserted itself between the bulb and the glass. Then it was withdrawn. The light went out. Bond turned his face back to the floor of the shaft and rested his forehead on the cool metal. The gesture said that he was coming into the last lap, that the observers had finished with him until they came for his remains. It took an extra ounce of heart out of Bond that there had been no gesture of praise, however small, that he had managed to survive so far. These Chigroes hated him. They only wanted him to die, and as miserably as possible.

Bond’s teeth ground softly together. He thought of the girl and the thought gave him strength. He wasn’t dead yet. Damn it, he wouldn’t die! Not until the heart was torn from his body.

Bond tensed his muscles. It was time to go. With extra care he put his weapons back in their places and painfully began to drag himself on into the blackness.

The shaft was beginning to slope gently downwards. It made the going easier. Soon the slope grew steeper so that Bond could almost slide along under the momentum of his weight. It was a blessed relief not to have to make the effort with his muscles. There was a glimmer of grey light ahead, nothing more than a lessening of the darkness, but it was a change. The quality of the air seemed <a id="calibre_link-2339"></a>to be different. There was a new, fresh smell to it. What was it? The sea?

Suddenly Bond realized that he was slipping down the shaft. He opened his shoulders and spread his feet to slow himself. It hurt and the braking effect was small. Now the shaft was widening. He could no longer get a grip! He was going faster and faster. A bend was just ahead. And it was a bend downwards!

Bond’s body crashed into the bend and round it. Christ, he was diving head downwards! Desperately Bond spread his feet and hands. The metal flayed his skin. He was out of control, diving down a gun barrel. Far below there was a circle of grey light. The open air? The sea? The light was tearing up at him. He fought for breath. Stay alive, you fool! Stay alive!

Head first, Bond’s body shot out of the shaft and fell through the air, slowly, slowly, down towards the gunmetal sea that waited for him a hundred feet below.

<a id="calibre_link-2341"></a>18 KILLING GROUND

Bond’s body shattered the mirror of the dawn sea like a bomb.

As he had hurtled down the silver shaft towards the widening disc of light, instinct had told him to get his knife from between his teeth, to get his hands forward to break his fall, and to keep his head down and his body rigid. And, at the last fraction of a second when he glimpsed the up-rushing sea, he had managed to take a gulp of breath. So Bond hit the water in the semblance of a dive, his outstretched clenched fists cleaving a hole for his skull and shoulders, and though, by the time he had shot twenty feet below the surface, he had lost consciousness, the forty-mile-an-hour impact with the water failed to smash him.

Slowly the body rose to the surface and lay, head down, softly rocking in the ripples of the dive. The water-choked <a id="calibre_link-2342"></a>lungs somehow contrived to send a last message to the brain. The legs and arms thrashed clumsily. The head turned up, water pouring from its open mouth. It sank. Again the legs jerked, instinctively trying to get the body upright in the water. This time, coughing horribly, the head jerked above the surface and stayed there. The arms and legs began to move feebly, paddling like a dog, and, through the red and black curtain, the bloodshot eyes saw the lifeline and told the sluggish brain to make for it.

The killing ground was a narrow deep water inlet at the base of the towering cliff. The lifeline towards which Bond struggled, hampered by the clumsy spear in his trouser-leg, was a strong wire fence, stretched from the rock walls of the inlet and caging it off from the open sea. The two-feet squares of thick wire were suspended from a cable six feet above the surface and disappeared, algae encrusted, into the depths.

Bond got to the wire and hung, crucified. For fifteen minutes he stayed like that, his body occasionally racked with vomiting, until he felt strong enough to turn his head and see where he was. Blearily his eyes took in the towering cliffs above him and the narrow vee of softly breathing water. The place was in deep grey shadow, cut off from the dawn by the mountain, but out at sea there was the pearly iridescence of first light that meant that for the rest of the world the day was dawning. Here it was dark and gloomy and brooding.

<a id="calibre_link-2343"></a>Sluggishly Bond’s mind puzzled over the wire fence. What was its purpose, closing off this dark cleft of sea? Was it to keep things out, or keep them in? Bond gazed vaguely down into the black depths around him. The wire strands vanished into nothingness below his clinging feet. There were small fish round his legs below the waist. What were they doing? They seemed to be feeding, darting in towards him and then backing away, catching at black strands. Strands of what? Of cotton from his rags? Bond shook his head to clear it. He looked again. No, they were feeding off his blood.

Bond shivered. Yes, blood was seeping off his body, off the torn shoulders, the knees, the feet, into the water. Now for the first time he felt the pain of the sea water on his sores and burns. The pain revived him, quickened his mind. If these small fish liked it, what about barracuda and shark? Was that what the wire fence was for, to keep man-eating fish from escaping to sea? Then why hadn’t they been after him already? To hell with it! The first thing was to crawl up the wire and get over to the other side. To put the fence between him and whatever lived in this black aquarium.

Weakly, foothold by foothold, Bond climbed up the wire and over the top and down again to where he could rest well above the water. He hooked the thick cable under his arms and hung, a bit of washing on a line, <a id="calibre_link-2344"></a>and gazed vaguely down at the fish that still fed from the blood that dripped off his feet.

Now there was nothing much left of Bond, not many reserves. The last dive down the tube, the crash of impact and the half-death from drowning had squeezed him like a sponge. He was on the verge of surrender, on the verge of giving one small sigh and then slipping back into the soft arms of the water. How beautiful it would be to give in at last and rest – to feel the sea softly take him to its bed and turn out the light.

It was the explosive flight of the fish from their feeding ground that shook Bond out of his death-dreaming. Something had moved far below the surface. There was a distant shimmer. Something was coming slowly up on the landward side of the fence.

Bond’s body tautened. His hanging jaw slowly shut and the slackness cleared from his eyes. With the electric shock of danger, life flooded back into him, driving out the lethargy, pumping back the will to survive.

Bond uncramped the fingers that, a long time ago, his brain had ordered not to lose his knife. He flexed his fingers and took a fresh grip of the silver-plated handle. He reached down and touched the crook of the wire spear that still hung inside his trouser-leg. He shook his head sharply and focused his eyes. Now what?

Below him the water quivered. Something was stirring in the depths, something huge. A great length of <a id="calibre_link-2345"></a>luminescent greyness showed, poised far down in the darkness. Something snaked up from it, a whiplash as thick as Bond’s arm. The tip of the thong was swollen to a narrow oval, with regular bud-like markings. It swirled through the water where the fish had been and was withdrawn. Now there was nothing but the huge grey shadow. What was it doing? Was it …? Was it tasting the blood?

As if in answer, two eyes as big as footballs slowly swam up and into Bond’s vision. They stopped, twenty feet below his own, and stared up through the quiet water at his face.

Bond’s skin crawled on his back. Softly, wearily, his mouth uttered one bitter four-lettered word. So this was the last surprise of Doctor No, the end of the race!

Bond stared down, half hypnotized, into the wavering pools of eye far below. So this was the giant squid, the mythical kraken that could pull ships beneath the waves, the fifty-foot-long monster that battled with whales, that weighed a ton or more. What else did he know about them? That they had two long seizing tentacles and ten holding ones. That they had a huge blunt beak beneath eyes that were the only fishes’ eyes that worked on the camera principle, like a man’s. That their brains were efficient, that they could shoot backwards through the water at thirty knots, by jet-propulsion. That explosive harpoons burst in their jellied mantle without <a id="calibre_link-2346"></a>damaging them. That … but the bulging black and white targets of the eyes were rising up towards him. The surface of the water shivered. Now Bond could see the forest of tentacles that flowered out of the face of the thing. They were weaving in front of the eyes like a bunch of thick snakes. Bond could see the dots of the suckers on their undersides. Behind the head, the great flap of the mantle softly opened and closed, and behind that the jellied sheen of the body disappeared into the depths. God, the thing was as big as a railway engine!

