
* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside Canada,
check your country's copyright laws. IF THE BOOK IS UNDER
COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY, DO NOT DOWNLOAD
OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: On Her Majesty's Secret Service
Author: Fleming, Ian [Ian Lancaster] (1908-1964)
Date of first publication: 1963
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Pan Books, 1965
   [4th printing; first printed in 1964]
Date first posted: 4 May 2018
Date last updated: 4 May 2018
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #1530

This ebook was produced by Chris Sakkas, Cindy Beyer,
Mark Akrigg & the Online Distributed Proofreading
Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net


PUBLISHER'S NOTE

Italics in the original printed edition are indicated _thus_.

As part of the conversion of the book to its new digital
format, we have made certain minor adjustments in its layout.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.






ON HER MAJESTY'S SECRET SERVICE

by Ian Fleming




    For
    SABLE BASILISK PURSUIVANT
    and HILARY BRAY
    who came to the aid of the party




TABLE OF CONTENTS

  1. Seascape with Figures
  2. Gran Turismo
  3. The Gambit of Shame
  4. All Cats are Grey
  5. The Capu
  6. Bond of Bond Street?
  7. The Hairy Heel of Achilles
  8. Fancy Cover
  9. Irma La Not So Douce
  10. Ten Gorgeous Girls
  11. Death for Breakfast
  12. Two Near Misses
  13. Princess Ruby?
  14. Sweet Dreams--Sweet Nightmare!
  15. The Heat Increases
  16. Downhill Only
  17. Bloody Snow
  18. Fork Left for Hell!
  19. Love for Breakfast
  20. M en Pantoufles
  21. The Man from Ag. and Fish.
  22. Something Called 'BW'
  23. Gauloises and Garlic
  24. Blood-Lift
  25. Hell's Delight, etc.
  26. Happiness Without a Shadow?
  27. All the Time in the World




CHAPTER 1. SEASCAPE WITH FIGURES


It was one of those Septembers when it seemed that the summer would
never end.

The five-mile promenade of Royale-les-Eaux, backed by trim lawns
emblazoned at intervals with tricolour beds of salvia, alyssum and
lobelia, was bright with flags and, on the longest beach in the north of
France, the gay bathing tents still marched prettily down to the
tide-line in big, money-making battalions. Music, one of those lilting
accordion waltzes, blared from the loudspeakers around the Olympic-size
piscine and, from time to time, echoing above the music, a man's voice
announced over the public address system that Philippe Bertrand, aged
seven, was looking for his mother, that Yolande Lefvre was waiting for
her friends below the clock at the entrance, or that a Madame Dufours
was demanded on the telephone. From the beach, particularly from the
neighbourhood of the three playground enclosures--'Joie de Vivre',
'Helio' and 'Azur'--came a twitter of children's cries that waxed and
waned with the thrill of their games and, farther out, on the firm sand
left by the now distant sea, the shrill whistle of the physical-fitness
instructor marshalled his teenagers through the last course of the day.

It was one of those beautiful, naive seaside panoramas for which the
Brittany and Picardy beaches have provided the setting--and inspired
their recorders, Boudin, Tissot, Monet--ever since the birth of plages
and bains de mer more than a hundred years ago.

To James Bond, sitting in one of the concrete shelters with his face to
the setting sun, there was something poignant, ephemeral about it all.
It reminded him almost too vividly of childhood--of the velvet feel of
the hot powder sand, and the painful grit of wet sand between young toes
when the time came for him to put his shoes and socks on, of the
precious little pile of sea-shells and interesting wrack on the sill of
his bedroom window ('No, we'll have to leave that behind, darling. It'll
dirty up your trunk!'), of the small crabs scuttling away from the
nervous fingers groping beneath the seaweed in the rock-pools, of the
swimming and swimming and swimming through the dancing waves--always in
those days, it seemed, lit with sunshine--and then the infuriating,
inevitable 'time to come out'. It was all there, his own childhood,
spread out before him to have another look at. What a long time ago they
were, those spade-and-bucket days! How far he had come since the
freckles and the Cadbury milk-chocolate Flakes and the fizzy lemonade!
Impatiently Bond lit a cigarette, pulled his shoulders out of their
slouch and slammed the mawkish memories back into their long-closed
file. Today he was a grown-up, a man with years of dirty, dangerous
memories--a spy. He was not sitting in this concrete hideout to
sentimentalize about a pack of scrubby, smelly children on a beach
scattered with bottle-tops and lolly-sticks and fringed by a sea thick
with sun-oil and putrid with the main drains of Royale. He was here, he
had chosen to be here, to spy. To spy on a woman.

The sun was getting lower. Already one could smell the September chill
that all day had lain hidden beneath the heat. The cohorts of bathers
were in quick retreat, striking their little camps and filtering up the
steps and across the promenade into the shelter of the town where the
lights were going up in the cafs. The announcer at the swimming-pool
harried his customers: 'Allo! Allo! Fermeture en dix minutes! A dix-huit
heures, fermeture de la piscine!' Silhouetted in the path of the setting
sun, the two Bombard rescue-boats with flags bearing a blue cross on a
yellow background were speeding northwards for their distant shelter
up-river in the Vieux Port. The last of the gay, giraffe-like
sand-yachts fled down the distant water-line towards its corral among
the sand dunes, and the three agents cyclistes in charge of the
car-parks pedalled away through the melting ranks of cars towards the
police station in the centre of the town. In a matter of minutes the
vast expanse of sand--the tide, still receding, was already a mile
out--would be left to the seagulls that would soon be flocking in their
hordes to forage for the scraps of food left by the picnickers. Then the
orange ball of the sun would hiss down into the sea and the beach would,
for a while, be entirely deserted, until, under cover of darkness, the
prowling lovers would come to writhe briefly, grittily in the dark
corners between the bathing-huts and the sea-wall.

On the beaten stretch of sand below where James Bond was sitting, two
golden girls in exciting bikinis packed up the game of Jokari which they
had been so provocatively playing, and raced each other up the steps
towards Bond's shelter. They flaunted their bodies at him, paused and
chattered to see if he would respond, and, when he didn't, linked arms
and sauntered on towards the town, leaving Bond wondering why it was
that French girls had more prominent navels than any others. Was it that
French surgeons sought to add, even in this minute respect, to the
future sex-appeal of girl babies?

And now, up and down the beach, the lifeguards gave a final blast on
their horns to announce that they were going off duty, the music from
the piscine stopped in mid-tune and the great expanse of sand was
suddenly deserted.

But not quite! A hundred yards out, lying face downwards on a black and
white striped bathing-wrap, on the private patch of firm sand where she
had installed herself an hour before, the girl was still there,
motionless, spread-eagled in direct line between James Bond and the
setting sun that was now turning the left-behind pools and shallow
rivulets into blood-red, meandering scrawls across the middle distance.
Bond went on watching her--now, in the silence and emptiness, with an
ounce more tension. He was waiting for her to do something--for
something, he didn't know what, to happen. It would be more true to say
that he was watching _over_ her. He had an instinct that she was in some
sort of danger. Or was it just that there was the smell of danger in the
air? He didn't know. He only knew that he mustn't leave her alone,
particularly now that everyone else had gone.

James Bond was mistaken. Not everyone else had gone. Behind him, at the
Caf de la Plage on the other side of the promenade, two men in
raincoats and dark caps sat at a secluded table bordering the sidewalk.
They had half-empty cups of coffee in front of them and they didn't
talk. They sat and watched the blur on the frosted-glass partition of
the shelter that was James Bond's head and shoulders. They also watched,
but less intently, the distant white blur on the sand that was the girl.
Their stillness, and their unseasonable clothes, would have made a
disquieting impression on anyone who, in his turn, might have been
watching them. But there was no such person, except their waiter who had
simply put them in the category of 'bad news' and hoped they would soon
be on their way.

When the lower rim of the orange sun touched the sea, it was almost as
if a signal had sounded for the girl. She slowly got to her feet, ran
both hands backwards through her hair and began to walk evenly,
purposefully towards the sun and the far-away froth of the water-line
over a mile away. It would be violet dusk by the time she reached the
sea and one might have guessed that this was probably the last day of
her holiday, her last bathe.

James Bond thought otherwise. He left his shelter, ran down the steps to
the sand and began walking out after her at a fast pace. Behind him,
across the promenade, the two men in raincoats also seemed to think
otherwise. One of them briskly threw down some coins and they both got
up and, walking strictly in step, crossed the promenade to the sand and,
with a kind of urgent military precision, marched rapidly side by side
in Bond's tracks.

Now the strange pattern of figures on the vast expanse of empty,
blood-streaked sand was eerily conspicuous. Yet it was surely not one to
be interfered with! The pattern had a nasty, a secret smell. The white
girl, the bare-headed young man, the two squat, marching pursuers--it
had something of a kind of deadly Grandmother's Steps about it. In the
caf, the waiter collected the coins and looked after the distant
figures, still outlined by the last quarter of the orange sun. It smelt
like police business--or the other thing. He would keep it to himself
but remember it. He might get his name in the papers.

James Bond was rapidly catching up with the girl. Now he knew that he
would get to her just as she reached the water-line. He began to wonder
what he would say to her, how he would put it. He couldn't say, 'I had a
hunch you were going to commit suicide so I came after you to stop you.'
'I was going for a walk on the beach and I thought I recognized you.
Will you have a drink after your swim?' would be childish. He finally
decided to say, 'Oh, Tracy!' and then, when she turned round, 'I was
worried about you.' Which would at least be inoffensive and, for the
matter of that, true.

The sea was now gunmetal below a primrose horizon. A small, westerly
offshore breeze, drawing the hot land-air out to sea, had risen and was
piling up wavelets that scrolled in whitely as far as the eye could see.
Flocks of herring gulls lazily rose and settled again at the girl's
approach, and the air was full of their mewing and of the endless
lap-lap of the small waves. The soft indigo dusk added a touch of
melancholy to the empty solitude of sand and sea, now so far away from
the comforting bright lights and holiday bustle of 'La Reine de la Cte
Opale', as Royale-les-Eaux had splendidly christened herself. Bond
looked forward to getting the girl back to those bright lights. He
watched the lithe golden figure in the white one-piece bathing-suit and
wondered how soon she would be able to hear his voice above the noise of
the gulls and the sea. Her pace had slowed a fraction as she approached
the water-line and her head, with its bell of heavy fair hair to the
shoulders, was slightly bowed, in thought perhaps, or tiredness.

Bond quickened his step until he was only ten paces behind her. 'Hey!
Tracy!'

The girl didn't start or turn quickly round. Her steps faltered and
stopped, and then, as a small wave creamed in and died at her feet, she
turned slowly and stood squarely facing him. Her eyes, puffed and wet
with tears, looked past him. Then they met his. She said dully, 'What is
it? What do you want?'

'I was worried about you. What are you doing out here? What's the
matter?'

The girl looked past him again. Her clenched right hand went up to her
mouth. She said something, something Bond couldn't understand, from
behind it. Then a voice from very close behind Bond, said softly,
silkily, 'Don't, move or you get it back of the knee.'

Bond swirled round into a crouch, his gun hand inside his coat. The
steady silver eyes of the two automatics sneered at him.

Bond slowly straightened himself. He dropped his hand to his side and
the held breath came out between his teeth in a quiet hiss. The two
dead-pan, professional faces told him even more than the two silver eyes
of the guns. They held no tension, no excitement. The thin half-smiles
were relaxed, contented. The eyes were not even wary. They were almost
bored. Bond had looked into such faces many times before. This was
routine. These men were killers--pro-killers.

Bond had no idea who these men were, who they worked for, what this was
all about. On the theory that worry is a dividend paid to disaster
before it is due, he consciously relaxed his muscles and emptied his
mind of questions. He stood and waited.

'Position your hands behind your neck.' The silky, patient voice was
from the south, from the Mediterranean. It fitted with the men's
faces--tough-skinned, widely pored, yellow-brown. Marseillais perhaps,
or Italian. The Mafia? The faces belonged to good secret police or tough
crooks. Bond's mind ticked and whirred, selecting cards like an IBM
machine. What enemies had he got in those areas? Might it be Blofeld?
Had the hare turned upon the hound?

When the odds are hopeless, when all seems to be lost, then is the time
to be calm, to make a show of authority--at least of indifference. Bond
smiled into the eyes of the man who had spoken. 'I don't think your
mother would like to know what you are doing this evening. You are a
Catholic? So I will do as you ask.' The man's eyes glittered. Touch!
Bond clasped his hands behind his head.

The man stood aside so as to have a clear field of fire while his Number
Two removed Bond's Walther PPK from the soft leather holster inside his
trouser belt and ran expert hands down his sides, down his arms to the
wrists and down the inside of his thighs. Then Number Two stood back,
pocketed the Walther and again took out his own gun.

Bond glanced over his shoulder. The girl had said nothing, expressed
neither surprise nor alarm. Now she was standing with her back to the
group, looking out to sea, apparently relaxed, unconcerned. What in
God's name was it all about? Had she been used as a bait? But for whom?
And now what? Was he to be executed, his body left lying to be rolled
back inshore by the tide? It seemed the only solution. If it was a
question of some kind of a deal, the four of them could not just walk
back across the mile of sand to the town and say polite goodbyes on the
promenade steps. No. This was the terminal point. Or was it? From the
north, through the deep indigo dusk, came the fast, rattling hum of an
outboard and, as Bond watched, the cream of a thick bow-wave showed and
then the blunt outline of one of the Bombard rescue-craft, the
flat-bottomed inflatable rubber boats with a single Johnson engine in
the flattened stern. So they had been spotted! By the coastguards
perhaps? And here was rescue! By God, he'd roast these two thugs when
they got to the harbour police at the Vieux Port! But what story would
he tell about the girl?

Bond turned back to face the men. At once he knew the worst. They had
rolled their trousers up to the knees and were waiting, composedly,
their shoes in one hand and their guns in the other. This was no rescue.
It was just part of the ride. Oh well! Paying no attention to the men,
Bond bent down, rolled up his trousers as they had done and, in the
process of fumbling with his socks and shoes, palmed one of his heel
knives and, half turning towards the boat that had now grounded in the
shallows, transferred it to his right-hand trouser pocket.

No words were exchanged. The girl climbed aboard first, then Bond, and
lastly the two men who helped the engine with a final shove on the
stern. The boatman, who looked like any other French deep-sea fisherman,
whirled the blunt nose of the Bombard round, changed gears to forward,
and they were off northwards through the buffeting waves while the
golden hair of the girl streamed back and softly whipped James Bond's
cheek.

'Tracy. You're going to catch cold. Here. Take my coat.' Bond slipped
his coat off. She held out a hand to help him put it on her. In the
process her hand found his and pressed it. Now what the hell? Bond edged
closer to her. He felt her body respond. Bond glanced at the two men.
They sat hunched against the wind, their hands in their pockets,
watchful, but somehow uninterested. Behind them the necklace of lights
that was Royale receded swiftly until it was only a golden glow on the
horizon. James Bond's right hand felt for the comforting knife in his
pocket and ran his thumb across the razor-sharp blade.

While he wondered how and when he might have a chance to use it, the
rest of his mind ran back over the previous twenty-four hours and panned
them for the gold-dust of truth.




CHAPTER 2. GRAN TURISMO


Almost exactly twenty-four hours before, James Bond had been
nursing his car, the old Continental Bentley--the 'R' type chassis
with the big 6 engine and a 13:40 back-axle ratio--that he had now been
driving for three years, along that fast but dull stretch of N.1 between
Abbeville and Montreuil that takes the English tourist back to his
country via Silver City Airways from Le Touquet or by ferry from
Boulogne or Calais. He was hurrying safely, at between eighty and
ninety, driving by the automatic pilot that is built in to all
rally-class drivers, and his mind was totally occupied with drafting his
letter of resignation from the Secret Service.

The letter, addressed 'Personal for M', had got to the following stage:

    Sir,

    I have the honour to request that you will accept my resignation
    from the Service, effective forthwith.

    My reasons for this submission, which I put forward with much
    regret, are the following:

    (1) My duties in the Service, until some twelve months ago, have
    been connected with the Double-O Section and you, Sir, have been
    kind enough, from time to time, to express your satisfaction
    with my performance of those duties, which I, for my part, have
    enjoyed. To my chagrin, [Bond had been pleased with this fine
    word] however, on the successful completion of Operation
    'Thunderball', I received personal instructions from you to
    concentrate all my efforts, without a terminal date, [another
    felicitous phrase!] on the pursuit of Ernst Stavro Blofeld and
    on his apprehension, together with any members of SPECTRE--otherwise
    'The Special Executive for Counter-Intelligence, Revenge and
    Extortion'--if that organization had been re-created since its
    destruction at the climax of Operation 'Thunderball'.