Softly, discreetly, Bond snaked his feet and then his arms through the squares in the wire, lacing himself into them, anchoring himself so that the tentacles would have either to tear him to bits or wrench down the wire barrier with him. He squinted to right and left. Either way it was twenty yards along the wire to the land. And movement, even if he was capable of it, would be fatal. He must stay dead quiet and pray that the thing would lose interest. If it didn’t … Softly Bond’s fingers clenched on the puny knife.

The eyes watched him, coldly, patiently. Delicately, like the questing trunk of an elephant, one of the long seizing tentacles broke the surface and palped its way up the wire towards his leg. It reached his foot. Bond felt the hard kiss of the suckers. He didn’t move. He dared not reach down and lose the grip of his arms through the wire. Softly the suckers tugged, testing the <a id="calibre_link-2347"></a>amount of yield. It was not enough. Like a huge slimy caterpillar, the tentacle walked slowly on up the leg. It got to the bloody blistered kneecap and stopped there, interested. Bond’s teeth gritted with the pain. He could imagine the message going back down the thick tentacle to the brain: Yes, it’s good to eat! And the brain signalling back: then get it! Bring it to me!

The suckers walked on up the thigh. The tip of the tentacle was pointed, then it splayed out so that it almost covered the width of Bond’s thigh and then tapered off to a wrist. That was Bond’s target. He would just have to take the pain and the horror and wait for the wrist to come within range.

A breeze, the first soft breeze of early morning, whispered across the metal surface of the inlet. It raised small waves that slapped gently against the sheer walls of the cliff. A wedge of cormorants took off from the guanera, five hundred feet above the inlet, and, cackling softly, made out to sea. As they swept over, the noise that had disturbed them reached Bond – the triple blast of a ship’s siren that means it is ready to take on cargo. It came from Bond’s left. The jetty must be round the corner from the northern arm of the inlet. The tanker from Antwerp had come in. Antwerp! Part of the world outside – the world that was a million miles away, out of Bond’s reach – surely out of his reach for ever. Just around that corner, men would be in the galley, having <a id="calibre_link-2348"></a>breakfast. The radio would be playing. There would be the sizzle of bacon and eggs, the smell of coffee … breakfast cooking.…

The suckers were at his hip. Bond could see into the horny cups. A stagnant sea smell reached him as the hand slowly undulated upwards. How tough was the mottled grey-brown jelly behind the hand? Should he stab? No, it must be a quick hard slash, straight across, like cutting a rope. Never mind about cutting into his own skin.

Now! Bond took a quick glance into the two football eyes, so patient, so incurious. As he did so the other seizing arm broke the surface and shot straight up at his face. Bond jerked back and the hand curled into a fist round the wire in front of his eyes. In a second it would shift to an arm or shoulder and he would be finished. Now!

The first hand was on his ribs. Almost without taking aim, Bond’s knife-hand slashed down and across. He felt the blade bite into the puddingy flesh and then the knife was almost torn from his grip as the wounded tentacle whipped back into the water. For a moment the sea boiled around him. Now the other hand let go the wire and slapped across his stomach. The pointed hand stuck like a leech, all the power of the suckers furiously applied. Bond screamed as the suckers bit into his flesh. He slashed madly, again and again. God, his stomach was being torn out! The wire shook with the struggle. Below him the water boiled and foamed. He would have to give in. One <a id="calibre_link-2349"></a>more stab, this time into the back of the hand. It worked! The hand jerked free and snaked down and away leaving twenty red circles, edged with blood, across his skin.

Bond had no time to worry about them. Now the head of the squid had broken the surface and the sea was being thrashed into foam by the great heaving mantle round it. The eyes were glaring up at him, redly, venomously, and the forest of feeding arms was at his feet and legs, tearing the cotton fabric away and flailing back. Bond was being pulled down, inch by inch. The wire was biting into his armpits. He could even feel his spine being stretched. If he held on he would be torn in half. Now the eyes and the great triangular beak were right out of the water and the beak was reaching up for his feet. There was one hope, only one!

Bond thrust his knife between his teeth and his hand dived for the crook of the wire spear. He tore it out, got it between his two hands and wrenched the doubled wire almost straight. He would have to let go with one arm to stoop and get within range. If he missed, he would be torn to shreds on the fence.

Now, before he died of the pain! Now, now!

Bond let his whole body slip down the ladder of wire and lunged through and down with all his force.

He caught a glimpse of the tip of his spear lancing into the centre of a black eyeball and then the whole sea erupted up at him in a fountain of blackness and he fell <a id="calibre_link-2350"></a>and hung upside down by the knees, his head an inch from the surface of the water.

What had happened? Had he gone blind? He could see nothing. His eyes were stinging and there was a horrible fish taste in his mouth. But he could feel the wire cutting into the tendons behind his knees. So he must be alive! Dazedly Bond let go the spear from his trailing hand and reached up and felt for the nearest strand of wire. He got a hold and reached up his other hand and slowly, agonizingly, pulled himself up so that he was sitting in the fence. Streaks of light came into his eyes. He wiped a hand across his face. Now he could see. He gazed at his hand. It was black and sticky. He looked down at his body. It was covered with black slime, and blackness stained the sea for twenty yards around. Then Bond realized. The wounded squid had emptied its ink sac at him.

But where was the squid? Would it come back? Bond searched the sea. Nothing, nothing but the spreading stain of black. Not a movement. Not a ripple. Then don’t wait! Get away from here! Get away quick! Wildly Bond looked to right and left. Left was towards the ship, but also towards Doctor No. But right was towards nothing. To build the wire fence the men must have come from the left, from the direction of the jetty. There would be some sort of a path. Bond reached for the top cable and frantically began to edge along the swaying fence towards the rocky headland twenty yards away.

<a id="calibre_link-2351"></a>The stinking, bleeding, black scarecrow moved its arms and legs quite automatically. The thinking, feeling apparatus of Bond was no longer part of his body. It moved alongside his body, or floated above it, keeping enough contact to pull the strings that made the puppet work. Bond was like a cut worm, the two halves of which continue to jerk forward although life has gone and been replaced by the mock life of nervous impulses. Only, with Bond, the two halves were not yet dead. Life was only in abeyance in them. All he needed was an ounce of hope, an ounce of reassurance that it was still worth while trying to stay alive.

Bond got to the rock face. Slowly he let himself down to the bottom rung of wire. He gazed vaguely at the softly heaving sheen of water. It was black, impenetrable, as deep as the rest. Should he chance it? He must! He could do nothing until he had washed off the caking slime and blood, the horrible stale fish-smell. Moodily, fatalistically, he took off the rags of his shirt and trousers and hung them on the wire. He looked down at his brown and white body, striped and pockmarked with red. On an instinct he felt his pulse. It was slow but regular. The steady thump of life revived his spirits. What the hell was he worrying about? He was alive. The wounds and bruises on his body were nothing – absolutely nothing. They looked ugly, but nothing was broken. Inside the torn envelope, the machine was quietly, solidly ticking over. Superficial cuts and <a id="calibre_link-2352"></a>abrasions, bloody memories, deathly exhaustion – these were hurts that an accident ward would sneer at. Get on, you bastard! Get moving! Clean yourself and wake up. Count your blessings. Think of the girl. Think of the man you’ve somehow got to find and kill. Hang on to life like you’ve hung on to the knife between your teeth. Stop being sorry for yourself. To hell with what happened just now. Get down into the water and wash!

Ten minutes later, Bond, his wet rags clinging to his scrubbed, stinging body and his hair slicked back out of his eyes, climbed over the top of the headland.

Yes, it was as he had guessed. A narrow rocky track, made by the feet of the workers, led down the other side and round the bulge of the cliff.

From close by came various sounds and echoes. A crane was working. He could hear the changing beat of its engine. There were iron ship-noises and the sound of water splashing into the sea from a bilge pump.

Bond looked up at the sky. It was pale blue. Clouds tinged with golden pink were trailing away towards the horizon. Far above him the cormorants were wheeling round the guanera. Soon they would be going off to feed. Perhaps even now they were watching the scout groups far out at sea locating the fish. It would be about six o’clock, the dawn of a beautiful day.

Bond, leaving drops of blood behind him, picked his way carefully down the track and along the bottom of <a id="calibre_link-2353"></a>the shadowed cliff. Round the bend, the track filtered through a maze of giant, tumbled boulders. The noises grew louder. Bond crept softly forward, watching his footholds for loose stones. A voice called out, startlingly close, ‘Okay to go?’ There was a distant answer: ‘Okay.’ The crane engine accelerated. A few more yards. One more boulder. And another. Now!

Bond flattened himself against the rock and warily inched his head round the corner.

<a id="calibre_link-2355"></a>19 A SHOWER OF DEATH

Bond took one long comprehensive look and pulled back. He leant against the cool face of rock and waited for his breathing to get back to normal. He lifted his knife close up to his eyes and carefully examined the blade. Satisfied, he slipped it behind him and down the waistband of his trousers up against his spine. There it would be handy but protected from hitting against anything. He wondered about the lighter. He took it out of his hip pocket. As a hunk of metal it might be useful, but it wouldn’t light any more and it might scrape against the rock. He put it down on the ground away from his feet.

Then Bond sat down and meticulously went over the photograph that was in his brain.

Round the corner, not more than ten yards away, was the crane. There was no back to the cabin. Inside it a man sat at the controls. It was the Chinese negro boss, the driver <a id="calibre_link-2356"></a>of the marsh buggy. In front of him the jetty ran twenty yards out into the sea and ended in a T. An aged tanker of around ten thousand tons deadweight was secured alongside the top of the T. It stood well out of the water, its deck perhaps twelve feet above the quay. The tanker was called Blanche, and the Ant of Antwerp showed at her stern. There was no sign of life on board except one figure lolling at the wheel in the enclosed bridge. The rest of the crew would be below, battened away from the guano dust. From just to the right of the crane, an overhead conveyor-belt in a corrugated-iron housing ran out from the cliff-face. It was carried on high stanchions above the jetty and stopped just short of the hold of the tanker. Its mouth ended in a huge canvas sock, perhaps six feet in diameter. The purpose of the crane was to lift the wire-framed mouth of the sock so that it hung directly over the hold of the tanker and to move it to right or left to give even distribution. From out of the mouth of the sock, in a solid downward jet, the scrambled-egg-coloured guano dust was pouring into the hold of the tanker at a rate of tons a minute.

Below, on the jetty, to the left and to leeward of the drifting smoke of the guano dust, stood the tall, watchful figure of Doctor No.

That was all. The morning breeze feathered the deep-water anchorage, still half in shadow beneath the towering cliffs, the conveyor-belt thudded quietly on its <a id="calibre_link-2357"></a>rollers, the crane’s engine chuffed rhythmically. There was no other sound, no other movement, no other life apart from the watch at the ship’s wheel, the trusty working at the crane, and Doctor No, seeing that all went well. On the other side of the mountain men would be working, feeding the guano to the conveyor-belt that rumbled away through the bowels of the rock, but on this side no one was allowed and no one was necessary. Apart from aiming the canvas mouth of the conveyor, there was nothing else for anyone to do.

Bond sat and thought, measuring distances, guessing at angles, remembering exactly where the crane driver’s hands and feet were on the levers and the pedals. Slowly, a thin, hard smile broke across the haggard, sunburned face. Yes! It was on! It could be done. But softly, gently, slowly! The prize was almost intolerably sweet.

Bond examined the soles of his feet and his hands. They would serve. They would have to serve. He reached back and felt the handle of the knife. Shifted it an inch. He stood up and took several slow deep breaths, ran his hands through his salt- and sweat-matted hair, rubbed them harshly up and down his face and then down the tattered sides of his black jeans. He gave a final flex to his fingers. He was ready.

Bond stepped up to the rock and inched an eye round. Nothing had changed. His guess at the distances had been <a id="calibre_link-2358"></a>right. The crane driver was watchful, absorbed. The neck above the open khaki shirt was naked, offered, waiting. Twenty yards away, Doctor No, also with his back to Bond, stood sentry over the thick rich cataract of whity-yellow dust. On the bridge, the watch was lighting a cigarette.

Bond looked along the ten yards of path that led past the back of the crane. He picked out the places he would put each foot. Then he came out from behind the rock and ran.

Bond ran to the right of the crane, to a point he had chosen where the lateral side of the cabin would hide him from the driver and the jetty. He got there and stopped, crouching, listening. The engine hurried on, the conveyor-belt rumbled steadily out of the mountain above and behind him. There was no change.

The two iron footholds at the back of the cabin, inches away from Bond’s face, looked solid. Anyway the noise of the engine would drown small sounds. But he would have to be quick to yank the man’s body out of the seat and get his own hands and feet on the controls. The single stroke of the knife would have to be mortal. Bond felt along his own collarbone, felt the soft triangle of skin beneath which the jugular pumped, remembered the angle of approach behind the man’s back, reminded himself to force the blade and hold it in.

For a final second he listened, then he reached behind his back for the knife and went up the iron <a id="calibre_link-2359"></a>steps and into the cabin with the stealth and speed of a panther.

At the last moment there was no need to hurry. Bond stood behind the man’s back, smelling him. He had time to raise his knife hand almost to the roof of the cabin, time to summon every ounce of strength, before he swept the blade down and into the square inch of smooth, brownish-yellow skin.

The man’s hands and legs splayed away from the controls. His face strained back towards Bond. It seemed to Bond that there was a flash of recognition in the bulging eyes before the whites rolled upwards. Then a strangled noise came from the open mouth and the big body rolled sideways off its iron seat and crashed to the floor.

Bond’s eyes didn’t even follow it as far as the ground. He was already in the seat and reaching for the pedals and levers. Everything was out of control. The engine was running in neutral, the wire hawser was tearing off the drum, the tip of the crane was bending slowly forwards like a giraffe’s neck, the canvas mouth of the conveyor-belt had wilted and was now pouring its column of dust between the jetty and the ship. Doctor No was staring upwards. His mouth was open. Perhaps he was shouting something.

Coolly, Bond reined the machine in, slowly easing the levers and pedals back to the angles at which the driver <a id="calibre_link-2360"></a>had been holding them. The engine accelerated, the gears bit and began to work again. The hawser slowed on the spinning drum and reversed, bringing the canvas mouth up and over the ship. The tip of the crane lifted and stopped. The scene was as before. Now!