    (2) I accepted the assignment with, if you will recall,
    reluctance. It seemed to me, and I so expressed myself at the
    time, that this was purely an investigatory matter which could
    well have been handled, using straightforward police methods, by
    other sections of the Service--local Stations, allied foreign
    secret services and Interpol. My objections were overruled, and
    for close on twelve months I have been engaged all over the
    world in routine detective work which, in the case of every
    scrap of rumour, every lead, has proved abortive. I have found
    no trace of this man nor of a revived SPECTRE, if such exists.

    (3) My many appeals to be relieved of this wearisome and
    fruitless assignment, even when addressed to you personally,
    Sir, have been ignored or, on occasion, curtly dismissed, and my
    frequent animadversions [another good one!] to the effect that
    Blofeld is dead have been treated with a courtesy that I can
    only describe as scant. [Neat, that! Perhaps a bit too neat!]

    (4) The above unhappy circumstances have recently achieved their
    climax in my undercover mission (Ref. Station R'S PX 437/007) to
    Palermo, in pursuit of a hare of quite outrageous falsity. This
    animal took the shape of one 'Blauenfelder', a perfectly
    respectable German citizen engaged in viniculture--specifically
    the grafting of Moselle grapes on to the Sicilian strains to
    enhance the sugar content of the latter which, for your passing
    information, [Steady on, old chap! Better redraft all this!] are
    inclined to sourness. My investigations into this individual
    brought me to the attention of the Mafia and my departure from
    Sicily was, to say the least, ignominious.

    (5) Having regard, Sir, to the above and, specifically, to the
    continued misuse of the qualities, modest though they may be,
    that have previously fitted me for the more arduous, and, to me,
    more rewarding, duties associated with the work of the Double-O
    Section, I beg leave to submit my resignation from the Service.

                               I am, Sir,
                                            Your Obedient Servant,
                                                                007

Of course, reflected Bond, as he nursed the long bonnet of his car
through a built-up S-bend, he would have to rewrite a lot of it. Some of
it was a bit pompous and there were one or two cracks that would have to
be ironed out or toned down. But that was the gist of what he would
dictate to his secretary when he got back to the office the day after
tomorrow. And if she burst into tears, to hell with her! He meant it. By
God he did. He was fed to the teeth with chasing the ghost of Blofeld.
And the same went for SPECTRE. The thing had been smashed. Even a man
of Blofeld's genius, in the impossible event that he still existed,
could never get a machine of that calibre running again.

It was then, on a ten-mile straight cut through a forest, that it
happened. Triple wind-horns screamed their banshee discord in his ear,
and a low, white two-seater, a Lancia Flaminia Zagato Spyder with its
hood down, tore past him, cut in cheekily across his bonnet and pulled
away, the sexy boom of its twin exhausts echoing back from the border of
trees. And it was a girl driving, a girl with a shocking pink scarf tied
round her hair; leaving a brief pink tail that the wind blew horizontal
behind her.

If there was one thing that set James Bond really moving in life, with
the exception of gun-play, it was being passed at speed by a pretty
girl; and it was his experience that girls who drove competitively like
that were always pretty--and exciting. The shock of the wind-horn's
scream had automatically cut out 'George', emptied Bond's head of all
other thought, and brought his car back under manual control. Now, with
a tight-lipped smile, he stamped his foot into the floorboard, held the
wheel firmly at a quarter to three, and went after her.

100, 110, 115, and he still wasn't gaining. Bond reached forward to the
dashboard and flicked up a red switch. The thin high whine of machinery
on the brink of torment tore at his eardrums and the Bentley gave an
almost perceptible kick forward. 120, 125. He was definitely gaining. 50
yards, 40, 30! Now he could just see her eyes in her rear mirror. But
the good road was running out. One of those exclamation marks that the
French use to denote danger flashed by on his right. And now, over a
rise, there was a church spire, the clustered houses of a small village
at the bottom of a steepish hill, the snake sign of another S-bend. Both
cars slowed down--90, 80, 70. Bond watched her tail-lights briefly
blaze, saw her right hand reach down to the floor stick, almost
simultaneously with his own, and change down. Then they were in the
S-bend, on cobbles, and he had to brake as he enviously watched the way
her de Dion axle married her rear wheels to the rough going, while his
own live axle hopped and skittered as he wrenched at the wheel. And then
it was the end of the village, and, with a brief wag of her tail as she
came out of the S, she was off like a bat out of hell up the long
straight rise and he had lost fifty yards.

And so the race went on, Bond gaining a little on the straights but
losing it all to the famous Lancia road-holding through the
villages--and, he had to admit, to her wonderful, nerveless driving. And
now a big Michelin sign said 'Montreuil 5, Royale-les-Eaux 10, Le
Touquet-Paris-Plage 15', and he wondered about her destination and
debated with himself whether he shouldn't forget about Royale and the
night he had promised himself at its famous casino and just follow where
she went, wherever it was, and find out who this devil of a girl was.

The decision was taken out of his hands. Montreuil is a dangerous town
with cobbled, twisting streets and much farm traffic. Bond was fifty
yards behind her at the outskirts, but, with his big car, he couldn't
follow her fast slalom through the hazards and, by the time he was out
of the town and over the taples-Paris level-crossing, she had vanished.
The left-hand turn for Royale came up. Was there a little dust hanging
in the bend? Bond took the turn, somehow knowing that he was going to
see her again.

He leaned forward and flicked down the red switch. The moan of the
blower died away and there was silence in the car as he motored along,
easing his tense muscles. He wondered if the supercharger had damaged
the engine. Against the solemn warnings of Rolls-Royce, he had had
fitted, by his pet expert at the Headquarters' motor pool, an Arnott
supercharger controlled by a magnetic clutch. Rolls-Royce had said the
crankshaft bearings wouldn't take the extra load and, when he confessed
to them what he had done, they regretfully but firmly withdrew their
guarantees and washed their hands of their bastardized child. This was
the first time he had notched 125 and the rev. counter had hovered
dangerously over the red area at 4500. But the temperature and oil were
OK and there were no expensive noises. And, by God, it had been fun!

James Bond idled through the pretty approaches to Royale, through the
young beeches and the heavy-scented pines, looking forward to the
evening and remembering his other annual pilgrimages to this place and,
particularly, the great battle across the baize he had had with Le
Chiffre so many years ago. He had come a long way since then, dodged
many bullets and much death and loved many girls, but there had been a
drama and a poignancy about that particular adventure that every year
drew him back to Royale and its casino and to the small granite cross in
the little churchyard that simply said 'Vesper Lynd. RIP.'

And now what was the place holding for him on this beautiful September
evening? A big win? A painful loss? A beautiful girl--that beautiful
girl?

To think first of the game. This was the week-end of the 'clture
annuelle'. Tonight, this very Saturday night, the Casino Royale was
holding its last night of the season. It was always a big event and
there would be pilgrims even from Belgium and Holland, as well as the
rich regulars from Paris and Lille. In addition, the 'Syndicat
d'Initiative et des Bains de Mer de Royale' traditionally threw open its
doors to all its local contractors and suppliers, and there was free
champagne and a great groaning buffet to reward the town people for
their work during the season. It was a tremendous carouse that rarely
finished before breakfast time. The tables would be packed and there
would be a very high game indeed.

Bond had one million francs of private capital--Old Francs, of
course--about seven hundred pounds' worth. He always reckoned his
private funds in Old Francs. It made him feel so rich. On the other
hand, he made out his official expenses in New Francs because that made
them look smaller--but probably not to the Chief Accountant at
Headquarters! One million francs! For that evening he was a millionaire!
Might he so remain by tomorrow morning!

And now he was coming into the Promenade des Anglais and there was the
bastard Empire frontage of the Hotel Splendide. And there, by God, on
the gravel sweep alongside its steps, stood the little white Lancia and,
at this moment a bagagiste, in a striped waistcoat and green apron, was
carrying two Vuitton suitcases up the steps to the entrance!

So!

James Bond slid his car into the million-pound line of cars in the car
park, told the same bagagiste, who was now taking rich, small stuff out
of the Lancia, to bring up his bags, and went in to the reception-desk.
The manager impressively took over from the clerk and greeted Bond with
golden-toothed effusion, while making a mental note to earn a good mark
with the Chef de Police by reporting Bond's arrival, so that the Chef
could, in his turn, make a good mark with the Deuxime and the SDT by
putting the news on the teleprinter to Paris.

Bond said, 'By the way, Monsieur Maurice. Who is the lady who has just
driven up in the white Lancia? She is staying here?'

'Yes, indeed, Mon Commandant.' Bond received an extra two teeth in the
enthusiastic smile. 'The lady is a good friend of the house. The father
is a very big industrial from the South. She is La Comtesse Teresa di
Vicenzo. Monsieur must surely have read of her in the papers. Madame la
Comtesse is a lady--how shall I put it?'--the smile became secret,
between men--'a lady, shall we say, who lives life to the full.'

'Ah, yes. Thank you. And how has the season been?'

The small talk continued as the manager personally took Bond up in the
lift and showed him into one of the handsome grey and white Directoire
rooms with the deep rose coverlet on the bed that Bond remembered so
well. Then, with a final exchange of courtesies, James Bond was alone.

Bond was faintly disappointed. She sounded a bit grand for him, and he
didn't happen to like girls, film stars for instance, who were in any
way public property. He liked private girls, girls he could discover
himself and make his own. Perhaps, he admitted, there was inverted
snobbery in this. Perhaps, even less worthily, it was that the famous
ones were less easy to get.

His two battered suitcases came and he unpacked leisurely and then
ordered from Room Service a bottle of the Taittinger Blanc de Blancs
that he had made his traditional drink at Royale. When the bottle, in
its frosted silver bucket, came, he drank a quarter of it rather fast
and then went into the bathroom and had an ice-cold shower and washed
his hair with Pinaud Elixir, that prince among shampoos, to get the dust
of the roads out of it. Then he slipped on his dark-blue tropical
worsted trousers, white sea-island cotton shirt, socks and black casual
shoes (he abhorred shoe-laces), and went and sat by the window and
looked out across the promenade to the sea and wondered where he would
have dinner and what he would choose to eat.

James Bond was not a gourmet. In England he lived on grilled soles, oeufs
cocotte and cold roast beef with potato salad. But when travelling
abroad, generally by himself, meals were a welcome break in the day,
something to look forward to, something to break the tension of fast
driving, with its risks taken or avoided, the narrow squeaks, the
permanent background of concern for the fitness of his machine. In fact,
at this moment, after covering the long stretch from the Italian
frontier at Ventimiglia in a comfortable three days (God knew there was
no reason to hurry back to Headquarters!), he was fed to the teeth with
the sucker-traps for gourmandizing tourists. The 'Hostelleries', the
'Vieilles Auberges', the 'Relais Fleuris'--he had had the lot. He had
had their 'Bonnes Tables', and their 'Fines Bouteilles'. He had had
their 'Spcialits du Chef'--generally a rich sauce of cream and wine
and a few button mushrooms concealing poor quality meat or fish. He had
had the whole lip-smacking ritual of winemanship and foodmanship and,
incidentally, he had had quite enough of the Bisodol that went with it!

The French belly-religion had delivered its final kick at him the night
before. Wishing to avoid Orlans, he had stopped south of this
uninspiring city and had chosen a mock-Breton Auberge on the south bank
of the Loire, despite its profusion of window-boxes and sham beams,
ignoring the china cat pursuing the china bird across its gabled roof,
because it was right on the edge of the Loire--perhaps Bond's favourite
river in the world. He had stoically accepted the hammered copper
warming pans, brass cooking utensils and other antique bogosities that
cluttered the walls of the entrance hall, had left his bag in his room
and had gone for an agreeable walk along the softly running,
swallow-skimmed river. The dining-room, in which he was one of a small
handful of tourists, had sounded the alarm. Above a fire-place of
electric logs and over-polished fire-irons there had hung a coloured
plaster escutcheon bearing the dread device: I C Y   D O U L C E
 F R A N C E. All the plates, of some hideous local ware, bore the
jingle, irritatingly inscrutable, 'Jamais en Vain, Toujours en Vin', and
the surly waiter, stale with 'fin de saison', had served him with the
fly-walk of the Pt Maison (sent back for a new slice) and a Poularde 
la crme that was the only genuine antique in the place. Bond had
moodily washed down this sleazy provender with a bottle of instant
Pouilly-Fuiss and was finally insulted the next morning by a bill for
the meal in excess of five pounds.

It was to efface all these dyspeptic memories that Bond now sat at his
window, sipped his Taittinger and weighed up the pros and cons of the
local eating places and wondered what dishes it would be best to gamble
on. He finally chose one of his favourite restaurants in France, a
modest establishment, unpromisingly placed exactly opposite the railway
station of taples, rang up his old friend Monsieur Bcaud for a table
and, two hours later, was motoring back to the Casino with Turbot poch,
sauce mousseline, and half the best roast partridge he had eaten in his
life, under his belt.

Greatly encouraged, and further stimulated by half a bottle of Mouton
Rothschild '53 and a glass of ten-year-old Calvados with his three cups
of coffee, he went cheerfully up the thronged steps of the Casino with
the absolute certitude that this was going to be a night to remember.




CHAPTER 3. THE GAMBIT OF SHAME


(The Bombard had now beaten round the dolefully clanging bell-buoy
and was hammering slowly up the River Royale against the current.
The gay lights of the little marina, haven of cross-channel yachtsmen,
showed way up on the right bank, and it crossed Bond's mind to wait
 until they were slightly above it and then plunge his knife into
the side and bottom of the rubber Bombard and swim for it. But he
already heard in his mind the boom of the guns and heard the zwip and
splash of the bullets round his head until, probably, there came the
bright burst of light and the final flash of knowledge that he had at
last had it. And anyway, how well could the girl swim, and in this
current? Bond was now very cold. He leant closer against her and went
back to remembering the night before and combing his memories for
clues.)

After the long walk across the Salle d'Entre, past the vitrines of Van
Cleef, Lanvin, Herms and the rest, there came the brief pause for
identification at the long desk backed by the tiers of filing cabinets,
the payment for the Carte d'Entre pour les Salles de Jeux, the quick,
comptometer survey of the physiognomiste at the entrance, the bow and
flourish of the garishly uniformed huissier at the door, and James Bond
was inside the belly of the handsome, scented machine.

He paused for a moment by the caisse, his nostrils flaring at the smell
of the crowded, electric, elegant scene, then he walked slowly across to
the top chemin de fer table beside the entrance to the luxuriously
appointed bar, and caught the eye of Monsieur Pol, the Chef de Jeu of
the high game. Monsieur Pol spoke to a huissier and Bond was shown to
Number Seven, reserved by a counter from the huissier's pocket. The
huissier gave a quick brush to the baize inside the line--that famous
line that had been the bone of contention in the Tranby Croft case
involving King Edward VII--polished an ash-tray and pulled out the chair
for Bond. Bond sat down. The shoe was at the other end of the table, at
Number Three. Cheerful and relaxed, Bond examined the faces of the other
players while the Changeur changed his notes for a hundred thousand into
ten blood-red counters of ten thousand each. Bond stacked them in a neat
pile in front of him and watched the play which, he saw from the notice
hanging between the green-shaded lights over the table, was for a
minimum of one hundred New Francs, or ten thousand of the old. But, he
noted that the game was being opened by each banker for up to five
hundred New Francs--serious money--say forty pounds as a starter.

The players were the usual international mixture--three Lille textile
tycoons in over-padded dinner-jackets, a couple of heavy women in
diamonds who might be Belgian, a rather Agatha Christie-style little
Englishwoman who played quietly and successfully and might be a villa
owner, two middle-aged Americans in dark suits who appeared cheerful and
slightly drunk, probably down from Paris, and Bond. Watchers and casual
punters were two-deep round the table. No girl!

The game was cold. The shoe went slowly round the table, each banker in
turn going down on that dread third coup which, for some reason, is the
sound barrier at chemin de fer which must be broken if you are to have a
run. Each time, when it came to Bond's turn, he debated whether to bow
to the pattern and pass his bank after the second coup. Each time, for
nearly an hour of play, he obstinately told himself that the pattern
would break, and why not with him? That the cards have no memory and
that it was time for them to run. And each time, as did the other
players, he went down on the third coup. The shoe came to an end. Bond
left his money on the table and wandered off among the other tables,
visiting the roulette, the trente et quarante and the baccarat table, to
see if he could find the girl. When she had passed him that evening in
the Lancia, he had only caught a glimpse of fair hair and of a pure,
rather authoritative profile. But he knew that he would recognize her at
once, if only by the cord of animal magnetism that had bound them
together during the race. But there was no sign of her.