Bond reached forward for the iron wheel which the driver had been handling when Bond had caught his first glimpse of him. Which way to turn it? Bond tried to the left. The tip of the crane veered slightly to the right. So be it. Bond spun the wheel to the right. Yes, by God, it was answering, moving across the sky, carrying the mouth of the conveyor with it.

Bond’s eyes flashed to the jetty. Doctor No had moved. He had moved a few paces to a stanchion that Bond had missed. He had a telephone in his hand. He was getting through to the other side of the mountain. Bond could see his hand frantically jiggling the receiver arm, trying to attract attention.

Bond whirled the director wheel. Christ, wouldn’t it turn any faster? In seconds Doctor No would get through and it would be too late. Slowly the tip of the crane arced across the sky. Now the mouth of the conveyor was spewing the dust column down over the side of the ship. Now the yellow mound was marching silently across the jetty. Five yards, four, three, two! Don’t look round, you bastard! Arrh, got you! Stop the wheel! Now, you take it, Doctor No!

<a id="calibre_link-2361"></a>At the first brush of the stinking dust column, Doctor No had turned. Bond saw the long arms fling wide as if to embrace the thudding mass. One knee rose to run. The mouth opened and a thin scream came up to Bond above the noise of the engine. Then there was a brief glimpse of a kind of dancing snowman. And then only a mound of yellow bird dung that grew higher and higher.

‘God!’ Bond’s voice gave back an iron echo from the walls of the cabin. He thought of the screaming lungs stuffing with the filthy dust, the body bending and then falling under the weight, the last impotent kick of the heels, the last flash of thought – rage, horror, defeat? – and then the silence of the stinking tomb.

Now the yellow mountain was twenty feet high. The stuff was spilling off the sides of the jetty into the sea. Bond glanced at the ship. As he did so, there came three blasts on its siren. The noise crashed round the cliffs. There came a fourth blast which didn’t stop. Bond could see the watch holding on to the lanyard as he craned out of the bridge window, looking down. Bond took his hands off the controls and let them rip. It was time to go.

He slipped off the iron seat and bent over the dead body. He took the revolver out of the holster and looked at it. He smiled grimly – Smith & Wesson .38, the regular model. He slipped it down inside his waistband. It was <a id="calibre_link-2362"></a>fine to feel the heavy cold metal against his skin. He went to the door of the cabin and dropped down to the ground.

An iron ladder ran up the cliff behind the crane to where the conveyor-housing jutted out. There was a small door in the corrugated iron wall of the housing. Bond scrambled up the ladder. The door opened easily, letting out a puff of guano dust, and he clambered through.

Inside, the clanking of the conveyor-belt over its rollers was deafening, but there were dim inspection lights in the stone ceiling of the tunnel and a narrow catwalk that stretched away into the mountain alongside the hurrying river of dust. Bond moved quickly along it, breathing shallowly against the fishy ammoniac smell. At all costs he must get to the end before the significance of the ship’s siren and of the unanswered telephone overcame the fear of the guards.

Bond half ran and half stumbled through the echoing stinking tunnel. How far would it be? Two hundred yards? And then what? Nothing for it but to break out of the tunnel mouth and start shooting – cause a panic and hope for the best. He would get hold of one of the men and wring out of him where the girl was. Then what? When he got to the place on the mountainside, what would he find? What would be left of her?

Bond ran on faster, his head down, watching the narrow breadth of planking, wondering what would <a id="calibre_link-2363"></a>happen if he missed his footing and slipped into the rushing river of guano dust. Would he be able to get off the belt again or would he be whirled away and down until he was finally spewed out on to the burial mound of Doctor No?

When Bond’s head hit into the soft stomach and he felt the hands at his throat, it was too late to think of his revolver. His only reaction was to throw himself down and forward at the legs. The legs gave against his shoulder and there was a shrill scream as the body crashed down on his back.

Bond had started the heave that would hurl his attacker sideways and on to the conveyor-belt when the quality of the scream and something light and soft about the impact of the body froze his muscles.

It couldn’t be!

As if in answer, sharp teeth bit deeply into the calf of his right leg and an elbow jabbed viciously, knowledgeably, backwards into his groin.

Bond yelled with the pain. He tried to squirm sideways to protect himself, but even as he shouted ‘Honey!’ the elbow thudded into him again.

The breath whistled through Bond’s teeth with the agony. There was only one way to stop her without throwing her on to the conveyor-belt. He took a firm grip of one ankle and heaved himself to his knees. He stood upright, holding her slung over his shoulder by <a id="calibre_link-2364"></a>one leg. The other foot banged against his head, but half-heartedly, as if she too realized that something was wrong.

‘Stop it, Honey! It’s me!’

Through the din of the conveyor-belt, Bonds shout got through to her. He heard her cry ‘James!’ from somewhere near the floor. He felt her hands clutch at his legs. ‘James, James!’

Bond slowly let her down. He turned and knelt and reached for her. He put his arms round her and held her tightly to him. ‘Oh Honey, Honey. Are you all right?’ Desperately, unbelieving, he strained her to him.

‘Yes, James! Oh, yes!’ He felt her hands at his back and his hair. ‘Oh, James, my darling!’ she fell against him, sobbing.

‘It’s all right, Honey.’ Bond smoothed her hair. ‘And Doctor No’s dead. But now we’ve got to run for it. We’ve got to get out of here. Come on! How can we get out of the tunnel? How did you get here? We’ve got to hurry!’

As if in comment, the conveyor-belt stopped with a jerk.

Bond pulled the girl to her feet. She was wearing a dirty suit of workmen’s blue dungarees. The sleeves and legs were rolled up. The suit was far too big for her. She looked like a girl in a man’s pyjamas. She was powdered white with the guano dust except where the tears had marked her cheeks. She said breathlessly, ‘Just up there! <a id="calibre_link-2365"></a>There’s a side tunnel that leads to the machine shops and the garage. Will they come after us?’

There was no time to talk. Bond said urgently, ‘Follow me!’ and started running. Behind him her feet padded softly in the hollow silence. They came to the fork where the side tunnel led off into the rock. Which way would the men come? Down the side tunnel or along the catwalk in the main tunnel? The sound of voices booming far up the side tunnel answered him. Bond drew the girl a few feet up the main tunnel. He brought her close to him and whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Honey. I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill them.’

‘Of course.’ The answering whisper was matter of fact. She pressed his hand and stood back to give him room. She put her hands up to her ears.

Bond eased the gun out of his waistband. Softly he broke the cylinder sideways and verified with his thumb that all six chambers were loaded. Bond knew he wasn’t going to like this, killing again in cold blood, but these men would be the Chinese negro gangsters, the strong-arm guards who did the dirty work. They would certainly be murderers many times over. Perhaps they were the ones who had killed Strangways and the girl. But there was no point in trying to ease his conscience. It was kill or be killed. He must just do it efficiently.

The voices were coming closer. There were three men. <a id="calibre_link-2366"></a>They were talking loudly, nervously. Perhaps it was many years since they had even thought of going through the tunnel. Bond wondered if they would look round as they came out into the main tunnel. Or would he have to shoot them in the back?

Now they were very close. He could hear their shoes scuffing the ground.

‘That makes ten bucks you owe me, Sam,’

‘Not after tonight it won’t be. Roll them bones, boy, Roll them bones.’

‘No dice for me tonight, feller. I’m goin’ to cut maself a slice of de white girl.’

‘Haw, haw, haw.’

The first man came out, then the second, then the third. They were carrying their revolvers loosely in their right hands.

Bond said sharply, ‘No, you won’t.’

The three men whirled round. White teeth glinted in open mouths. Bond shot the rear man in the head and the second man in the stomach. The front man’s gun was up. A bullet whistled past Bond and away up the main tunnel. Bond’s gun crashed. The man clutched at his neck and spun slowly round and fell across the conveyor-belt. The echoes thundered slowly up and down the tunnel. A puff of fine dust rose in the air and settled. Two of the bodies lay still. The man with the stomach shot writhed and jerked.

<a id="calibre_link-2367"></a>Bond tucked his hot gun into the waistband of his trousers. He said roughly to the girl, ‘Come on.’ He reached for her hand and pulled her after him into the mouth of the side tunnel. He said, ‘Sorry about that, Honey,’ and started running, pulling her after him by the hand. She said, ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Then there was no sound but the thud of their naked feet on the stone floor.

The air was clean in the side tunnel and it was easier going but, after the tension of the shooting, pain began to crowd in again and take possession of Bond’s body. He ran automatically. He hardly thought of the girl. His whole mind was focused on taking the pain and on the problems that waited at the end of the tunnel.

He couldn’t tell if the shots had been heard and he had no idea what opposition was left. His only plan was to shoot anyone who got in his way and somehow get to the garage and the marsh buggy. That was their only hope of getting away from the mountain and down to the coast.

The dim yellow bulbs in the ceiling flickered by overhead. Still the tunnel stretched on. Behind him, Honey stumbled. Bond stopped, cursing himself for not having thought of her. She reached for him and for a moment she leaned against him panting. ‘I’m sorry, James. It’s just that …’

Bond held her to him. He said anxiously, ‘Are you hurt, Honey?’

<a id="calibre_link-2368"></a>‘No, I’m all right. It’s just that I’m so terribly tired. And my feet got rather cut on the mountain. I fell a lot in the dark. If we could walk a bit. We’re nearly there. And there’s a door into the garage before we get to the machine shop. Couldn’t we go in there?’

Bond hugged her to him. He said, ‘That’s just what I’m looking for, Honey. That’s our only hope of getting away. If you can stick it till we get there, we’ve got a real chance.’

Bond put his arm round her waist and took her weight. He didn’t trust himself to look at her feet. He knew they must be bad. It was no good being sorry for each other. There wasn’t time for it if they were to stay alive.

They started moving again, Bond’s face grim with the extra effort, the girl’s feet leaving bloody footsteps on the ground, and almost immediately she whispered urgently and there was a wooden door in the wall of the tunnel and it was ajar and no sound came from the other side.

Bond took out his gun and gently eased the door open. The long garage was empty. Under the neon lights the black and gold painted dragon on wheels looked like a float waiting for the Lord Mayor’s Show. It was pointing towards the sliding doors and the hatch of the armoured cabin stood open. Bond prayed that the tank was full and that the mechanic had carried out his orders to get the damage fixed.

<a id="calibre_link-2369"></a>Suddenly, from somewhere outside, there was the sound of voices. They came nearer, several of them, jabbering urgently.

Bond took the girl by the hand and ran forward. There was only one place to hide – in the marsh buggy. The girl scrambled in. Bond followed, softly pulling the door shut behind him. They crouched, waiting. Bond thought: only three rounds left in the gun. Too late he remembered the rack of weapons on the wall of the garage. Now the voices were outside. There came the clang of the door being slid back on its runners and a confusion of talk.

‘How d’ya know they were shootin’?’

‘Couldn’t been nuthen else. I should know.’

‘Better take rifles. Here, Joe! Take that one, Lemmy! An’ some pineapples. Box under da table.’

There was the metallic noise of bolts being slid home and safety catches clicked.

‘Some feller must a gone nuts. Couldn’t ha’ been da Limey. You ever seen da big pus-feller in da creek? Cheessus! An’ da rest of da tricks da Doc fixed up in da tube? An’ dat white gal. She cain’t have been in much shape dis mornin’. Any of you men bin to have a look?’

‘Nossir.’

‘No.’

‘No.’

‘Haw, haw. I’se sho surprised at you fellers. Dat’s a fine piece of ass out dere on de crab walk.’

<a id="calibre_link-2370"></a>More rattling and shuffling of feet, then, ‘Okay let’s go! Two abreast till we gets to da main tunnel. Shoot at da legs. Whoever’s makin’ trouble, da Doc’ll sure want him to play wit.’

‘Tee-hee.’

Feet echoed hollowly on the concrete. Bond held his breath as they filed by. Would they notice the shut door of the buggy? But they went on down the garage and into the tunnel and the noise of them slowly faded away.

Bond touched the girl’s arm and put his finger to his lips. Softly he eased open the door and listened again. Nothing. He dropped to the ground and walked round the buggy and went to the half-open entrance. Cautiously he edged his head round. There was no one in sight. There was a smell of frying food in the air that brought the saliva to Bond’s mouth. Dishes and pans clattered in the nearest building, about twenty yards away, and from one of the further Quonsets came the sound of a guitar and a man’s voice singing a calypso. Dogs started to bark half-heartedly and then were silent. The Dobermann pinschers.

Bond turned and ran back to the end of the garage. No sound came from the tunnel. Softly Bond closed the tunnel door and locked and bolted it. He went to the arms-rack on the wall and chose another Smith & Wesson and a Remington carbine. He verified that they were loaded and went to the door of the marsh buggy and <a id="calibre_link-2371"></a>handed them in to the girl. Now the entrance door. Bond put his shoulder to it and softly eased it wide open. The corrugated iron rumbled hollowly. Bond ran back and scrambled through the open hatch and into the driver’s seat. ‘Shut it, Honey,’ he whispered urgently and bent and turned the ignition key.

The needle on the gauge swung to Full. Pray God the damned thing would start up quickly. Some diesels were slow. Bond stamped his foot down on the starter.

The grinding rattle was deafening. It must be audible all over the compound! Bond stopped and tried again. The engine fluttered and died. And again, and this time the blessed thing fired and the strong iron pulse hammered as Bond revved it up. Now, gently into gear. Which one? Try this. Yes, it bit. Brake off, you bloody fool! Christ, it had nearly stalled. But now they were out and on the track and Bond rammed his foot down to the floor.

‘Anyone after us?’ Bond had to shout above the noise of the diesel.

‘No. Wait! Yes, there’s a man come out of the huts! And another! They’re waving and shouting at us. Now some more are coming out. One of them’s run off to the right. Another’s gone back into the hut. He’s come out with a rifle. He’s lying down. He’s firing!’

‘Close the slot! Lie down on the floor!’ Bond glanced at the speedometer. Twenty. And they were on a slope. <a id="calibre_link-2372"></a>There was nothing more to get out of the machine. Bond concentrated on keeping the huge bucking wheels on the track. The cabin bounced and swayed on the springs. It was a job to keep his hands and feet on the controls. An iron fist clanged against the cabin. And another. What was the range? Four hundred? Good shooting! But that would be the lot. He shouted, ‘Take a look, Honey! Open the slot an inch.’

‘The man’s got up. He’s stopped firing. They’re all looking after us – a whole crowd of them. Wait, there’s something else. The dogs are coming! There’s no one with them. They’re just tearing down the track after us. Will they catch us?’

‘Doesn’t matter if they do. Come and sit by me, Honey. Hold tight. Mind your head against the roof.’ Bond eased up the throttle. She was beside him. He grinned sideways at her. ‘Hell, Honey. We’ve made it. When we get down to the lake I’ll stop and shoot up the dogs. If I know those brutes I’ve only got to kill one and the whole pack’ll stop to eat him.’