Bond went back to the table. The croupier was marshalling the six packs
into the oblong block that would soon be slipped into the waiting shoe.
Since Bond was beside him, the croupier offered him the neutral, plain
red card to cut the pack with. Bond rubbed the card between his fingers
and, with amused deliberation, slipped it as nearly half-way down the
block of cards as he could estimate. The croupier smiled at him and at
his deliberation, went through the legerdemain that would in due course
bring the red stop card into the tongue of the shoe and stop the game
just seven cards before the end of the shoe, packed the long block of
cards into the shoe, slid in the metal tongue that held them prisoner
and announced, loud and clear: 'Messieurs [the 'mesdames' are
traditionally not mentioned; since Victorian days it has been assumed
that ladies do not gamble], les jeux sont faits. Numro six  la main.'
The Chef de Jeu, on his throne behind the croupier, took up the cry, the
huissiers shepherded distant stragglers back to their places, and the
game began again.

James Bond confidently bancoed the Lille tycoon on his left, won, made
up the cagnotte with a few small counters, and doubled the stake to two
thousand New Francs--two hundred thousand of the old.

He won that, and the next. Now for the hurdle of the third coup and he
was off to the races! He won it with a natural nine! Eight hundred
thousand in the bank (as Bond reckoned it)! Again he won, with
difficulty this time--his six against a five. Then he decided to play it
safe and pile up some capital. Of the one million six, he asked for the
six hundred to be put 'en garage', removed from the stake, leaving a
bank of one million. Again he won. Now he put a million 'en garage'.
Once more a bank of a million, and now he would have a fat cushion of
one million six coming to him anyway! But it was getting difficult to
make up his stake. The table was becoming wary of this dark Englishman
who played so quietly, wary of the half-smile of certitude on his rather
cruel mouth. Who was he? Where did he come from? What did he do? There
was a murmur of excited speculation round the table. So far a run of
six. Would the Englishman pocket his small fortune and pass the bank? Or
would he continue to run it? Surely the cards must change! But James
Bond's mind was made up. The cards have no memory in defeat. They also
have no memory in victory. He ran the bank three more times, adding each
time a million to his 'garage', and then the little old English lady,
who had so far left the running to the others, stepped in and bancoed
him at the tenth turn, and Bond smiled across at her, knowing that she
was going to win. And she did, ignominiously, with a one against Bond's
'bche'--three kings, making zero.

There was a sigh of relief round the table. The spell had been broken!
And a whisper of envy as the heavy, mother-of-pearl plaques piled nearly
a foot high, four million, six hundred thousand francs' worth, well over
three thousand pounds, were shunted across to Bond with the flat of the
croupier's spatula. Bond tossed a plaque for a hundred New Francs to the
croupier, received the traditional 'Merci, monsieur! Pour le personnel!'
and the game went on.

James Bond lit a cigarette and paid little attention as the shoe went
shunting round the table away from him. He had made a packet, dammit! A
bloody packet! Now he must be careful. Sit on it. But not too careful,
not sit on all of it! This was a glorious evening. It was barely past
midnight. He didn't want to go home yet. So be it! He would run his bank
when it came to him, but do no bancoing of the others--absolutely none.
The cards had got hot. His run had shown that. There would be other runs
now, and he could easily burn his fingers chasing them.

Bond was right. When the shoe got to Number Five, to one of the Lille
tycoons two places to the left of Bond, an ill-mannered, loud-mouthed
player who smoked a cigar out of an amber-and-gold holder and who tore
at the cards with heavily manicured, spatulate fingers and slapped them
down like a German tarot player, he quickly got through the third coup
and was off. Bond, in accordance with his plan, left him severely alone
and now, at the sixth coup, the bank stood at twenty thousand New
Francs--twenty million of the old, and the table had got wary again.
Everyone was sitting on his money.

The croupier and the Chef de Jeu made their loud calls, 'Un banco de
vingt mille! Faites vos jeux, messieurs. Il reste  complter! Un banco
de vingt mille!'

And then there she was! She had come from nowhere and was standing
beside the croupier, and Bond had no time to take in more than golden
arms, a beautiful golden face with brilliant blue eyes and shocking pink
lips, some kind of a plain white dress, a bell of golden hair down to
her shoulders, and then it came. 'Banco!'

Everyone looked at her and there was a moment's silence. And then 'Le
banco est fait' from the croupier, and the monster from Lille (as Bond
now saw him) was tearing the cards out of the shoe, and hers were on
their way over to her on the croupier's spatula.

She bent down and there was a moment of discreet cleavage in the white V
of her neckline.

'Une carte.'

Bond's heart sank. She certainly hadn't anything better than a five. The
monster turned his up. Seven. And now he scrabbled out a card for her
and flicked it contemptuously across. A simpering queen!

The croupier delicately faced her other two cards with the tip of his
spatula. A four! She had lost!

Bond groaned inwardly and looked across to see how she had taken it.

What he saw was not reassuring. The girl was whispering urgently to the
Chef de Jeu. He was shaking his head, sweat was beading on his cheeks.
In the silence that had fallen round the table, the silence that licks
its lips at the strong smell of scandal, which was now electric in the
air, Bond heard the Chef de Jeu say firmly, 'Mais c'est mpossible. Je
regrette, madame. Il faut vous arranger  la caisse.'

And now that most awful of all whispers in a casino was running among
the watchers and the players like a slithering reptile: 'Le coup du
dshonneur! C'est le coup du dshonneur! Quelle honte! Quelle honte!'

Oh, my God! thought Bond. She's done it! She hasn't got the money! And
for some reason she can't get any credit at the caisse!

The monster from Lille was making the most of the situation. He knew
that the casino would pay in the case of a default. He sat back with
lowered eyes, puffing at his cigar, the injured party.

But Bond knew of the stigma the girl would carry for the rest of her
life. The Casinos of France are a strong trade union. They have to be.
Tomorrow the telegrams would go out: 'Madame la Comtesse Teresa di
Vicenzo, passport number X, is to be put on the black list.' That would
be the end of her casino life in France, in Italy, probably also in
Germany, Egypt and, today, England. It was like being declared a bad
risk at Lloyd's or with the City security firm of Dun and Bradstreet. In
American gambling circles, she might even have been liquidated. In
Europe, for her, the fate would be almost as severe. In the circles in
which, presumably, she moved, she would be bad news, unclean. The 'coup
du dshonneur' simply wasn't done. It was social ostracism.

Not caring about the social ostracism, thinking only about the wonderful
girl who had outdriven him, shown him her tail, between Abbeville and
Montreuil, James Bond leant slightly forward. He tossed two of the
precious pearly plaques into the centre of the table. He said, with a
slightly bored, slightly puzzled intonation, 'Forgive me. Madame has
forgotten that we agreed to play in partnership this evening.' And, not
looking at the girl, but speaking with authority to the Chef de Jeu, 'I
beg your pardon. My mind was elsewhere. Let the game continue.'

The tension round the table relaxed. Or rather it changed to another
target, away from the girl. Was it true what this Englishman had said?
But it must be! One does not pay twenty million francs for a girl. But
previously there had been no relationship between them--so far as one
could see. They had been at opposite sides of the table. No signs of
complicity had been exchanged. And the girl? She had shown no emotion.
She had looked at the man, once, with directness. Then she had quietly
moved away from the table, towards the bar. There was certainly
something odd here--something one did not understand. But the game was
proceeding. The Chef de Jeu had surreptitiously wiped a handkerchief
across his face. The croupier had raised his head, which, previously,
had seemed to be bowed under some kind of emotional guillotine. And now
the old pattern had re-established itself. 'La partie continue. Un banco
de quarante mille!'

James Bond glanced down at the still formidable pile of counters between
his curved, relaxed arms. It would be nice to get that twenty million
francs back. It might be hours before a banco of equal size offered the
chance. After all, he was playing with the casino's money! His profits
represented 'found' money and, if he lost, he could still go away with a
small profit--enough and to spare to pay for his night at Royale. And he
had taken a dislike to the monster from Lille. It would be amusing to
reverse the old fable--first to rescue the girl, then to slay the
monster. And it was time for the man's run of luck to end. After all,
the cards have no memory!

James Bond had not enough funds to take the whole banco, only half of
it, what is known as 'avec la table', meaning that the other players
could make up the remaining half if they wanted to. Bond, forgetting the
conservative strategy he had sworn himself to only half an hour before,
leant slightly forward and said, 'Avec la table,' and pushed twenty
thousand New Francs over the line.

Money followed his on to the table. Was this not the Englishman with the
green fingers? And Bond was pleased to note that the little old Agatha
Christie Englishwoman supported him with ten thousand. That was a good
omen! He looked at the banker, the man from Lille. His cigar had gone
out in its holder and his lips, where they gripped the holder, were
white. He was sweating profusely. He was debating whether to pass the
hand and take his fat profits or have one more go. The sharp, pig-like
eyes darted round the table, estimating if his four million was covered.

The croupier wanted to hurry the play. He said firmly, 'C'est plus que
fait, monsieur.'

The man from Lille made up his mind. He gave the shoe a fat slap, wiped
his hand on the baize and forced out a card. Then one for himself,
another for Bond, the fourth for him. Bond did not reach across Number
Six for the cards. He waited for them to be nudged towards him by the
croupier. He raised them just off the table, slid them far enough apart
between his hands to see the count, edged them together again and laid
them softly face down again on the table. He had a five! That dubious
jade on which one can either draw or not! The chances of improving your
hand towards or away from a nine are equal. He said 'Non,' quietly, and
looked across at the two anonymous pink backs of the cards in front of
the banker. The man tore them up, disgustedly tossed them out on to the
table. Two knaves. A 'bche'! Zero!

Now there were only four cards that could beat Bond and only one, the
five, that could equal him. Bond's heart thumped. The man scrabbled at
the shoe, snatched out the card, faced it. A nine, the nine of diamonds!
The curse of Scotland! The best!

It was a mere formality to turn over and reveal Bond's miserable five.
But there was a groan round the table. 'Il fallait tirer,' said someone.
But if he had, Bond would have drawn the nine and disimproved down to a
four. It all depended on what the next card, its pink tongue now hiding
its secret in the mouth of the shoe, might have been. Bond didn't wait
to see. He smiled a thin, rueful smile round the table to apologize to
his fellow losers, shovelled the rest of his chips into his coat pocket,
tipped the huissier who had been so busy emptying his ash-tray over the
hours of play, and slipped away from the table towards the bar, while
the croupier triumphantly announced, 'Un banco de quatre-vingt mille
francs! Faites vos jeux, messieurs! Un banco de quatre-vingt mille
Nouveaux Francs.' To hell with it! thought Bond. Half an hour before he
had had a small fortune in his pocket. Now, through a mixture of
romantic quixotry and sheer folly he had lost it all. Well, he shrugged,
he had asked for a night to remember. That was the first half of it.
What would be the second?

The girl was sitting by herself, with half a bottle of Bollinger in
front of her, staring moodily at nothing. She barely looked up when Bond
slipped into the chair next to hers and said, 'Well, I'm afraid our
syndicate lost again. I tried to get it back. I went "avec". I should
have left that brute alone. I stood on a five and he had a "bche" and
then drew a nine.'

She said dully, 'You should have drawn on the five. I always do.' She
reflected. 'But then you would have had a four. What was the next card?'

'I didn't wait to see. I came to look for you.'

She gave him a sideways, appraising glance. 'Why did you rescue me when
I made the "coup du dshonneur"?'

Bond shrugged. 'Beautiful girl in distress. Besides, we made friends
between Abbeville and Montreuil this evening. You drive like an angel.'
He smiled. 'But I don't think you'd have passed me if I'd been paying
attention. I was doing about ninety and not bothering to keep an eye on
the mirror. And I was thinking of other things.'

The gambit succeeded. Vivacity came into her face and voice. 'Oh, yes.
I'd have beaten you anyway. I'd have passed you in the villages.
Besides'--there was an edge of bitterness in her voice--'I would always
be able to beat you. You want to stay alive.'

Oh, lord! thought Bond. One of those! A girl with a wing, perhaps two
wings, down. He chose to let the remark lie. The half-bottle of Krug he
had ordered came. After the huissier had half filled the glass, Bond
topped it to the brim. He held it towards her without exaggeration. 'My
name is Bond, James Bond. Please stay alive, at any rate for tonight.'
He drank the glass down at one long gulp and filled it again.

She looked at him gravely, considering him. Then she also drank. She
said, 'My name is Tracy. That is short for all the names you were told
at the reception in the hotel. Teresa was a saint. I am not a saint. The
manager is perhaps a romantic. He told me of your inquiries. So shall we
go now? I am not interested in conversation. And you have earned your
reward.'

She rose abruptly. So did Bond, confused. 'No. I will go alone. You can
come later. The number is 45. There, if you wish, you can make the most
expensive piece of love of your life. It will have cost you forty
million francs. I hope it will be worth it.'




CHAPTER 4. ALL CATS ARE GREY


She was waiting in the big double bed, a single sheet pulled up to
her chin. The fair hair was spread out like golden wings under the
single reading light that was the only light in the room, and the blue
eyes blazed with a fervour that, in other girls, in other beds, James
Bond would have interpreted. But this one was in the grip of stresses he
could not even guess at. He locked the door behind him and came over and
sat on the edge of her bed and put one hand firmly on the little hill
that was her left breast. 'Now listen, Tracy,' he began, meaning to ask
at least one or two questions, find out something about this wonderful
girl who did hysterical things like gambling without the money to meet
her debts, driving like a potential suicide, hinting that she had had
enough of life.

But the girl reached up a swift hand that smelt of Guerlain's 'Ode' and
put it across his lips. 'I said "no conversation". Take off those
clothes. Make love to me. You are handsome and strong. I want to
remember what it can be like. Do anything you like. And tell me what you
like and what you would like from me. Be rough with me. Treat me like
the lowest whore in creation. Forget everything else. No questions. Take
me.'

An hour later, James Bond slipped out of bed without waking her, dressed
by the light of the promenade lights filtering between the curtains, and
went back to his room.

He showered and got in between the cool, rough French sheets of his own
bed and switched off his thinking about her. All he remembered, before
sleep took him, was that she had said when it was all over, 'That was
heaven, James. Will you please come back when you wake up. I must have
it once more.' Then she had turned over on her side away from him and,
without answering his last endearments, had gone to sleep--but not
before he had heard that she was crying.

What the hell? All cats are grey in the dark.

True or false?

Bond slept.

At eight o'clock he woke her and it was the same glorious thing again.
But this time he thought that she held him to her more tenderly, kissed
him not only with passion but with affection. But, after, when they
should have been making plans about the day, about where to have lunch,
when to bathe, she was at first evasive and then, when he pressed her,
childishly abusive.

'Get to hell away from me! Do you hear? You've had what you wanted. Now
get out!'

'Wasn't it what you wanted too?'

'No. You're a lousy goddam lover. Get out!'

Bond recognized the edge of hysteria, at least of desperation. He
dressed slowly, waiting for the tears to come, for the sheet that now
covered her totally to shake with sobs. But the tears didn't come. That
was bad! In some way this girl had come to the end of her tether, of too
many tethers. Bond felt a wave of affection for her, a sweeping urge to
protect her, to solve her problems, make her happy. With his hand on the
door-knob he said softly, 'Tracy. Let me help you. You've got some
troubles. That's not the end of the world. So have I. So has everyone
else.'

The dull clichs fell into the silent, sun-barred room, like clinker in
a grate.

'Go to hell!'

In the instant of opening and closing the door, Bond debated whether to
bang it shut, to shake her out of her mood, or to close it softly. He
closed it softly. Harshness would do no good with this girl. She had had
it, somehow, somewhere--too much of it. He went off down the corridor,
feeling, for the first time in his life, totally inadequate.

                        *          *          *

(The Bombard thrashed on up river. It had passed the marina and, with
the narrowing banks, the current was stronger. The two thugs in the
stern still kept their quiet eyes on Bond. In the bows, the girl still
held her proud profile into the wind like the figure-head on a sailing
ship. In Bond, the only warmth was in his contact with her back and his
hand on the haft of his knife. Yet, in a curious way, he felt closer to
her, far closer, than in the transports of the night before. Somehow he
felt she was as much a prisoner as he was. How? Why? Way ahead the
lights of the Vieux Port, once close to the sea, but now left behind by
some quirk of the Channel currents that had built up the approaches to
the river, shone sparsely. Before many years they would go out and a new
harbour, nearer the mouth of the river, would be built for the deep-sea
trawlers that served Royale with their soles and lobsters and crabs and
prawns. On this side of the lights were occasional gaunt jetties built
out into the river by private yacht-owners. Behind them were villas that
would have names like 'Rosalie', 'Toi et Moi', 'Nid Azur' and 'Nouvelle
Vague'. James Bond nursed the knife and smelt the 'Ode' that came to him
above the stink of mud and seaweed from the river banks. His teeth had
never chattered before. Now they chattered. He stopped them and went
back to his memories.)