Bond felt her hand at his neck. She kept it there as they swayed and thundered down the track. At the lake, Bond went on fifty yards into the water and turned the machine round and put it in neutral. Through the oblong slot he could see the pack streaming round the last bend. He reached down for the rifle and pushed it through the aperture. Now the dogs were in the water and <a id="calibre_link-2373"></a>swimming. Bond kept his finger on the trigger and sprayed bullets into the middle of them. One floundered, kicking. Then another and another. He could hear their snarling screams above the clatter of the engine. There was blood in the water. A fight had started. He saw one dog leap on one of the wounded ones and sink its teeth into the back of its neck. Now they all seemed to have gone berserk. They were milling around in the frothing bloody water. Bond emptied his magazine among them and dropped the gun on the floor. He said, ‘That’s that, Honey,’ and put the machine into gear and swung it round and began rolling at an easy speed across the shallow lake towards the distant gap in the mangroves that was the mouth of the river.

For five minutes they moved along in silence. Then Bond put a hand on the girl’s knee and said, ‘We should be all right now, Honey. When they find the boss is dead there’ll be panic. I guess some of the brighter ones will try and get away to Cuba in the plane or the launch. They’ll worry about their skins, not about us. All the same, we’ll not take the canoe out until it’s dark. I guess it’s about ten by now. We should be at the coast in an hour. Then we’ll rest up and try and get in shape for the trip. Weather looks all right and there’ll be a bit more moon tonight. Think you can make it?’

Her hand squeezed his neck. ‘Of course I can, James. But what about you? Your poor body! It’s nothing but <a id="calibre_link-2374"></a>burns and bruises. And what are those red marks across your stomach?’

‘Tell you later. I’ll be okay. But you tell me what happened to you last night. How in hell did you manage to get away from the crabs? What went wrong with that bastard’s plan? All night long I could only think of you out there being slowly eaten to death. God, what a thing to have dreamed up! What happened?’

The girl was actually laughing. Bond looked sideways. The golden hair was tousled and the blue eyes were heavy with lack of sleep, but otherwise she might just be coming home from a midnight barbecue.

‘That man thought he knew everything. Silly old fool.’ She might have been talking about a stupid schoolteacher. ‘He’s much more impressed by the black crabs than I am. To begin with, I don’t mind any animal touching me, and anyway those crabs wouldn’t think of even nipping someone if they stay quite still and haven’t got an open sore or anything. The whole point is that they don’t really like meat. They live mostly on plants and things. If he was right and he did kill a black girl that way, either she had an open wound or she must have died of fright. He must have wanted to see if I’d stand it. Filthy old man. I only fainted down there at dinner because I knew he’d have something much worse for you.’

‘Well, I’m damned. I wish to heaven I’d known that. I thought of you being picked to pieces.’

<a id="calibre_link-2375"></a>The girl snorted. ‘Of course it wasn’t very nice having my clothes taken off and being tied down to pegs in the ground. But those black men didn’t dare touch me. They just made jokes and then went away. It wasn’t very comfortable out there on the rock, but I was thinking of you and how I could get at Doctor No and kill him. Then I heard the crabs beginning to run – that’s what we call it in Jamaica – and soon they came scurrying and rattling along – hundreds of them. I just lay still and thought of you. They walked round me and over me. I might have been a rock for all they cared. They tickled a bit. One annoyed me by trying to pull out a bit of my hair. But they don’t smell or anything, and I just waited for the early morning when they crawl into holes and go to sleep. I got quite fond of them. They were company. Then they got fewer and fewer and finally stopped coming and I could move. I pulled at all the pegs in turn and then concentrated on my right-hand one. In the end I got it out of the crack in the rock and the rest was easy. I got back to the buildings and began scouting about. I got into the machine shop near the garage and found this filthy old suit. Then the conveyor thing started up not far away and I thought about it and I guessed it must be taking the guano through the mountain. I knew you must be dead by then,’ the quiet voice was matter of fact, ‘so I thought I’d get to the conveyor somehow and get through the mountain and kill Doctor <a id="calibre_link-2376"></a>No. I took a screwdriver to do it with.’ She giggled. ‘When we ran into each other, I’d have stuck it into you only it was in my pocket and I couldn’t get to it. I found the door in the back of the machine shop and walked through and into the main tunnel. That’s all.’ She caressed the back of his neck. ‘I ran along watching my step and the next thing I knew was your head hitting me in the stomach.’ She giggled again. ‘Darling, I hope I didn’t hurt you too much when we were fighting. My nanny told me always to hit men there.’

Bond laughed. ‘She did, did she?’ He reached out and caught her by the hair and pulled her face to him. Her mouth felt its way round his cheek and locked itself against his.

The machine gave a sideways lurch. The kiss ended. They had hit the first mangrove roots at the entrance to the river.

<a id="calibre_link-2378"></a>20 SLAVE-TIME

‘You’re quite sure of all this?’

The Acting Governor’s eyes were hunted, resentful. How could these things have been going on under his nose, in one of Jamaica’s dependencies? What would the Colonial Office have to say about it? He already saw the long, pale blue envelope marked ‘Personal. For Addressee Only’, and the foolscap page with those very wide margins: ‘The Secretary of State for the Colonies has instructed me to express to you his surprise …’

‘Yes, sir. Quite sure.’ Bond had no sympathy for the man. He hadn’t liked the reception he had had on his last visit to King’s House, nor the mean comments on Strangways and the girl. He liked the memory of them even less now that he knew his friend and the girl were at the bottom of the Mona Reservoir.

<a id="calibre_link-2379"></a>‘Er – well we mustn’t let any of this get out to the Press. You understand that? I’ll send my report in to the Secretary of State by the next bag. I’m sure I can rely on your …’

‘Excuse me, sir.’ The Brigadier in command of the Caribbean Defence Force was a modern young soldier of thirty-five. His military record was good enough for him to be unimpressed by relics from the Edwardian era of Colonial Governors, whom he collectively referred to as ‘feather-hatted fuddy-duddies’. ‘I think we can assume that Commander Bond is unlikely to communicate with anyone except his Department. And if I may say so, sir, I submit that we should take steps to clear up Crab Key without waiting for approval from London. I can provide a platoon ready to embark by this evening. H.M.S. Narvik came in yesterday. If the programme of receptions and cocktail parties for her could possibly be deferred for forty-eight hours or so …’ The Brigadier let his sarcasm hang in the air.

‘I agree with the Brigadier, sir.’ The voice of the Police Superintendent was edgy. Quick action might save him from a reprimand, but it would have to be quick. ‘And in any case I shall have to proceed immediately against the various Jamaicans who appear to be implicated. I’ll have to get the divers working at Mona. If this case is to be cleaned up we can’t afford to wait for London. As Mister – er – Commander Bond says, most of these negro gangsters will probably be in Cuba by now. Have to get in touch <a id="calibre_link-2380"></a>with my opposite number in Havana and catch up with them before they take to the hills or go underground. I think we ought to move at once, sir.’

There was silence in the cool shadowy room where the meeting was being held. On the ceiling above the massive mahogany conference table there was an unexpected dapple of sunlight. Bond guessed that it shone up through the slats of the jalousies from a fountain or a lily pond in the garden outside the tall windows. Far away there was the sound of tennis balls being knocked about. Distantly a young girl’s voice called, ‘Smooth. Your serve, Gladys.’ The Governor’s children? Secretaries? From one end of the room King George VI, from the other end the Queen, looked down the table with grace and good humour.

‘What do you think, Colonial Secretary?’ The Governor’s voice was hustled.

Bond listened to the first few words. He gathered that Pleydell-Smith agreed with the other two. He stopped listening. His mind drifted into a world of tennis courts and lily ponds and kings and queens, of London, of people being photographed with pigeons on their heads in Trafalgar Square, of the forsythia that would soon be blazing on the bypass roundabouts, of May, the treasured housekeeper in his flat off the King’s Road, getting up to brew herself a cup of tea (here it was eleven o’clock. It would be four o’clock in London), of the first tube trains beginning to run, shaking the ground beneath his <a id="calibre_link-2381"></a>cool, dark bedroom. Of the douce weather of England: the soft airs, the heat waves, the cold spells – ‘The only country where you can take a walk every day of the year’ – Chesterfield’s Letters? And then Bond thought of Crab Key, of the hot ugly wind beginning to blow, of the stink of the marsh gas from the mangrove swamps, the jagged grey, dead coral in whose holes the black crabs were now squatting, the black and red eyes moving swiftly on their stalks as a shadow – a cloud, a bird – broke their small horizons. Down in the bird colony the brown and white and pink birds would be stalking in the shallows, or fighting or nesting, while up on the guanera the cormorants would be streaming back from their breakfast to deposit their milligramme of rent to the landlord who would no longer be collecting. And where would the landlord be? The men from the S.S. Blanche would have dug him out. The body would have been examined for signs of life and then put somewhere. Would they have washed the yellow dust off him and dressed him in his kimono while the Captain radioed Antwerp for instructions? And where had Doctor No’s soul gone to? Had it been a bad soul or just a mad one? Bond thought of the burned twist down in the swamp that had been Quarrel. He remembered the soft ways of the big body, the innocence in the grey, horizon-seeking eyes, the simple lusts and desires, the reverence for superstitions and instincts, the childish faults, the loyalty and even <a id="calibre_link-2382"></a>love that Quarrel had given him – the warmth, there was only one word for it, of the man. Surely he hadn’t gone to the same place as Doctor No. Whatever happened to dead people, there was surely one place for the warm and another for the cold. And which, when the time came, would he, Bond, go to?

The Colonial Secretary was mentioning Bond’s name. Bond pulled himself together.

‘… survived is quite extraordinary. I do think, sir, that we should show our gratitude to Commander Bond and to his Service by accepting his recommendations. It does seem, sir, that he has done at least three-quarters of the job. Surely the least we can do is look after the other quarter.’

The Governor grunted. He squinted down the table at Bond. The chap didn’t seem to be paying much attention. But one couldn’t be sure with these Secret Service fellows. Dangerous chaps to have around, sniffing and snooping. And their damned Chief carried a lot of guns in Whitehall. Didn’t do to get on the wrong side of him. Of course there was something to be said for sending the Narvik. News would leak, of course. All the Press of the world would be coming down on his head. But then suddenly the Governor saw the headlines: ‘GOVERNOR TAKES SWIFT ACTION … ISLAND’S STRONG MAN INTERVENES … THE NAVY’S THERE!’ Perhaps after all it would be better to do it that way. Even go down and see the troops off himself. <a id="calibre_link-2383"></a>Yes, that was it, by jove. Cargill, of the Gleaner, was coming to lunch. He’d drop a hint or two to the chap and make sure the story got proper coverage. Yes, that was it. That was the way to play the hand.

The Governor raised his hands and let them fall flat on the table in a gesture of submission. He embraced the conference with a wry smile of surrender.

‘So I am overruled, gentlemen. Well, then,’ the voice was avuncular, telling the children that just this once … ‘I accept your verdict. Colonial Secretary, will you please call upon the commanding officer of H.M.S. Narvik and explain the position. In strict confidence, of course. Brigadier, I leave the military arrangements in your hands. Superintendent, you will know what to do.’ The Governor rose. He inclined his head regally in the direction of Bond. ‘And it only remains to express my appreciation to Commander – er – Bond, for his part in this affair. I shall not fail to mention your assistance, Commander, to the Secretary of State.’

Outside the sun blazed down on the gravel sweep. The interior of the Hillman Minx was a Turkish bath. Bond’s bruised hands cringed as they took the wheel.

Pleydell-Smith leant through the window. He said, ‘Ever heard the Jamaican expression “rarse”?’

‘No.’

<a id="calibre_link-2384"></a>‘ “Rarse, man” is a vulgar expression meaning – er – “stuff it up”. If I may say so, it would have been appropriate for you to have used the expression just now. However,’ Pleydell-Smith gave a wave of his hand which apologized for his Chief and dismissed him, ‘is there anything else I can do for you? You really think you ought to go back to Beau Desert? They were quite definite at the hospital that they want to have you for a week.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bond shortly, ‘but I’ve got to get back. See the girl’s all right. Would you tell the hospital I’ll be back tomorrow? You got off that signal to my Chief?’

‘Urgent rates.’

‘Well, then,’ Bond pressed the self-starter, ‘I guess that’s the lot. You’ll see the Jamaica Institute people about the girl, won’t you? She really knows the hell of a lot about the natural history side of the island. Not from books either. If they’ve got the right sort of job … Like to see her settled. I’ll take her up to New York myself and see her through the operation. She’d be ready to start in a couple of weeks after that. Incidentally,’ Bond looked embarrassed, ‘she’s really the hell of a fine girl. When she comes back … if you and your wife … You know. Just so there’s someone to keep an eye on her.’

Pleydell-Smith smiled. He thought he had the picture. He said, ‘Don’t worry about that. I’ll see to it. Betty’s rather a hand at that sort of thing. She’ll like taking the girl under her wing. Nothing else? See you later in the week, anyway. <a id="calibre_link-2385"></a>That hospital’s the hell of a place in this heat. You might care to spend a night or two with us before you go ho – I mean to New York. Glad to have you – er – both.’

‘Thanks. And thanks for everything else.’ Bond put the car into gear and went off down the avenue of flaming tropical shrubbery. He went fast, scattering the gravel on the bends. He wanted to get the hell away from King’s House, and the tennis, and the kings and queens. He even wanted to get the hell away from the kindly Pleydell-Smith. Bond liked the man, but all he wanted now was to get back across the Junction Road to Beau Desert and away from the smooth world. He swung out past the sentry at the gates and on to the main road. He put his foot down.

The night voyage under the stars had been without incident. No one had come after them. The girl had done most of the sailing. Bond had not argued with her. He had lain in the bottom of the boat, totally collapsed, like a dead man. He had woken once or twice and listened to the slap of the sea against the hull and watched her quiet profile under the stars. Then the cradle of the soft swell had sent him back to sleep and to the nightmares that reached out after him from Crab Key. He didn’t mind them. He didn’t think he would ever mind a nightmare now. After what had happened the night before, it would have to be strong stuff that would ever frighten him again.

<a id="calibre_link-2386"></a>The crunch of a nigger-head against the hull had woken him. They were coming through the reef into Morgan’s Harbour. The first quarter moon was up, and inside the reef the sea was a silver mirror. The girl had brought the canoe through under sail. They slid across the bay to the little fringe of sand and the bows under Bond’s head sighed softly into it. She had had to help him out of the boat and across the velvet lawn and into the house. He had clung to her and cursed her softly as she had cut his clothes off him and taken him into the shower. She had said nothing when she had seen his battered body under the lights. She had turned the water full on and taken soap and washed him down as if he had been a horse. Then she led him out from under the water and dabbed him softly dry with towels that were soon streaked with blood. He had seen her reach for the bottle of Milton. He had groaned and taken hold of the washbasin and waited for it. Before she had begun to put it on him, she had come round and kissed him on the lips. She had said softly, ‘Hold tight, my darling. And cry. It’s going to hurt,’ and as she splashed the murderous stuff over his body the tears of pain had run out of his eyes and down his cheeks without shame.