Normally, breakfast was an important part of Bond's day, but today he
had barely noticed what he was eating, hurried through the meal and sat
gazing out of his window and across the promenade, chain-smoking and
wondering about the girl. He knew nothing positive about her, not even
her nationality. The Mediterranean was in her name, yet she was surely
neither Italian nor Spanish. Her English was faultless and her clothes
and the way she wore them were the products of expensive
surroundings--perhaps a Swiss finishing school. She didn't smoke, seemed
to drink only sparingly, and there was no sign of drugtaking. There had
not even been sleeping pills beside the bed or in her bathroom. She
could only be about twenty-five, yet she made love with the fervour and
expertness of a girl who, in the American phrase, had 'gone the route'.
She hadn't laughed once, had hardly smiled. She seemed in the grip of
some deep melancholy, some form of spiritual accidie that made life, on
her own admission, no longer worth living. And yet there were none of
those signs that one associates with the hysteria of female
neurotics--the unkempt hair and sloppy make-up, the atmosphere of
disarray and chaos they create around them. On the contrary, she seemed
to possess an ice-cold will, authority over herself and an exact idea of
what she wanted and where she was going. And where was that? In Bond's
book she had desperate intentions, most likely suicide, and last night
had been the last fling.

He looked down at the little white car that was now not far from his in
the parking lot. Somehow he must stick close to her, watch over her, at
least until he was satisfied that his deadly conclusions were wrongs. As
a first step, he rang down to the concierge and ordered a drive-yourself
Simca Aronde. Yes, it should be delivered at once and left in the
parking lot. He would bring his international driving licence and green
insurance card down to the concierge who would kindly complete the
formalities.

Bond shaved and dressed and took the papers down and returned to his
room. He stayed there, watching the entrance and the little white car
until 4.30 in the afternoon. Then, at last, she appeared, in the black
and white striped bathing-wrap, and Bond ran down the corridor to the
lift. It was not difficult to follow her as she drove along the
promenade and left her car in one of the parking lots, and it was also
no problem for the little anonymous 2CV Citroen that followed Bond.

And then had been set up the train of the watchers and the watched which
was now drawing to its mysterious climax as the little Bombard thrashed
its way up the River Royale under the stars.

What to make of it all? Had she been a witting or unwitting bait? Was
this a kidnapping? If so, of one or of both? Was it blackmail? The
revenge of a husband or another lover? Or was it to be murder?

Bond was still raking his mind for clues when the helmsman turned the
Bombard in a wide curve across the current towards a battered, skeletal
jetty that projected from the muddy bank into the stream. He pulled up
under its lee, a powerful flashlight shone down on them out of the
darkness, a rope clattered down and the boat was hauled to the foot of
muddy wooden steps. One of the thugs climbed out first, followed by the
girl, the white bottom of her bathing dress lascivious below Bond's
coat, then Bond, then the second thug. Then the Bombard backed quickly
away and continued up river, presumably, thought Bond, to its legitimate
mooring in the Vieux Port.

There were two more men, of much the same build as the others, on the
jetty. No words were spoken as, surrounded, the girl and Bond were
escorted up the small dust road that led away from the jetty through the
sand dunes. A hundred yards from the river, tucked away in a gully
between tall dunes, there was a glimmer of light. When Bond got nearer
he saw that it came from one of those giant corrugated aluminium
transport-trucks that, behind an articulated driver's cabin, roar down
the arterial routes of France belching diesel smoke and hissing angrily
with their hydraulic brakes as they snake through the towns and
villages. This one was a glinting, polished affair. It looked new, but
might just be well cared for. As they approached, the man with the
flashlight gave some signal, and an oblong of yellow light promptly
blazed as the caravan-like door in the rear was thrown open. Bond
fingered his knife. Were the odds in any way within reason? They were
not. Before he climbed up the steps into the interior, he glanced down
at the numberplate. The commercial licence said, 'Marseille-Rhne. M.
Draco. Appareils lectriques. 397694.' So! One more riddle!

Inside it was, thank God, warm. A passage-way led between stacked rows
of cartons marked with the famous names of television manufacturers.
Dummies? There were also folded chairs and the signs of a disturbed game
of cards. This was presumably used as the guard-room. Then, on both
sides, the doors of cabins. Tracy was waiting at one of the doors. She
held out his coat to him, said an expressionless 'Thank you' and closed
the door after Bond had caught a brief glimpse of a luxurious interior.
Bond took his time putting on his coat. The single man with the gun who
was following him said impatiently, 'Allez!' Bond wondered whether to
jump him. But, behind, the other three men stood watching. Bond
contented himself with a mild 'Merde  vous!' and went ahead to the
aluminium door that presumably sealed off the third and forward
compartment in this strange vehicle. Behind this door lay the answer. It
was probably one man--the leader. This might be the only chance. Bond's
right hand was already grasping the hilt of his knife in his trouser
pocket. Now he put out his left hand and, in one swirl of motion, leaped
through, kicked the door shut behind him and crouched, the knife held
for throwing.

Behind him he felt the guard throw himself at the door, but Bond had his
back to it and it held. The man, ten feet away behind the desk, within
easy range for the knife, called out something, an order, a cheerful,
gay order in some language Bond had never heard. The pressure on the
door ceased. The man smiled a wide, a charming smile that cracked his
creased walnut of a face in two. He got to his feet and slowly raised
his hands. 'I surrender. And I am now a much bigger target. But do not
kill me, I beg of you. At least not until we have had a stiff whisky and
soda and a talk. Then I will give you the choice again. OK?'

Bond rose to his full height. He smiled back. He couldn't help it. The
man had such a delightful face, so lit with humour and mischief and
magnetism that, at least in the man's present role. Bond could no more
have killed him than he could have killed, well, Tracy.

There was a calendar hanging on the wall beside the man. Bond wanted to
let off steam against something, anything. He said, 'September the
sixteenth,' and jerked his right hand forward in the underhand throw.
The knife flashed across the room, missed the man by about a yard, and
stuck, quivering, half-way down the page of the calendar.

The man turned and looked inquisitively at the calendar. He laughed out
loud. 'Actually the fifteenth. But quite respectable, I must set you
against my men one of these days. And I might even bet on you. It would
teach them a lesson.'

He came out from behind his desk, a smallish, middle-aged man with a
brown, crinkled face. He was dressed in the sort of comfortable
dark-blue suit Bond himself wore. The chest and the arms bulged with
muscle. Bond noticed the fullness of the cut of the coat under the
arm-pits. Built for guns? The man held out a hand. It was warm and firm
and dry. 'Marc-Ange Draco is my name. You have heard of it?'

'No.'

'Aha! But I have heard of yours. It is Commander James Bond. You have a
decoration called the CMG. You are a member, an important member, of Her
Majesty's Secret Service. You have been taken off your usual duties and
you are on temporary assignment abroad.' The impish face creased with
delight. 'Yes?'

James Bond, to cover his confusion, walked across to the calendar,
verified that he had in fact pierced the fifteenth, pulled out the knife
and slipped it back in his trouser pocket. He turned and said, 'What
makes you think so?'

The man didn't answer. He said, 'Come. Come and sit down. I have much to
talk to you about. But first the whisky and soda. Yes?' He indicated a
comfortable armchair across the desk from his own, put in front of it a
large silver box containing various kinds of cigarettes, and went to a
metal filing cabinet against the wall and opened it. It contained no
files. It was a complete and compact bar. With efficient, housekeeperly
movements he took out a bottle of Pinchbottle Haig, another of I. W.
Harper's Bourbon, two pint glasses that looked like Waterford; a bucket
of ice cubes, a siphon of soda and a flagon of iced water. One by one he
placed these on the desk between his chair and Bond's. Then, while Bond
poured himself a stiff Bourbon and water with plenty of ice, he went and
sat down across the desk from Bond, reached for the Haig and said,
looking Bond very directly in the eye, 'I learned who you are from a
good friend in the Deuxime in Paris. He is paid to give me such
information when I want it. I learned it very early this morning. I am
in the opposite camp to yourself--not directly opposite. Let us say at a
tangent on the field.' He paused. He lifted his glass. He said with much
seriousness, 'I am now going to establish confidence with you. By the
only means. I am going once again to place my life in your hands.'

He drank. So did Bond. In the filing cabinet, in its icebox, the hum of
the generator broke in on what Bond suddenly knew was going to be an
important moment of truth. He didn't know what the truth was going to
be. He didn't think it was going to be bad. But he had an instinct that,
somehow, perhaps because he had conceived respect and affection for this
man, it was going to mean deep involvement for himself.

The generator stopped.

The eyes in the walnut face held his.

'I am the head of the Union Corse.'




CHAPTER 5. THE CAPU


The Union Corse! Now at least some of the mystery was explained.
Bond looked across the desk into the brown eyes that were now shrewdly
watching his reactions while his mind flicked through the file that bore
the innocent title, 'The Union Corse', more deadly and perhaps even
older than the Unione Siciliano, the Mafia. He knew that it controlled
most organized crime throughout metropolitan France and her
colonies--protection rackets, smuggling, prostitution and the
suppression of rival gangs. Only a few months ago a certain Rossi had
been shot dead in a bar in Nice. A year before that, a Jean Giudicelli
had been liquidated after several previous attempts had failed. Both
these men had been known pretenders to the throne of Capu--the
ebullient, cheerful man who now sat so peacefully across the table from
Bond. Then there was this mysterious business of Rommel's treasure,
supposed to be hidden beneath the sea somewhere off Bastia. In 1948 a
Czech diver called Fleigh, who had been in the Abwehr, and had got on
the track of it, was warned off by the Union and then vanished off the
face of the earth. Quite recently the body of a young French diver,
Andr Mattei, was found riddled with bullets by the roadside near
Bastia. He had foolishly boasted in the local bars that he knew the
whereabouts of the treasure and had come to dive for it. Did Marc-Ange
know the secret of this treasure? Had he been responsible for the
killing of these two divers? The little village of Calenzana in the
Balagne boasted of having produced more gangsters than any other village
in Corsica and of being in consequence one of the most prosperous. The
local mayor had held office for fifty-six years--the longest reigning
mayor in France. Marc-Ange would surely be a son of that little
community, know the secrets of that famous mayor, know, for instance, of
that big American gangster who had just returned to discreet retirement
in the village after a highly profitable career in the States.

It would be fun to drop some of these names casually in this quiet
little room--fun to tell Marc-Ange that Bond knew of the old abandoned
jetty called the Port of Crovani near the village of Galeria, and of the
ancient silver mine called Argentella in the hills behind, whose maze of
underground tunnels accommodates one of the great world junctions in the
heroin traffic. Yes, it would be fun to frighten his captor in exchange
for the fright he had given Bond. But better keep this ammunition in
reserve until more had been revealed! For the time being it was
interesting to note that this was Marc-Ange Draco's travelling
headquarters. His contact in the Deuxime Bureau would be an essential
tip-off man. Bond and the girl had been 'sent for' for some purpose that
was still to be announced. The 'borrowing' of the Bombard rescue-boat
would have been a simple matter of finance in the right quarter, perhaps
accompanied by a 'pot de vin' for the coastguards to look the other way.
The guards were Corsicans. On reflection, that was anyway what they
looked like. The whole operation was simple for an organization as
powerful as the Union--as simple in France as it would have been for the
Mafia in most of Italy. And now for more veils to be lifted! James Bond
sipped his drink and watched the other man's face with respect. This was
one of the great professionals of the world!

(How typical of Corsica, Bond thought, that their top bandit should bear
the name of an angel! He remembered that two other famous Corsican
gangsters had been called 'Gracieux' and 'Toussaint'--'All-Saints'.)
Marc-Ange spoke. He spoke excellent but occasionally rather clumsy
English, as if he had been well taught but had little occasion to use
the language. He said, 'My dear Commander, everything I am going to
discuss with you will please remain behind your Herkos Odonton. You know
the expression? No?' The wide smile lit up his face. 'Then, if I may say
so, your education was incomplete. It is from the classical Greek. It
means literally "the hedge of the teeth". It was the Greek equivalent of
your "top secret". Is that agreed?'

Bond shrugged. 'If you tell me secrets that affect my profession, I'm
afraid I shall have to pass them on.'

'That I fully comprehend. What I wish to discuss is a personal matter.
It concerns my daughter, Teresa.'

Good God! The plot was indeed thickening! Bond concealed his surprise.
He said, 'Then I agree.' He smiled. '"Herkos Odonton" it is.'

'Thank you. You are a man to trust. You would have to be, in your
profession, but I see it also in your face. Now then.' He lit a Caporal
and sat back in his chair. He gazed at a point on the aluminium wall
above Bond's head, only occasionally looking into Bond's eyes when he
wished to emphasize a point. 'I was married once only, to an English
girl, an English governess. She was a romantic. She had come to Corsica
to look for bandits'--he smiled--'rather like some English women
adventure into the desert to look for sheiks. She explained to me later
that she must have been possessed by a subconscious desire to be raped.
Well'--this time he didn't smile--'she found me in the mountains and she
was raped--by me. The police were after me at the time, they have been
for most of my life, and the girl was a grave encumbrance. But for some
reason she refused to leave me. There was a wildness in her, a love of
the unconventional, and, for God knows what reason, she liked the months
of being chased from cave to cave, of getting food by robbery at night.
She even learned to skin and cook a moufflon, those are our mountain
sheep, and even eat the animal, which is tough as shoe leather and about
as palatable. And in those crazy months, I came to love this girl and I
smuggled her away from the island to Marseilles and married her.' He
paused and looked at Bond. 'The result, my dear Commander, was Teresa,
my only child.'

So, thought Bond. That explained the curious mixture the girl was--the
kind of wild 'lady' that was so puzzling in her. What a complex of
bloods and temperaments! Corsican English. No wonder he hadn't been able
to define her nationality.

'My wife died ten years ago'--Marc-Ange held up his hand, not wanting
sympathy--'and I had the girl's education finished in Switzerland. I was
already rich and at that time I was elected Capu, that is chief, of the
Union, and became infinitely richer--by means, my dear Commander, which
you can guess but need not inquire into. The girl was--how do you
say?--that charming expression, "the apple of my eye", and I gave her
all she wanted. But she was a wild one, a wild bird, without a proper
home, or, since I was always on the move, without proper supervision.
Through her school in Switzerland, she entered the fast international
set that one reads of in the newspapers--the South American
millionaires, the Indian princelings, the Paris English and Americans,
the playboys of Cannes and Gstaad. She was always getting in and out of
scrapes and scandals, and when I remonstrated with her, cut off her
allowance, she would commit some even grosser folly--to spite me, I
suppose.' He paused and looked at Bond and now there was a terrible
misery in the happy face. 'And yet all the while, behind her bravado,
the mother's side of her blood was making her hate herself, despise
herself more and more, and as I now see it, the worm of self-destruction
had somehow got a hold inside her and, behind the wild, playgirl faade,
was eating away what I can only describe as her soul.' He looked at
Bond. 'You know that this can happen, my friend--to men and to women.
They burn the heart out of themselves by living too greedily, and
suddenly they examine their lives and see that they are worthless. They
have had everything, eaten all the sweets of life at one great banquet,
and there is nothing left. She made what I now see was a desperate
attempt to get back on the rails, so to speak. She went off, without
telling me, and married, perhaps with the idea of settling down. But the
man, a worthless Italian called Vicenzo, Count Giulio di Vicenzo, took
as much of her money as he could lay his hands on and deserted her,
leaving her with a girl child. I purchased a divorce and bought a small
chteau for my daughter in the Dordogne and installed her there, and for
once, with the baby and a pretty garden to look after, she seemed almost
at peace. And then, my friend, six months ago, the baby died--died of
that most terrible of all children's ailments, spinal meningitis.

There was silence in the little metal room. Bond thought of the girl a
few yards away down the corridor. Yes. He had been near the truth. He
had seen some of this tragic story in the calm desperation of the girl.
She had indeed come to the end of the road!

Marc-Ange got slowly up from his chair and came round and poured out
more whisky for himself and for Bond. He said, 'Forgive me. I am a poor
host. But the telling of this story, which I have always kept locked up
inside me, to another man, has been a great relief.' He put a hand on
Bond's shoulder. 'You understand that?'