Then there had been a wonderful breakfast as the dawn flared up across the bay, and then the ghastly drive over to Kingston to the white table of the surgery in the emergency ward. Pleydell-Smith had been summoned. No <a id="calibre_link-2387"></a>questions had been asked. Merthiolate had been put on the wounds and tannic ointment on the burns. The efficient negro doctor had written busily in the duty report. What? Probably just ‘Multiple burns and contusions’. Then, with promises to come into the private ward on the next day, Bond had gone off with Pleydell-Smith to King’s House and to the first of the meetings that had ended with the full-dress conference. Bond had enciphered a short signal to M. via the Colonial Office which he had coolly concluded with: ‘REGRET MUST AGAIN REQUEST SICK LEAVE STOP SURGEONS REPORT FOLLOWS STOP KINDLY INFORM ARMOURER SMITH AND WESSON INEFFECTIVE AGAINST FLAME-THROWER ENDIT.’

Now, as Bond swung the little car down the endless S-bends towards the North Shore, he regretted the gibe. M. wouldn’t like it. It was cheap. It wasted cipher groups. Oh well! Bond swerved to avoid a thundering red bus with ‘Brownskin Gal’ on the destination plate. He had just wanted M. to know that it hadn’t quite been a holiday in the sun. He would apologize when he sent in his written report.

Bond’s bedroom was cool and dark. There was a plate of sandwiches and a Thermos full of coffee beside the turned-down bed. On the pillow was a sheet of paper with big childish writing. It said, ‘You are staying with me tonight. I can’t leave my animals. They were fussing. And I can’t leave you. And you owe me slave-time. I will come at seven. Your H.’

<a id="calibre_link-2388"></a>In the dusk she came across the lawn to where Bond was sitting finishing his third glass of Bourbon-on-the-rocks. She was wearing a black and white striped cotton skirt and a tight sugar-pink blouse. The golden hair smelled of cheap shampoo. She looked incredibly fresh and beautiful. She reached out her hand and Bond took it and followed her up the drive and along a narrow well-trodden path through the sugar cane. It wound along for quite a way through the tall whispering sweet-scented jungle. Then there was a patch of tidy lawn up against thick broken stone walls and steps that led down to a heavy door whose edges glinted with light.

She looked up at him from the door. ‘Don’t be frightened. The cane’s high and they’re most of them out.’

Bond didn’t know what he had expected. He had vaguely thought of a flat earthen floor and rather damp walls. There would be a few sticks of furniture, a broken bedstead covered with rags, and a strong zoo smell. He had been prepared to be careful about hurting her feelings.

Instead, it was rather like being inside a very large tidy cigar-box. The floor and ceiling were of highly polished cedar that gave out a cigar-box smell and the walls were panelled with wide split bamboo. The light came from a dozen candles in a fine silver chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling. High up in <a id="calibre_link-2389"></a>the walls there were three square windows through which Bond could see the dark blue sky and the stars. There were several pieces of good nineteenth-century furniture. Under the chandelier a table was laid for two with expensive-looking old-fashioned silver and glass.

Bond said, ‘Honey, what a lovely room. From what you said I thought you lived in a sort of zoo.’

She laughed delightedly. ‘I got out the old silver and things. It’s all I’ve got. I had to spend the day polishing it. I’ve never had it out before. It does look rather nice, doesn’t it? You see, generally there are a lot of little cages up against the wall. I like having them with me. It’s company. But now that you’re here …’ She paused. ‘My bedroom’s in there,’ she gestured at the other door. ‘It’s very small, but there’s room for both of us. Now come on. I’m afraid it’s cold dinner – just lobsters and fruit.’

Bond walked over to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. He held her and looked down into the shining blue eyes. ‘Honey, you’re a wonderful girl. You’re one of the most wonderful girls I’ve ever known. I hope the world’s not going to change you too much. D’you really want to have that operation? I love your face – just as it is. It’s part of you. Part of all this.’

She frowned and freed herself. ‘You’re not to be serious tonight. Don’t talk about these things. I don’t <a id="calibre_link-2390"></a>want to talk about them. This is my night with you. Please talk about love. I don’t want to hear about anything else. Promise? Now come on. You sit there.’

Bond sat down. He smiled up at her. He said, ‘I promise.’

She said, ‘Here’s the mayonnaise. It’s not out of a bottle. I made it myself. And take some bread and butter.’ She sat down opposite him and began to eat, watching him. When she saw that he seemed satisfied she said, ‘Now you can start telling me about love. Everything about it. Everything you know.’

Bond looked across into the flushed, golden face. The eyes were bright and soft in the candlelight, but with the same imperious glint they had held when he had first seen her on the beach and she had thought he had come to steal her shells. The full red lips were open with excitement and impatience. With him she had no inhibitions. They were two loving animals. It was natural. She had no shame. She could ask him anything and would expect him to answer. It was as if they were already in bed together, lovers. Through the tight cotton bodice the points of her breasts showed, hard and roused.

Bond said, ‘Are you a virgin?’

‘Not quite. I told you. That man.’

‘Well …’ Bond found he couldn’t eat any more. His mouth was dry at the thought of her. He said, ‘Honey, <a id="calibre_link-2391"></a>I can either eat or talk love to you. I can’t do both.’

‘You’re going over to Kingston tomorrow. You’ll get plenty to eat there. Talk love.’

Bond’s eyes were fierce blue slits. He got up and went down on one knee beside her. He picked up her hand and looked into it. At the base of the thumb the Mount of Venus swelled luxuriously. Bond bent his head down into the warm soft hand and bit softly into the swelling. He felt her other hand in his hair. He bit harder. The hand he was holding curled round his mouth. She was panting. He bit still harder. She gave a little scream and wrenched his head away by the hair.

‘What are you doing?’ Her eyes were wide and dark. She had gone pale. She dropped her eyes and looked at his mouth. Slowly she pulled his head towards her.

Bond put out a hand to her left breast and held it hard. He lifted her captive, wounded hand and put it round his neck. Their mouths met and clung, exploring.

Above them the candles began to dance. A big hawk-moth had come in through one of the windows. It whirred round the chandelier. The girl’s closed eyes opened, looked at the moth. Her mouth drew away. She smoothed the handful of his hair back and got up, and without saying anything took down the candles one by one and blew them out. The moth whirred away through one of the windows.

The girl stood away from the table. She undid her <a id="calibre_link-2392"></a>blouse and threw it on the floor. Then her skirt. Under the glint of moonlight she was a pale figure with a central shadow. She came to Bond and took him by the hand and lifted him up. She undid his shirt and slowly, carefully took it off. Her body, close to him, smelled of new-mown hay and sweet pepper. She led him away from the table and through a door. The filtering moonlight shone down on a single bed. On the bed was a sleeping-bag, its mouth laid open.

The girl let go his hand and climbed into the sleeping-bag. She looked up at him. She said, practically, ‘I bought this today. It’s a double one. It cost a lot of money. Take those off and come in. You promised. You owe me slave-time.’

‘But …’

‘Do as you’re told.’

The Complete Ian Fleming pt4