'Yes. I understand that. But she is a fine girl. She still has nearly
all her life to live. Have you thought of psychoanalysis? Of her church?
Is she a Catholic?'

'No. Her mother would not have it. She is Presbyterian. But wait while I
finish the story.' He went back to his chair and sat down heavily.
'After the tragedy, she disappeared. She took her jewels and went off in
that little car of hers, and I heard occasional news of her, selling the
jewels and living furiously all over Europe, with her old set. Naturally
I followed her, had her watched when I could, but she avoided all my
attempts to meet her and talk to her. Then I heard from one of my agents
that she had reserved a room here, at the Splendide, for last night, and
I hurried down from Paris'--he waved a hand--'in this, because I had a
presentiment of tragedy. You see, this was where we had spent the
summers in her childhood and she had always loved it. She is a wonderful
swimmer and she was almost literally in love with the sea. And, when I
got the news, I suddenly had a dreadful memory, the memory of a day when
she had been naughty and had been locked in her room all afternoon
instead of going bathing. That night she had said to her mother, quite
calmly, "You made me very unhappy keeping me away from the sea. One day,
if I get really unhappy I shall swim out into the sea, down the path of
the moon or the sun, and go on swimming until I sink. So there!" Her
mother told me the story and we laughed over it together, at the
childish tantrum. But now I suddenly remembered again the occasion and
it seemed to me that the childish fantasy might well have stayed with
her, locked away deep down, and that now, wanting to put an end to
herself, she had resurrected it and was going to act on it. And so, my
dear friend, I had her closely watched from the moment she arrived. Your
gentlemanly conduct in the casino, for which'--he looked across at
Bond--'I now deeply thank you, was reported to me, as of course were
your later movements together.' He held up his hand as Bond shifted with
embarrassment. 'There is nothing to be ashamed of, to apologize for, in
what you did last night. A man is a man and, who knows?--but I shall
come to that later. What you did, the way you behaved in general, may
have been the beginning of some kind of therapy.'

Bond remembered how, in the Bombard, she had yielded when he leaned
against her. It had been a tiny reaction, but it had held more
affection, more warmth, than all the physical ecstasies of the night.
Now, suddenly he had an inkling of why he might be here, where the root
of the mystery lay, and he gave an involuntary shudder, as if someone
had walked over his grave.

Marc-Ange continued, 'So I put in my inquiry to my I friend from the
Deuxime, at six o'clock this morning. At eight o'clock he went to his
office and to the central files and by nine o'clock he had reported to
me fully about you--by radio. I have a high-powered station in this
vehicle.' He smiled. 'And that is another of my secrets that I deliver
into your hands. The report, if I may say so, was entirely to your
credit, both as an officer in your Service, and, more important, as a
man--a man, that is, in the terms that I understand the word. So I
reflected. I reflected all through this morning. And, in the end, I gave
orders that you were both to be brought to me here.' He made a
throw-away gesture with his right hand. 'I need not tell you the details
of my instructions. You yourself saw them in operation. You have been
inconvenienced. I apologize. You have perhaps thought yourself in
danger. Forgive me. I only trust that my men behaved with correctness,
with finesse.'

Bond smiled. 'I am very glad to have met you. If the introduction had to
be effected at the point of two automatics, that will only make it all
the more memorable. The whole affair was certainly executed with
neatness and expedition.'

Marc-Ange's expression was rueful. 'Now you are being sarcastic. But
believe me, my friend, drastic measures were necessary. I knew they
were.' He reached to the top drawer of his desk, took out a sheet of
writing-paper and passed it over to Bond. 'And now, if you read that,
you will agree with me. That letter was handed in to the concierge of
the Splendide at 4.30 this afternoon for posting to me in Marseilles,
when Teresa went out and you followed her. You suspected something? You
also feared for her? Read it, please.'

Bond took the letter. He said, 'Yes. I was worried about her. She is a
girl worth worrying about.' He held up the letter. It contained only a
few words, written clearly, with decision.

    Dear Papa,

    I am sorry, but I have had enough. It is only sad because
    tonight I met a man who might have changed my mind. He is an
    Englishman called James Bond. Please find him and pay him 20,000
    New Francs which I owe him. And thank him from me.

    This is nobody's fault but my own.

    Goodbye and forgive me.

                                                             TRACY

Bond didn't look at the man who had received this letter. He slid it
back to him across the desk. He took a deep drink of the whisky and
reached for the bottle. He said, 'Yes, I see.'

'She likes to call herself Tracy. She thinks Teresa sounds too grand.'

'Yes.'

'Commander Bond.' There was now a terrible urgency in the man's
voice--urgency, authority and appeal. 'My friend, you have heard the
whole story and now you have seen the evidence. Will you help me? Will
you help me save this girl? It is my only chance, that you will give her
hope. That you will give her a reason to live. Will you?'

Bond kept his eyes on the desk in front of him. He dared not look up and
see the expression on this man's face. So he had been right, right to
fear that he was going to become involved in all this private trouble!
He cursed under his breath. The idea appalled him. He was no Good
Samaritan. He was no doctor for wounded birds. What she needed, he said
fiercely to himself, was the psychiatrist's couch. All right, so she had
taken a passing fancy to him and he to her. Now he was going to be
asked, he knew it, to pick her up and carry her perhaps for the rest of
his life, haunted by the knowledge, the unspoken blackmail, that, if he
dropped her, it would almost certainly be to kill her. He said glumly,
'I do not see that I can help. What is it you have in mind?' He picked
up his glass and looked into it. He drank, to give him courage to look
across the desk into Marc-Ange's face.

The man's soft brown eyes glittered with tension. The creased dark skin
round the mouth had sunk into deeper folds. He said, holding Bond's
eyes, 'I wish you to pay court to my daughter and marry her. On the day
of the marriage, I will give you a personal dowry of one million pounds
in gold.'

James Bond exploded angrily. 'What you ask is utterly impossible. The
girl is sick. What she needs is a psychiatrist. Not me. And I do not
want to marry, not anyone. Nor do I want a million pounds. I have enough
money for my needs. I have my profession.' (Is that true? What about
that letter of resignation? Bond ignored the private voice.) 'You must
understand all this.' Suddenly he could not bear the hurt in the man's
face. He said, softly, 'She is a wonderful girl. I will do all I can for
her. But only when she is well again. Then I would certainly like to see
her again--very much. But, if she thinks so well of me, if you do, then
she must first get well of her own accord. That is the only way. Any
doctor would tell you so. She must go to some clinic, the best there is,
in Switzerland probably, and bury her past. She must want to live again.
Then, only then, would there be any point in our meeting again.' He
pleaded with Marc-Ange. 'You do understand, don't you, Marc-Ange? I am a
ruthless man. I admit it. And I have not got the patience to act as
anyone's nurse, man or woman. Your idea of a cure might only drive her
into deeper despair. You must see that I cannot take the responsibility,
however much I am attracted by your daughter.' Bond ended lamely, 'Which
I am.'

The man said resignedly, 'I understand you, my friend. And I will not
importune you with further arguments. I will try and act in the way you
suggest. But will you please do one further favour for me? It is now
nine o'clock. Will you please take her out to dinner tonight? Talk to
her as you please, but show her that she is wanted, that you have
affection for her. Her car is here and her clothes. I have had them
brought. If only you can persuade her that you would like to see her
again, I think I may be able to do the rest. Will you do this for me?'

Bond thought, God, what an evening! But he smiled with all the warmth he
could summon. 'But of course. I would love to do that. But I am booked
on the first morning flight from Le Touquet tomorrow morning. Will you
be responsible for her from then?'

'Certainly, my friend. Of course I will do that.' Marc-Ange brusquely
wiped a hand across his eyes. 'Forgive me. But you have given me hope at
the end of a long night.' He straightened his shoulders and suddenly
leaned across the desk and put his hands decisively down. 'I will not
thank you. I cannot, but tell me, my dear friend, is there anything in
this world that I can do for you, now at this moment? I have great
resources, great knowledge, great power. They are all yours. Is there
nothing I can do for you?'

Bond had a flash of inspiration. He smiled broadly. 'There is a piece of
information I want. There is a man called Blofeld, Ernst Stavro Blofeld.
You will have heard of him. I wish to know if he is alive and where he
is to be found.'

Marc-Ange's face underwent a remarkable change. Now the bandit, cold,
cruel, avenging, looked out through the eyes that had suddenly gone as
hard as brown opals. 'Aha!' he said thoughtfully. 'The Blofeld. Yes, he
is certainly alive. Only recently he suborned three of my men, bribed
them away from the Union. He has done this to me before. Three of the
members of the old SPECTRE were taken from the Union. Come, let us find
out what we can.'

There was a single black telephone on the desk. He picked up the
receiver and at once Bond heard the soft crackle of the operator
responding. '_Dammi u commandu._' Marc-Ange put the receiver back. 'I
have asked for my local headquarters in Ajaccio. We will have them in
five minutes. But I must speak fast. The police may know my frequency,
though I change it every week. But the Corsican dialect helps.' The
telephone burred. When Marc-Ange picked up the receiver, Bond could hear
the zing and crackle he knew so well. Marc-Ange spoke, in a voice of
rasping authority. '_Ecco u Capu. Avette nuttizie di Blofeld, Ernst
Stavro? Duve sta?_' A voice crackled thinly. '_Site sigura? Ma no ezzatu
indirizzu?_' More crackle. '_Buon. Sara tutto._'

Marc-Ange put back the receiver. He spread his hands apologetically.
'All we know is that he is in Switzerland. We have no exact address for
him. Will that help? Surely your men there can find him--if the Swiss
Scurit will help. But they are difficult brutes when it comes to the
privacy of a resident, particularly if he is rich.'

Bond's pulse had quickened with triumph. Got you, you bastard! He said
enthusiastically, 'That's wonderful, Marc-Ange. The rest shouldn't be
difficult. We have good friends in Switzerland.'

Marc-Ange smiled happily at Bond's reaction. He said seriously, 'But if
things go wrong for you, on this case or in any other way, you will come
at once to me. Yes?' He pulled open a drawer and handed a sheet of
notepaper over to Bond. 'This is my open address. Telephone or cable to
me, but put your request or your news in terms that would be used in
connexion with electrical appliances. A consignment of radios is faulty.
You will meet my representative at such and such a place, on such and
such a date. Yes? You understand these tricks, and anyway'--he smiled
slyly--'I believe you are connected with an international export firm.
"Universal Export", isn't it?'

Bond smiled. How did the old devil know these things? Should he warn
Security? No. This man had become a friend. And anyway, all this was
Herkos Odonton!

Marc-Ange said diffidently, 'And now may I bring in Teresa? She does not
know what we have been discussing. Let us say it is about one of the
South of France jewel robberies. You represent the insurance company. I
have been making a private deal with you. You can manage that? Good.' He
got up and came over to Bond and put his hand on Bond's shoulder. 'And
thank you. Thank you for everything.' Then he went out of the door.

Oh my God! thought Bond. Now for my side of the bargain.




CHAPTER 6. BOND OF BOND STREET?


It was two months later, in London, and James Bond was driving
lazily up from his Chelsea flat to his headquarters.

It was nine-thirty in the morning of yet another beautiful day of this
beautiful year, but, in Hyde Park, the fragrance of burning leaves meant
that winter was only just round the corner. Bond had nothing on his mind
except the frustration of waiting for Station Z somehow to penetrate the
reserves of the Swiss Scurit and come up with the exact address of
Blofeld. But their 'friends' in Zrich were continuing to prove obtuse,
or, more probably, obstinate. There was no trace of any man, either
tourist or resident, called Blofeld in the whole of Switzerland. Nor
was there any evidence of the existence of a reborn SPECTRE on Swiss
soil. Yes, they fully realized that Blofeld was still urgently 'wanted'
by the governments of the NATO alliance. They had carefully filed all
the circulars devoted to the apprehension of this man, and for the past
year he had been constantly reconfirmed on their 'watch' lists at all
frontier posts. They were very sorry, but unless the SIS could come up
with further information or evidence about this man, they must assume
that the SIS was acting on mistaken evidence. Station Z had asked for an
examination of the secret lists at the banks, a search through those
anonymous 'numbered' accounts which conceal the owners of most of the
fugitive money in the world. This request had been peremptorily refused.
Blofeld was certainly a great criminal, but the Scurit must point out
that such information could only be legally obtained if the criminal in
question was guilty of some crime committed on Federal soil and
indictable under the Federal Code. It was true that this Blofeld had
held up Britain and America to ransom by his illegal possession of
atomic weapons. But this could not be considered a crime under the laws
of Switzerland, and particularly not having regard to Article 47B of the
banking laws. So that was that! The Holy Franc, and the funds which
backed it, wherever they came from, must remain untouchable. Wir bitten
hflichst um Entschuldigung!

Bond wondered if he should get in touch with Marc-Ange. So far, in his
report, he had revealed only a lead into the Union Corse, whom he gave,
corporately, as the source of his information. But he shied away from
this course of action, which would surely have, as one consequence, the
reopening with Marc-Ange of the case of Tracy. And that corner of his
life, of his heart, he wanted to leave undisturbed for the time being.
Their last evening together had passed quietly, almost as if they had
been old friends, old lovers. Bond had said that Universal Export was
sending him abroad for some time. They would certainly meet when he
returned to Europe. The girl had accepted this arrangement. She herself
had decided to go away for a rest. She had been doing too much. She had
been on the verge of a nervous breakdown. She would wait for him.
Perhaps they could go skiing together around Christmas time? Bond had
been enthusiastic. That night, after a wonderful dinner at Bond's little
restaurant, they had made love, happily, and this time without
desperation, without tears. Bond was satisfied that the cure had really
begun. He felt deeply protective towards her. But he knew that their
relationship, and her equanimity, rested on a knife-edge which must not
be disturbed.

It was at this moment in his reflections that the Syncraphone in his
trouser pocket began to bleep. Bond accelerated out of the park and drew
up beside the public telephone booth at Marble Arch. The Syncraphone had
recently been introduced and was carried by all officers attached to
Headquarters. It was a light plastic radio receiver about the size of a
pocket watch. When an officer was somewhere in London, within a range of
ten miles of Headquarters, he could be bleeped on the receiver. When
this happened, it was his duty to go at once to the nearest telephone
and contact his office. He was urgently needed.

Bond rang his exchange on the only outside number he was allowed to use,
said '007 reporting,' and was at once put through, to his secretary. She
was a new one. Loelia Ponsonby had at last left to marry a dull, but
worthy and rich member of the Baltic Exchange, and confined her contacts
with her old job to rather yearning Christmas and birthday cards to the
members of the Double-O Section. But the new one, Mary Goodnight, an
ex-Wren with blue-black hair, blue eyes, and 37-22-35, was a honey and
there was a private five-pound sweep in the Section as to who would get
her first. Bond had been lying equal favourite with the ex-Royal Marine
Commando who was 006 but, since Tracy, had dropped out of the field and
now regarded himself as a rank outsider, though he still, rather
bitchily, flirted with her. Now he said to her, 'Good morning,
Goodnight. What can I do for you? Is it war or peace?'

She giggled unprofessionally. 'It sounds fairly peaceful, as peaceful as
a hurry message from upstairs can be. You're to go at once to the
College of Arms and ask for Griffon Or.'

'Or what?'

'Just Or. Oh, and he's Pursuivant as well, whatever that means. He's one
of the Heralds. Apparently they've got some kind of a line on "Bedlam".'

'Bedlam' was the code name for the pursuit of Blofeld. Bond said
respectfully, 'Have they indeed? Then I'd better get cracking. Goodbye,
Goodnight.' He heard her giggle before he put the receiver down.

Now what the hell? Bond got back into his car, that had mercifully not
yet attracted the police or the traffic wardens, and motored fast across
London. This was a queer one. How the hell did the College of Arms, of
which he knew very little except that they hunted up people's family
trees, allotted coats of arms, and organized various royal ceremonies,
get into the act?

The College of Arms is in Queen Victoria Street on the fringe of the
City. It is a pleasant little Queen Anne backwater in ancient red brick
with white sashed windows and a convenient cobbled courtyard, where Bond
parked his car. There are horseshoe-shaped stone stairs leading up to an
impressive entrance, over which, that day, there hung a banner showing a
splendid heraldic beast, half animal and half bird, in gold against a
pale blue background. Griffon, thought Bond. Made of Or. He went through
the door into a large gloomy hall whose dark panelling was lined with
the musty portraits of proud-looking gentlemen in ruffs and lace, and
from whose cornice hung the banners of the Commonwealth. The porter, a
kindly, soft-spoken man in a cherry-coloured uniform with brass buttons,
asked Bond what he could do for him. Bond asked for the Griffon Or and
confirmed that he had an appointment.

'Ah yes, sir,' said the porter mysteriously. 'Griffon Or is in waiting
this week. That is why his banner is flying outside. This way please,
sir.'

Bond followed the porter along a passage hung with gleaming coats of
arms in carved wood, up a dank, cobwebby staircase, and round a corner
to a heavy door over which was written in gold 'Griffon Or Pursuivant'
under a representation of the said golden griffon. The porter knocked,
opened the door and announced Bond, and left him facing, across an
unkempt study littered with books, papers, and important-looking
inscribed parchments, the top of a bald, round pink head fringed with
grizzled curls. The room smelt like the crypt of a church. Bond walked
down the narrow lane of carpet left between the piles of litter and
stood beside the single chair that faced the man behind the books on the
desk. He cleared his throat. The man looked up and the Pickwickian,
pince-nez'd face broke into an absent smile. He got to his feet and made
a little bow. 'Bond,' he said in a voice that creaked like the lid of an
old chest. 'Commander James Bond. Now then, Bond, Bond, Bond. I think
I've got you here.' He had kept his finger at the open page of a vast
tome. He now sat down and Bond followed suit. 'Yes, yes, yes. Very
interesting indeed. Very. But I fear I have to disappoint you, my dear
sir. The title is extinct. Actually it's a baronetcy. Most desirable.
But no doubt we can establish a relationship through a collateral
branch. Now then'--he put his pince-nez very close to the page--'we have
some ten different families of Bonds. The important one ended with Sir
Thomas Bond, a most distinguished gentleman. He resided in Peckham. He
had, alas, no issue'--the pince-nez gleamed encouragingly at Bond--'no
legitimate issue that is. Of course in those days, ahem, morals were
inclined to be laxer. Now if we could establish some connexion with
Peckham...'

'I have no connexion with Peckham. Now, I...'

Griffon Or held up his hand. He said severely, 'Where did your parents
come from, if I may ask? That, my dear fellow, is the first step in the
chain. Then we can go back from there--Somerset House, parish records,
old tomb-stones. No doubt, with a good old English name like yours, we
will get somewhere in the end.'

'My father was a Scot and my mother was Swiss. But the point is...'

'Quite, quite. You are wondering about the cost of the research. That,
my dear fellow, we can leave until later. But, now tell me. From
whereabouts in Scotland did your father come? That is important. The
Scottish records are of course less fully documented than those from the
South. In those days I am forced to admit that our cousins across the
border were little more than savages.' Griffon Or bobbed his head
politely. He gave a fleeting and, to Bond's eye, rather false smile.
'Very pleasant savages, of course, very brave and all that. But, alas,
very weak at keeping up their records. More useful with the sword than
with the pen, if I may say so. But perhaps your grandparents and their
forebears came from the South?'

'My father came from the Highlands, from near Glencoe. But look here...'

But Griffon Or was not to be diverted from the scent. He pulled another
thick book towards him. His finger ran down the page of small print.
'Hum. Hum. Hum. Yes, yes. Not very encouraging, I fear. _Burke's General
Armory_ gives more than ten different families bearing your name. But,
alas, nothing in Scotland. Not that that means there is no Scottish
branch. Now, perhaps you have other relatives living. So often in these
matters there is some distant cousin...' Griffon Or reached into the
pocket of the purple-flowered silk waistcoat that buttoned almost up to
his neat bow tie, fished out a small silver snuff-box, offered it to
Bond and then himself took two tremendous sniffs. He exploded twice into
an ornate bandana handkerchief.

Bond took his opportunity. He leaned forward and said distinctly and
forcibly, 'I didn't come here to talk about myself. It's about Blofeld.'

'What's that?' Griffon Or looked at him in astonishment. 'You are not
interested in your line of descent?' He held up an admonishing finger.
'Do you realize, my dear fellow, that if we are successful, you may be
able to claim direct'--he hesitated--'or at any rate collateral descent
from an ancient baronetcy founded'--he went back to his first volume and
peered at it--'in the year 1658! Does it not excite you that a possible
ancestor of yours was responsible for the name of one of the most famous
streets in the world--I refer of course to Bond Street? That was the Sir
Thomas Bond, Baronet of Peckham in the County of Surrey, who, as you are
no doubt aware, was Comptroller of the household of the Queen Mother,
Henrietta Maria. The street was built in 1686 and its associations with
famous British folk are, of course, well known. The first Duke of St
Albans, son of Nell Gwynn, lived there, as did Laurence Sterne.
Boswell's famous dinner party took place there, with Johnson, Reynolds,
Goldsmith, and Garrick being present. Dean Swift and Canning were
residents at different times, and it is intriguing to recall that while
Lord Nelson lived at number 141, Lady Hamilton lived at number 145. And
this, my dear sir, is the great thoroughfare of which you bear the name!
Do you still wish to establish no claim to this vastly distinguished
connexion? No?' The bushy eyebrows, raised in astonishment, were now
lowered in further admonishment. 'This is the very warp and woof of
history, my dear Commander Bond.' He reached for another volume that lay
open on his desk and that he had obviously prepared for Bond's
delectation. 'The coat of arms, for instance. Surely that must concern
you, be at least of profound interest to your family, to your own
children? Yes, here we are. "Argent on a chevron sable three bezants".'
He held up the book so that Bond could see. 'A bezant is a golden ball,
as I am sure you know. Three balls.'

Bond commented drily, 'That is certainly a valuable bonus'--the irony
was lost on Griffon Or--'but I'm afraid I am still not interested. And I
have no relatives and no children. Now about this man...'

Griffon Or broke in excitedly, 'And this charming motto of the line,
"The World is not Enough". You do not wish to have the right to it?'

'It is an excellent motto which I shall certainly adopt,' said Bond
curtly. He looked pointedly at his watch. 'Now, I'm afraid we really
must get down to business. I have to report back to my Ministry.'

Griffon Or Pursuivant looked genuinely affronted. 'And here is a name
going back at least to Norman le Bond in 1180! A fine old English name,
though one perhaps originally of lowly origin. The _Dictionary of
British Surnames_ suggests that the meaning is clearly "husbandman,
peasant, churl".' Was there an edge of malice in the Griffon's watery
eye? He added with resignation, 'But, if you are not interested in your
ancestry, in the womb of your family, then, my dear sir, in what can I
be of service?'

At last! James Bond let out a sigh of relief. He said patiently, 'I came
here to inquire about a certain Blofeld, Ernst Stavro Blofeld. It seems
that your organization has some information about this man.'

Griffon Or's eyes were suddenly suspicious. 'But you represented
yourself as a Commander James Bond. And now the name is Blofeld. How
does this come about?'

Bond said icily, 'I am from the Ministry of Defence. Somewhere in this
building is information about a man called Blofeld. Where can I find
it?'

Griffon Or ran a puzzled hand round his halo of curls. 'Blofeld, is it?
Well, well.' He looked accusingly at Bond. 'Forgive me, but you
certainly have wasted plenty of my, of the College's time, Commander
Bond. It is a mystery to me why you did not mention this man's name
before. Now let me see, Blofeld, Blofeld. Seem to recall that it came up
at one of our Chapter meetings the other day. Now who had the case? Ah,
yes.' He reached for a telephone among the nest of books and papers.
'Give me Sable Basilisk.'




CHAPTER 7. THE HAIRY HEEL OF ACHILLES


James Bond's heart was still in his boots as he was conducted again
through the musty corridors. Sable Basilisk indeed! What kind of a
besotted old fogy would this be?

There came another heavy door with the name in gold and this time with a
nightmare black monster, with a vicious beak above it. But now Bond was
shown into a light, clean, pleasantly furnished room with attractive
prints on the walls and meticulous order among its books. There was a
faint smell of Turkish tobacco. A young man, a few years younger than
Bond, got up and came across the room to meet him. He was rapier-slim,
with a fine, thin, studious face that was saved from seriousness by wry
lines at the edges of the mouth and an ironical glint in the level eyes.

'Commander Bond?' The handshake was brief and firm. 'I'd been expecting
you. How did you get into the claws of our dear Griffon? He's a bit of
an enthusiast, I'm afraid. We all are here, of course. But he's getting
on. Nice chap, but he's a bit dedicated, if you know what I mean.'

It was indeed like a college, this place, reflected Bond. Much of the
atmosphere one associates with the Senior Common Room at a University.
No doubt Griffon Or mentally put down Sable Basilisk as a young
dilettante who was too big for his boots. He said, 'He seemed very
anxious to establish a connexion between me and Bond Street. It took
some time to persuade him that I'm perfectly content to be an ordinary
Bond, which, by the way, he, rather churlishly I thought, said meant "a
churl".'

Sable Basilisk laughed. He sat down behind his desk, pulled a file
towards him, and gestured Bond to a chair beside him. 'Well, then. Let's
get down to business. First of all'--he looked Bond very straight in the
eye--'I gather, I guess that is, that this is an Intelligence matter of
some kind. I did my national service with Intelligence in BAOR' so
please don't worry about security. Secondly, we have in this building
probably as many secrets as a government department--and nastier ones at
that. One of our jobs is to suggest titles to people who've been
ennobled in the Honours Lists. Sometimes we're asked to establish
ownership to a title that has become lost or defunct. Snobbery and
vanity positively sprawl through our files. Before my time, a certain
gentleman who had come up from nowhere, made millions in some light
industry or another, and had been given a peerage "for political and
public services"--i.e., charities and the party funds--suggested that he
should take the title of Lord Bentley Royal, after the village in Essex.
We explained that the word Royal could not be used except by the
reigning family, but, rather naughtily I fear, we said that "Lord
Bentley Common" was vacant.' He smiled. 'See what I mean? If that got
about, this man would become the laughing-stock of the country. Then
sometimes we have to chase up lost fortunes. So-and-so thinks he's the
rightful Duke of Blank and ought to have his money. His name happens to
be Blank and his ancestors migrated to America or Australia or
somewhere. So avarice and greed come to join snobbery and vanity in
these rooms. Of course,' he added, putting the record straight, 'that's
only the submerged tenth of our job. The rest is mostly official stuff
for governments and embassies--problems of precedence and protocol, the
Garter ceremonies, and others. We've been doing it for around five
hundred years so I suppose it's got its place in the scheme of things.'

'Of course it has,' said Bond staunchly. 'And certainly, so far as
security is concerned, I'm sure we can be open with each other. Now this
man Blofeld. Truth of the matter is he's probably the biggest crook in
the world. Remember that Thunderball affair about a year ago? Only some
of it leaked into the papers, but I can tell you that this Blofeld was
at the bottom of it all. Now, how did you come to hear of him? Every
detail, please. Everything about him is important.'

Sable Basilisk turned back to the first letter on the file. 'Yes,' he
said thoughtfully, 'I thought this might be the same chap when I got a
lot of urgent calls from the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Defence
yesterday. Hadn't occurred to me before, I'm afraid, that this is a case
where our secrets have to come second, or I'd have done something about
it earlier. Now then, in June last, the tenth, we got this confidential
letter from a firm of respectable Zrich solicitors, dated the day
before. I'll read it out:

    'Honoured Sirs,

    'We have a valued client by the name of Ernst Stavro Blofeld.
    This gentleman styles himself Monsieur le Comte Balthazar de
    Bleuville in the belief that he is the rightful heir to this
    title which we understand to be extinct. His belief is based on
    stories he heard from his parents in childhood to the effect
    that his family fled France at the time of the Revolution,
    settled in Germany under the adopted name of Blofeld, assumed in
    order to evade the Revolutionary authorities and safeguard their
    fortune which they had sequestered in Augsburg, and
    subsequently, in the 1850's, migrated to Poland.

    'Our client is now anxious to have these facts established in
    order legally to obtain right to the de Bleuville title
    supported by an Acte de Notorit which would in due course
    receive the stamp of approval of the Ministre de la Justice in
    Paris.

    'In the meantime, our client proposes to continue to adopt,
    albeit provisionally, the title of Comte de Bleuville together
    with the family arms which he informs us are "Argent four fusils
    in fesse gules" and the de Bleuville motto which, in English, is
    "For Hearth and Home".'

'That's a good one!' interjected Bond. Sable Basilisk smiled and
continued:

    'We understand that you, honoured Sirs, are the only body in the
    world who is capable of undertaking this research work and we
    have been instructed to get in touch with you _under the
    strictest conditions of confidence_, which, in view of the
    social aspects involved, we think we have the right to request.

    'The financial standing of our client is impeccable and expense
    is no object in this matter. As a preliminary honorarium and
    upon acceptance of this commission, we propose a payment of one
    thousand pounds sterling to your account in such bank as you may
    designate.

    'Awaiting the favour of an early reply, we remain, honoured sirs
    etc. etc., Gebrder Gumpold-Moosbrugger, Advokaten, 16 bis,
    Bahnhofstrasse, Zrich.'

Sable Basilisk looked up. James Bond's eyes were glittering with
excitement. Sable Basilisk smiled. 'We were even more interested than
you seem to be. You see, to let you in on a secret, our salaries are
extremely modest. So we all have private means which we supplement from
fees received for special work like this. These fees rarely go above
fifty guineas for a piece of pretty tough research and all the leg work
at Somerset House and in parish records and graveyards that is usually
involved in tracking a man's ancestry. So this looked like a real
challenge for the College, and as I was "in waiting" the day the letter
came in, sort of "officer of the watch", the job fell into my lap.'

Bond said urgently, 'So what happened? Have you kept the contact?'

'Oh yes, but rather tenuously, I'm afraid. Of course I wrote at once
accepting the commission and agreeing to the vow of secrecy which'--he
smiled--'you now force me to break presumably by invoking the Official
Secrets Act. That is so, isn't it? I am acting under force majeure?'

'You are indeed,' said Bond emphatically.

Sable Basilisk made a careful note on the top paper in the file and
continued. 'Of course the first thing I had to ask for was the man's
birth certificate and, after a delay, I was told that it had been lost
and that I was on no account to worry about it. The Count had in fact
been born in Gdynia of a Polish father and a Greek mother--I have the
names here--on May 28th, 1908. Could I not pursue my researches
backwards from the de Bleuville end? I replied temporizing, but by this
time I had indeed established from our library that there had been a
family of de Bleuvilles, at least as lately as the seventeenth century,
at a place called Blonville-sur-Mer, Calvados, and that their arms and
motto were as claimed by Blofeld.' Sable Basilisk paused. 'This of
course he must have known for himself. There would have been no purpose
in inventing a family of de Bleuvilles and trying to stuff them down our
throats. I told the lawyers of my discovery and, in my summer
holidays--the North of France is more or less my private heraldic beat,
so to speak, and very rich it is too in connexions with England--I
motored down there and sniffed around. But meanwhile I had, as a matter
of routine, written to our Ambassador in Warsaw and asked him to contact
our Consul in Gdynia and request him to employ a lawyer to make the
simple researches with the Registrar and the various churches where
Blofeld might have been baptized. The reply, early in September, was,
but is no longer, surprising. The pages containing the record of
Blofeld's birth had been neatly cut out. I kept this information to
myself, that is to say I did not pass it on to the Swiss lawyers because
I had been expressly instructed to make no inquiries in Poland.
Meanwhile I had carried out similar inquiries through a lawyer in
Augsburg. There, there was indeed a record of Blofelds, but of a
profusion of them, for it is a fairly common German name, and in any
case nothing to link any of them with the de Bleuvilles from Calvados.
So I was stumped, but no more than I have been before, and I wrote a
neutral report to the Swiss lawyers and said that I was continuing my
researches. And there'--Sable Basilisk slapped the file shut--'until my
telephone began ringing yesterday, presumably because someone in the
Northern Department of the Foreign Office was checking the file copies
from Warsaw and the name Blofeld rang a bell, and you appeared looking
very impatient from the cave of my friend the Griffon, the case rests.'

Bond scratched his head thoughtfully. 'But the ball's still in play?'

'Oh yes, definitely.'

'Can you keep it in play? I take it you haven't got Blofeld's present
address?' Sable Basilisk shook his head. 'Then would there be any
conceivable excuse for an envoy from you?' Bond smiled. 'Me, for
example, to be sent out from the College to have an interview with
Blofeld--some tricky point that cannot be cleared up by correspondence,
something that needs a personal inquiry from Blofeld?'

'Well, yes, there is in a way.' Sable Basilisk looked rather dubious.
'You see, in some families there is a strong physical characteristic
that goes on inevitably from generation to generation. The Habsburg lip
is a case in point. So is the tendency to haemophilia among descendants
of the Bourbons. The hawk nose of the Medici is another. A certain royal
family have minute, vestigial tails. The original maharajahs of Mysore
were born with six fingers on each hand. I could go on indefinitely, but
those are the most famous cases. Now, when I was scratching around in
the crypt of the chapel at Blonville, having a look at the old Bleuville
tombs, my flashlight, moving over the stone faces, picked out a curious
fact that I tucked away in my mind but that your question has brought to
the surface. None of the de Bleuvilles, as far as I could tell, and
certainly not through a hundred and fifty years, had lobes to their
ears.'

'Ah,' said Bond, running over in his mind the Identicast picture of
Blofeld and the complete, printed physiognometry of the man in Records.
'So he shouldn't by rights have lobes to his ears. Or at any rate it
would be a strong piece of evidence for his case if he hadn't?'

'That's right.'

'Well, he _has_ got lobes,' said Bond, annoyed. 'Rather pronounced lobes
as a matter of fact. Where does that get us?'

'To begin with, added to what I know anyway, that makes him probably not
a de Bleuville. But after all'--Sable Basilisk looked sly--'there's no
reason why he should know what physical characteristic we're looking for
in this interview.'

'You think we could set one up?'

'Don't see why not. But'--Sable Basilisk was apologetic--'would you mind
if I got clearance from Garter King of Arms? He's my boss, so to speak,
under the Duke of Norfolk that is, the Earl Marshal, and I can't
remember that we've ever been mixed up in this sort of cloak-and-dagger
stuff before. Actually'--Sable Basilisk waved a deprecating hand--'we
are, we have to be, damned meticulous. You do see that, don't you?'

'Naturally. And I'm sure there'd be no objection. But, even if Blofeld
agreed to see me, how in hell could I play the part? This stuff is all
double Dutch to me.' He smiled. 'I don't know the difference between a
gule and a bezant and I've never been able to make out what a baronet
is. What's my story to Blofeld? Who am I exactly?'

Sable Basilisk was getting enthusiastic. He said cheerfully, 'Oh that'll
be all right. I'll coach you in all the dope about the de Bleuvilles.
You can easily mug up a few popular books on heraldry. It's not
difficult to be impressive on the subject. Very few people know anything
about it.'

'Maybe. But this Blofeld is a pretty smart animal. He'll want the hell
of a lot of credentials before he sees anyone but his lawyer and his
banker. Who exactly am I?'

'You think Blofeld's smart because you've seen the smart side of him,'
said Sable Basilisk sapiently. 'I've seen hundreds of smart people from
the City, industry, politics--famous people I've been quite frightened
to meet when they walked into this room. But when it comes to snobbery,
to buying respectability so to speak, whether it's the title they're
going to choose or just a coat of arms to hang over their fire-places in
Surbiton, they dwindle and dwindle in front of you'--he made a downward
motion over his desk with his hand--'until they're no bigger than
homunculi. And the women are even worse. The idea of suddenly becoming a
"lady" in their small community is so intoxicating that the way they
bare their souls is positively obscene. It's as if'--Sable Basilisk
furrowed his high, pale brow, seeking for a simile--'these fundamentally
good citizens, these Smiths and Browns and Joneses and'--he smiled
across the desk--'Bonds, regarded the process of ennoblement as a sort
of laying-on of hands, a way of ridding themselves of all the drabness
of their lives, of all their, so to speak, essential meagreness, their
basic inferiority. Don't worry about Blofeld. He has already swallowed
the bait. He may be a tremendous gangster, and he must be from what I
remember of the case. He may be tough and ruthless in his corner of
human behaviour. But if he is trying to prove that he is the Comte de
Bleuville, you can be sure of various things. He wants to change his
name. That is obvious. He wants to become a new, a respectable
personality. That is obvious too. But above all he wants to become a
Count.' Sable Basilisk brought his hand flat down on his desk for
emphasis. 'That, Mr Bond, is tremendously significant. He is a rich and
successful man in his line of business--no matter what it is. He no
longer admires the material things, riches and power. He is now 54, as I
reckon it. He wants a new skin. I can assure you, Mr Bond, that he will
receive you, if we play our cards right that is, as if he were
consulting his doctor about'--Sable Basilisk's aristocratic face took on
an expression of distaste--'as if he were consulting his doctor after
contracting V.D.' Sable Basilisk's eyes were now compelling. He sat back
in his chair and lit his first cigarette. The smell of Turkish tobacco
drifted across to Bond. 'That's it,' he said with certitude. 'This man
knows he is unclean, a social pariah. Which of course he is. Now he has
thought up this way of buying himself a new identity. If you ask me, we
must help the hair to grow and flourish on his heel of Achilles until it
is so luxuriant that he trips on it.'




CHAPTER 8. FANCY COVER


'And who the hell are _you_ supposed to be?'

M more or less repeated Bond's question when, that evening, he looked up
from the last page of the report that Bond had spent the afternoon
dictating to Mary Goodnight. M's face was just outside the pool of
yellow light cast by the green-shaded reading lamp on his desk, but Bond
knew that the lined, sailor's face was reflecting, in varying degrees,
scepticism, irritation, and impatience. The 'hell' told him so. M rarely
swore and when he did it was nearly always at stupidity. M obviously
regarded Bond's plan as stupid, and now, away from the dedicated,
minutely focused world of the Heralds, Bond wasn't sure that M wasn't
right.

'I'm to be an emissary from the College of Arms, sir. This Basilisk chap
recommended that I should have some kind of a title, the sort of rather
highfalutin one that would impress a man with this kind of bee in his
bonnet. And Blofeld's obviously got this bee or he wouldn't have
revealed his existence, even to such a presumably secure and--er--sort
of remote corner of the world as the College of Arms. I've put down
there the arguments of this chap and they make a lot of sense to me.
Snobbery's a real Achilles heel with people. Blofeld's obviously got the
bug badly. I think we can get to him through it.'

'Well, I think it's all a pack of nonsense,' said M testily. (Not many
years before, M had been awarded the KCMG for his services, and Miss
Moneypenny, his desirable secretary, had revealed in a moment of candour
to Bond that M had not replied to a single one of the notes and letters
of congratulation. After a while he had refused even to read them and
had told Miss Moneypenny not to show him any more but to throw them in
the wastepaper basket.) 'All right then, what's this ridiculous title to
be? And what happens next?'

If Bond had been able to blush, he would have blushed. He said,
'Er--well, sir, it seems there's a chap called Sir Hilary Bray. Friend
of Sable Basilisk's. About my age and not unlike me to look at. His
family came from some place in Normandy. Family tree as long as your
arm. William the Conqueror and all that. And a coat of arms that looks
like a mixture between a jigsaw puzzle and Piccadilly Circus at night.
Well, Sable Basilisk says he can fix it with him. This man's got a good
war record and sounds a reliable sort of chap. He lives in some remote
glen in the Highlands, watching birds and climbing the hills with bare
feet. Never sees a soul. No reason why anyone in Switzerland should have
heard of him.' Bond's voice became defensive, stubborn. 'Well, sir, the
idea is that I should be him. Rather fancy cover, but I think it makes
sense.'

'Sir Hilary Bray, eh?' M tried to conceal his scorn. 'And then what do
you do? Run around the Alps waving this famous banner of his?'

Bond said patiently, obstinately, refusing to be browbeaten, 'First I'll
get Passport Control to fix up a good passport. Then I mug up Bray's
family tree until I'm word-perfect on the thing. Then I swot away at the
rudiments of this heraldry business. Then, if Blofeld takes the bait, I
go out to Switzerland with all the right books and suggest that I work
out his de Bleuville pedigree with him.'

'Then what?'

'Then I try and winkle him out of Switzerland, get him over the frontier
to somewhere where we can do a kidnap job on him, rather like the
Israelis did with Eichmann. But I haven't worked out all the details
yet, sir. Had to get your approval and then Sable Basilisk has got to
make up a damned attractive fly and throw it over these Zrich
solicitors.'

'Why not try putting pressure on the Zrich solicitors and winkle
Blofeld's address out of them? Then we might think of doing some kind of
a commando job.'

'You know the Swiss, sir. God knows what kind of a retainer these
lawyers have from Blofeld. But it's bound to be millionaire size. We
might eventually get the address, but they'd be bound to tip-off Blofeld
if only to lay their hands on their fees before he vamoosed. Money's the
religion of Switzerland.'

'I don't need a lecture on the qualities of the Swiss, thank you, 007.
At least they keep their trains clean and cope with the beatnik problem
[two very rampant bees in M's bonnet!], but I daresay there's some truth
in what you say. Oh, well.' M wearily pushed the file over to Bond.
'Take it away. It's a messy-looking bird's-nest of a plan. But I suppose
it had better go ahead.' M shook his head sceptically. 'Sir Hilary Bray!
Oh, well, tell the Chief of Staff I approve. But reluctantly. Tell him
you can have the facilities. Keep me informed.' M reached for the
Cabinet telephone. His voice was deeply disgruntled. 'Suppose I'll have
to tell the PM we've got a line on the chap. The kind of tangle it is,
I'll keep to myself. That's all, 007.'

'Thank you, sir. Goodnight.' As Bond went across to the door he heard M
say into the green receiver, 'M speaking. I want the Prime Minister
personally, please.' He might have been asking for the mortuary. Bond
went out and softly closed the door behind him.

                        *          *          *

So, as November blustered its way into December, James Bond went
unwillingly back to school, swotting up heraldry at his desk instead of
top-secret reports, picking up scraps of medieval French and English,
steeping himself in fusty lore and myth, picking the brains of Sable
Basilisk and occasionally learning interesting facts, such as that the
founders of Gamages came from the de Gamaches in Normandy and that Walt
Disney was remotely descended from the d'Isignys of the same part of
France. But these were nuggets in a wasteland of archaisms, and when,
one day, Mary Goodnight, in reply to some sally of his, addressed him as
'Sir Hilary' he nearly bit her head off.

Meanwhile the highly delicate correspondence between Sable Basilisk and
the Gebrder Moosbrugger proceeded haltingly and at a snail's pace.
They, or rather Blofeld behind them, posed countless irritating but,
Sable Basilisk admitted, erudite queries each one of which had to be
countered with this or that degree of heraldic obfuscation. Then there
were minute questions about this emissary, Sir Hilary Bray. Photographs
were asked for, and, suitably doctored, were provided. His whole career
since his schooldays had to be detailed and was sent down from Scotland
with a highly amused covering note from the real man. To test the
market, more funds were asked for by Sable Basilisk and, with
encouraging promptitude, were forthcoming in the shape of a further
thousand pounds. When the cheque arrived on December 15th Sable Basilisk
telephoned Bond delightedly. 'We've got him,' he said. 'He's hooked!'
And, sure enough, the next day came a letter from Zrich to say that
their client agreed to a meeting with Sir Hilary. Would Sir Hilary
please arrive at Zrich Central Airport by Swissair flight Number 105,
due at Zrich at 1300 hours on December 21st. On Bond's prompting, Sable
Basilisk wrote back that the date was not convenient to Sir Hilary owing
to a prior engagement with the Canadian High Commissioner regarding a
detail in the Arms of the Hudson's Bay Company. Sir Hilary could,
however, manage the 22nd. By return came a cable agreeing and, to Bond,
confirming that the fish had not only swallowed the hook but the line
and sinker as well.

The last few days were spent in a flurry of meetings, with the Chief of
Staff presiding, at Headquarters. The main decisions were that Bond
should go to the meeting with Blofeld absolutely 'clean'. He would carry
no weapons, no secret gear of any kind, and he would not be watched or
followed by the Service in any way. He would communicate only with Sable
Basilisk, getting across such information as he could by using heraldic
double talk (Sable Basilisk had been cleared by MI5 immediately after
Bond's first meeting with him), and Sable Basilisk, who vaguely thought
that Bond was employed by the Ministry of Defence, would be given a
cut-out at the Ministry who would be his go-between with the Service.
This was all assuming that Bond managed to stay close to Blofeld for at
least a matter of days. And that was to be his basic stratagem. It was
essential to find out as much as possible about Blofeld, his activities
and his associates, in order to proceed with planning the next step, his
abduction from Switzerland. Physical action might not be necessary. Bond
might be able to trick the man into a visit to Germany, as a result of a
report which Sable Basilisk had prepared of certain Blofeld family
documents at the Augsburg Zentral Archiv, which would need Blofeld's
personal identification. Security precautions would include keeping
Station Z completely in the dark about Bond's mission to Switzerland and
a closure of the 'Bedlam' file at Headquarters which would be announced
in the routine 'Orders of the Day'. Instead, a new code-word for the
operation, known only to an essential handful of senior officers, would
be issued. It would be 'CORONA'.

Finally, the personal dangers to Bond himself were discussed. There was
total respect for Blofeld at Headquarters. Nobody questioned his
abilities or his ruthlessness. If Bond's true identity somehow became
known to Blofeld, Bond would of course instantly be liquidated. A more
dangerous and likely event would be that, once Blofeld had probed Bond's
heraldic gen to its rather shallow bottom and it had been proved that he
was or was not the Comte de Bleuville, Sir Hilary Bray, his usefulness
expended, might 'meet with an accident'. Bond would just have to face up
to these hazards and watch out particularly for the latter. He, and
Sable Basilisk behind him, would have to keep some tricks up their
sleeves, tricks that would somehow make Sir Hilary Bray's continued
existence important to Blofeld. In conclusion, the Chief of Staff said
he considered the whole operation 'a lot of bezants' and that 'Bezants'
would have been a better code-word than 'Corona'. However, he wished
Bond the best of luck and said, cold-heartedly, that he would instruct
the Technical Section to proceed forthwith with the devising of a
consignment of explosive snowballs for Bond's protection.

It was on this cheery note that Bond, on the evening of December 21st,
returned to his office for a last run-through of his documentation with
Mary Goodnight.

He sat sideways to his desk, looking out over the triste winter twilight
of Regent's Park under snow, while she sat opposite him and ran through
the items: '_Burke's Extinct and Dormant Baronetage_, property of the
College of Heralds. Stamped "Not to be removed from the Library". The
printed _Visitations in the College of Arms_, stamped ditto.
_Genealogist's Guide_, by G. W. Marshall, with Hatchard's receipted bill
to Sable Basilisk inserted. _Burke's General Armory_, stamped "Property
of the London Library", wrapped and franked December 10th. Passport in
the name of Sir Hilary Bray, containing various recently-dated frontier
stamps in and out of France, Germany, and the Low Countries, fairly
well-used and dog-eared. One large file of correspondence with Augsburg
and Zrich on College of Arms writing-paper and the writing-paper of the
addressees. And that's the lot. You've fixed your laundry tags and so
on?'

'Yes,' said Bond dully. 'I've fixed all that. And I've got two new suits
with cuffs and double vents at the back and four buttons down the front.
Also a gold watch and chain with the Bray seal. Quite the little
baronet.' Bond turned and looked across the desk at Mary Goodnight.
'What do you think of this caper, Mary? Think it'll come off?'

'Well, it should do,' she said staunchly. 'With all the trouble that's
been taken. But'--she hesitated--'I don't like you taking this man on
without a gun.' She waved a hand at the pile on the floor. 'And all
these stupid books about heraldry! It's just not _you_. You will take
care, won't you?'

'Oh, I'll do that all right,' said Bond reassuringly. 'Now, be a good
girl and get a radio taxi to the Universal Export entrance. And put all
that junk inside it, would you? I'll be down in a minute. I'll be at the
flat all this evening'--he smiled sourly--'packing my silk shirts with
the crests on them.' He got up. 'So long, Mary. Or rather goodnight,
Goodnight. And keep out of trouble till I get back.'

She said, 'You do that yourself.' She bent and picked up the books and
papers from the floor and, keeping her face hidden from Bond, went to
the door and kicked it shut behind her with her heel. A moment or two
later she opened the door again. Her eyes were bright. 'I'm sorry,
James. Good luck! And Happy Christmas!' She closed the door softly
behind her.

Bond looked at the blank face of the Office of Works cream door. What a
dear girl Mary was! But now there was Tracy. He would be near her in
Switzerland. It was time to make contact again. He had been missing her,
wondering about her. There had been three non-committal but cheerful
postcards from the Clinique de l'Aube at Davos. Bond had made inquiries
and had ascertained that this was run by a Professor Auguste Kommer,
President of the Socit Psychiatrique et Psychologique Suisse. Over the
telephone, Sir James Molony, the nerve specialist by appointment to the
Service, had told Bond that Kommer was one of the top men in the world
at his job. Bond had written affectionately and encouragingly to Tracy
and had had the letters posted from America. He had said he would be
home soon and would be in touch with her. Would he? And what would he do
then? Bond had a luxurious moment feeling sorry for himself, for the
miscellaneous burdens he was carrying alone. He then crushed out his
cigarette and, banging doors behind him, got the hell out of his office
and down in the lift to the discreet side-entrance that said 'Universal
Export'.

The taxi was waiting. It was seven o'clock. As the taxi got under way,
Bond made his plan for the evening. He would first do an extremely
careful packing job of his single suitcase, the one that had no tricks
to it, have two double vodkas and tonics with a dash of Angostura, eat a
large dish of May's speciality--scrambled eggs fines herbes--have two
more vodkas and tonics, and then, slightly drunk, go to bed with half a
grain of seconal.

Encouraged by the prospect of this cosy self-anaesthesia, Bond brusquely
kicked his problems under the carpet of his consciousness.




CHAPTER 9. IRMA LA NOT SO DOUCE


The next day, at London Airport, James Bond, bowler hat, rolled
umbrella, neatly folded _Times_ and all, felt faintly ridiculous. He
felt totally so when he was treated with the deference due to his title
and shown into the VIP lounge before take-off. At the ticket desk, when
he had been addressed as Sir Hilary, he had looked behind him to see who
the girl was talking to. He really must pull himself together and damn
well _be_ Sir Hilary Bray!

Bond had a double brandy and ginger ale and stood aloof from the handful
of other privileged passengers in the gracious lounge, trying to _feel_
like a baronet. Then he remembered the real Sir Hilary Bray, perhaps now
gralloching a hind with his bare hands somewhere up in the Glens. There
was nothing of the baronet about him! He really must get rid of the
inverted snobbery that, with its opposite, is ingrained in so many of
the English! He must stop acting a part, being a stage nobleman! He
would just be himself and, if he gave the appearance of being rather a
rough-hewn baronet, the easy-going kind, well, that at least was like
the real one up in Scotland. Bond threw down the _Times_ that he had
been carrying as an extra badge of Top Peopleship, picked up the _Daily
Express_, and asked for another brandy and ginger ale.

Then, with its twin jets whispering far back of the first-class cabin,
the Swissair Caravelle was airborne and Bond's mind was reaching forward
to the rendezvous that had been so briefly detailed by the Zrich
solicitors. Sir Hilary would be met at the airport by one of the Comte
de Bleuville's secretaries. He would be seeing the Count that day or the
next. Bond had a moment of panic. How should he address the man when he
met him? Count? Monsieur le Comte? No, he would call him
nothing--perhaps an occasional patronizing 'my dear sir' in context.
What would Blofeld look like? Would he have changed his appearance much?
Probably, or the fox wouldn't have kept ahead of the hounds so
efficiently. Bond's excitement mounted as he consumed a delicious lunch
served by a delicious stewardess, and the winter-brown chequerboard of
France fled backwards distantly below. Now there was scattered snow and
barren trees as they crossed the tiny hillocks of the Vosges, then
permanent snow and ice-floes on the Rhine, a short stop at Basle, and
then the black criss-cross of Zrich Airport and 'fasten your
lap-straps' in three languages, and they were planing down, a slight
bump, the roar of jet deflection, and then they were taxying up to the
apron in front of the imposing, very European-looking buildings decked
with the gay flags of the nations.

At the Swissair desk inside the door, a woman was standing beside the
reception counter. As soon as Bond appeared in the entrance she came
forward. 'Sair Hilary Bray?'

'Yes.'

'I am Frulein Irma Bunt. Personal secretary to the Count. Good
afternoon. I hope you had a happy flight.'

She looked like a very sunburned female wardress. She had a square,
brutal face with hard yellow eyes. Her smile was an oblong hole without
humour or welcome, and there were sunburn blisters at the left corner of
her mouth which she licked from time to time with the tip of a pale
tongue. Wisps of brownish grey hair, with a tight, neat bun at the back,
showed from under a skiing hat with a yellow talc visor that had straps
which met under her chin. Her strong, short body was dressed in
unbecomingly tight vorlage trousers topped by a grey wind-jacket
ornamented over the left breast with a large red G topped by a coronet.
Irma la not so Douce, thought Bond. He said, 'Yes. It was very
pleasant.'

'You have your baggage check? Will you follow me, please? And first your
passport. This way.'

Bond followed her through the passport control and out into the customs
hall. There were a few standers-by. Bond noticed her head nod casually.
A man with a brief-case under his arm, hanging about, moved away. Bond
studiously examined his baggage check. Beyond the scrap of cardboard, he
noticed the man slip into one of the row of telephone booths in the main
hall outside the customs area.

'You speak German?' The tongue flicked out and licked the blisters.

'No, I'm afraid not.'

'French perhaps?'

'A little. Enough for my work.'

'Ah, yes. That is important, yes?'

Bond's suitcase was unloaded off the trolley on to the barrier. The
woman flashed some kind of a pass at the customs officer. It was very
quickly done, but Bond caught a glimpse of her photograph and the
heading 'Bundespolizei'. So! Blofeld had got the fix in!

The officer said deferentially, 'Bitte sehr,' and chalked his symbol in
the colour of the day, yellow, on Bond's suitcase. A porter took it and
they walked across to the entrance. When they came out on the steps, an
anonymous black Mercedes 300 SE saloon pulled smartly out of the parking
area and slid to a stop beside them. Next to the chauffeur sat the man
who had gone to the telephone. Bond's suitcase was put in the boot and
they moved off fast in the direction of Zrich. A few hundred yards down
the wide road, the man beside the driver, who, Bond noticed, had been
surreptitiously watching in the twin driving-mirror, said softly, 'Is'
gut,' and the car turned right-handed up a side road which was marked
'Eingang Verboten! Mit Ausnahme von Eigentmer und Personell von
Privatflugzeugen'.

Bond was amused as he ticked off the little precautions. It was obvious
that he was still very much on probation.

The car came up with the hangars to the left of the main building, drove
slowly between them and pulled up beside a bright orange Alouette
helicopter, adapted by Sud Aviation for mountain rescue work. But this
one had the red G with the coronet on its fuselage. So! He was going to
be taken for a flight rather than a ride!

'You have travelled in one of these machines before, no? It is very
pleasant. One obtains a fine view of the Alps.' Frulein Bunt's eyes
were blank with disinterest. They climbed up the aluminium ladder. 'Mind
your head, please!' Bond's suitcase was handed up by the chauffeur.

It was a six-seater, luxurious in red leather. Above and in front of
them under his Perspex canopy the pilot lifted a thumb. The ground staff
pulled away the chocks and the big blades began to move. As they
accelerated, the men on the ground drew away, shielding their faces
against the whirling snow. There was a slight jolt and then they were
climbing fast, and the crackle of radio from the control tower went
silent.

Irma Bunt was across the passage-way from Bond. The extra man was in the
rear, hidden behind the _Zricher Zeitung_. Bond leaned sideways and
said loudly, against the rattle of the machine, 'Where are we heading
for?'

She pretended not to hear. Bond repeated his question, shouting it.

'Into the Alps. Into the high Alps,' shouted the woman. She waved
towards the window. 'It is very beautiful. You like the mountains, isn't
it?'

'I love them,' shouted Bond. 'Just like Scotland.' He leaned back in his
seat, lit a cigarette, and looked out of the window. Yes, there was the
Zrichersee to port. Their course was more or less east-south-east. They
were flying at about 2,000 feet. And now there was the Wallensee. Bond,
apparently uninterested, took the _Daily Express_ out of his brief-case
and turned to the sports pages. He read the paper from last page to
first, meticulously, every now and then casting a bored glance out of
the window. The big range to port would be the Rhtikon Alps. That would
be the railway junction of Landquart below them. They held their course
up the valley of the Pratigau. Would they keep on at Klosters or veer to
starboard? Starboard it was. So! Up the Davos Valley! In a few minutes
he would be flying over Tracy! A casual glance. Yes, there was Davos
under its thin canopy of evening mist and smoke, while, above her, he
was still in bright sunshine. At least she seemed to have had plenty of
snow. Bond remembered the tremendous run down the Parsenn. Those had
been the days! And now back on the old course again and giant peaks to
right and left. This must be the Engadine. The Silvretta Group away to
starboard, to port Piz Languard and, ahead, the Bernina range diving
down, like a vast ski-jump, into Italy. That forest of lights away to
starboard must be St Moritz! Now where? Bond buried himself in his
paper. A slight veer to port. More lights. Pontresina? And now the radio
began to crackle and the 'Seat belts' sign went up. Bond thought it time
to express open interest. He gazed out. Below, the ground was mostly in
darkness, but ahead the giant peaks were still golden in the dying sun.
They were making straight for one of them, for a small plateau near its
summit. There was a group of buildings from which golden wires swooped
down into the darkness of the valley. A cable car, spangled in the sun,
was creeping down. Now it had been swallowed up in the murk. The
helicopter was still charging the side of the peak that towered above
them. Now it was only a hundred feet up above the slope, coming in to
the plateau and the buildings. The pilot's arms moved on his joy stick.
The machine pitched a little and slowed. The rotor arms swung languidly
and then accelerated as the machine hovered and settled. There came a
slight bump as the inflated rubber 'floats' met the snow, a dying whirr
from the rotor and they were there.

Where? Bond knew. They were in the Languard range, somewhere above
Pontresina in the Engadine, and their altitude would be about 10,000
feet. He buttoned up his raincoat and prepared for the rasping dagger of
the cold air on his lungs when the door was opened.

Irma Bunt gave her box-like smile. 'We have arrived,' she said
unnecessarily.

The door, with a clatter of falling ice particles, was wrenched open.
The last rays of the sun shone into the cabin. They caught the woman's
yellow sun visor and shone through, turning her face Chinese. The eyes
gave out a false blaze, like the glass eyes of a toy animal, under the
light. 'Mind your head.' She bent low, her tight, squat behind inviting
an enormous kick, and went down the ladder.

James Bond followed her, holding his breath against the searing impact
of the Arctic, oxygenless air. There were one or two men standing around
dressed like ski guides. They looked at Bond with curiosity, but there
was no greeting. Bond went on across the hard-trodden snow in the wake
of the woman, the extra man following with his suitcase. He heard the
engine stutter and roar, and a blizzard of snow particles stung the
right side of his face. Then the iron grasshopper rose into the air and
rattled off into the dusk.

It was perhaps fifty yards from where the helicopter had landed to the
group of buildings. Bond dawdled, getting preliminary bearings. Ahead
was a long, low building, now ablaze with lights. To the right, and
perhaps another fifty yards away, were the outlines of the typical
modern cable railhead, a box-like structure, with a thick flat roof
canted upwards from close to the ground. As Bond examined it, its lights
went out. Presumably the last car had reached the valley and the line
was closed for the night. To the right of this was a large, bogus-chalet
type structure with a vast veranda, sparsely lit, that would be for the
mass tourist trade--again a typical piece of high-Alpine architecture.
Down to the left, beneath the slope of the plateau, lights shone from a
fourth building that, except for its flat roof, was out of sight.

Bond was now only a few yards from the building that was obviously his
destination. An oblong of yellow opened invitingly as the woman went in
and held the door for him. The light illuminated a big sign with the red
G surmounted by the coronet. It said GLORIA KLUB. 3605 METRES. PRIVAT!
NUR FR MITGLIEDER.  Below in smaller letters it said 'Alpenberghaus und
Restaurant Piz Gloria', and the drooping index finger of the traditional
hand pointed to the right, towards the building near the cable-head.

So! Piz Gloria! Bond walked into the inviting yellow oblong. The door,
released by the woman, closed with a pneumatic hiss.

Inside it was deliciously warm, almost hot. They were in a small
reception room, and a youngish man with a very pale crew-cut and shrewd
eyes got to his feet from behind a desk and made a slight bob in their
direction. 'Sir Hilary is in Number Two.'

'Weiss schon,' said the woman curtly and, only just more politely, to
Bond, 'Follow me, please.' She went through a facing door and down a
thickly-piled, red-carpeted passage. The left-hand wall was only
occasionally broken by windows interspersed with fine skiing and
mountain photographs. On the right were at first the doors of the club
rooms, marked Bar, Restaurant, and Toiletten. Then came what were
obviously the doors of bedrooms. Bond was shown into Number Two. It was
an extremely comfortable, chintzy room in the American motel style with
a bathroom leading off. The broad picture window was now curtained, but
Bond knew that it must offer a tremendous view over the valley to the
Suvretta group above St Moritz. Bond threw his briefcase on the double
bed and gratefully disposed of his bowler hat and umbrella. The extra
man appeared with his suitcase, placed it on the luggage stand without
looking at Bond, and withdrew, closing the door behind him. The woman
stayed where she was. 'This is to your satisfaction?' The yellow eyes
were indifferent to his enthusiastic reply. She had more to say. 'That
is good. Now perhaps I should explain some things, convey to you some
laws of the club, isn't it?'

Bond lit a cigarette. 'That would certainly be helpful.' He put a
politely interested expression on his face. 'Where are we, for
instance?'

'In the Alps. In the high Alps,' said the woman vaguely. 'This Alp, Piz
Gloria, is the property of the Count. Together with the Gemeinde, the
local authorities, he constructed the Seilbahn. You have seen the
cables, yes? This is the first year it is opened. It is very popular and
brings in much money. There are some fine ski runs. The Gloria Abfahrt
is already famous. There is also a bob-sleigh run that is much greater
than the Cresta at St Moritz. You have heard of that? You ski perhaps?
Or make the bob-sleigh?'

The yellow eyes were watchful. Bond thought he would continue to answer
no to all questions. Instinct told him to. He said apologetically. 'I'm
afraid not. Never got around to it, you know. Too much bound up with my
books, perhaps.' He smiled, ruefully, self-critically.

'Schade! That is a pity.' But the eyes registered satisfaction. 'These
installations bring good income for the Count. That is important. It
helps to support his life's work, the Institut.'

Bond raised his eyebrows a polite fraction.

'The Institut fr physiologische Forschung. It is for scientific
research. The Count is a leader in the field of allergies--you
understand? This is like the hay fever, the unableness to eat shellfish,
yes?'

'Oh really? Can't say I suffer from any myself.'

'No? The laboratories are in a separate building. There the Count also
lives. In this building, where we are, live the patients. He asks that
you will not disturb them with too many questions. These treatments are
very delicate. You understand?'

'Yes, of course. And when may I see the Count? I'm afraid I am a very
busy man, Frulein Bunt. There are matters awaiting my attention in
London.' Bond spoke impressively. 'The new African States. Much work has
to be done on their flags, the design of their currency, their stamps,
their medals. We are very short-handed at the College. I hope the Count
understands that his personal problem, interesting and important though
it is, must take second place to the problems of Government.'

Bond had got through. Now she was all eagerness, reassurance. 'But of
course, my dear Sair Hilary. The Count asks to be excused tonight, but
he would much like to receive you at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.
That is suitable?'

'Certainly, certainly. That will give me time to marshal my documents,
my books. Perhaps'--Bond waved to the small writing-desk near the
window--'I could have an extra table to lay these things out. I'm
afraid'--Bond smiled deprecatingly--'we bookworms need a lot of space.'

'Of course, Sair Hilary. It will be done at once.' She moved to the door
and pressed a bell-button. She gestured downwards, now definitely
embarrassed. 'You will have noticed that there is no door handle on this
side?' (Bond had done so. He said he hadn't.) 'You will ring when you
wish to leave the room. Yes? It is on account of the patients. It is
necessary that they have quiet. It is difficult to prevent them visiting
each other for the sake of gossiping. It is for their good. You
understand? Bed-time is at ten o'clock. But there is a night staff in
case you should need any service. And the doors are of course not
locked. You may re-enter your room at any time. Yes? We meet for
cocktails in the bar at six. It is--how do you say?--the rest-pause of
the day.' The box-like smile made its brief appearance. 'My girls are
much looking forward to meeting you.'

The door opened. It was one of the men dressed as guides, a swarthy,
bull-necked man with brown Mediterranean eyes. One of Marc-Ange's
Corsican defectors? In rapid, bad French, the woman said that another
table was desired. This was to be furnished during dinner. The man said
'Entendu.' She held the door before he could close it and he went off
down the passage to the right. Guards' quarters at the end of the
passage? Bond's mind went on clicking up the clues.

'Then that is all for the present, Sair Hilary? The post leaves at
midday. We have radio telephone communications if you wish to use them.
May I convey any message to the Count?'

'Please say that I look forward greatly to meeting him tomorrow. Until
six o'clock then.' Bond suddenly wanted to be alone with his thoughts.
He gestured towards his suitcase. 'I must get myself unpacked.'

'Of course, of course, Sair Hilary. Forgive me for detaining you.' And,
on this gracious note, Irma Bunt closed the door, with its decisive
click, behind her.

Bond stood still in the middle of the room. He let out his breath with a
quiet hiss. What the hell of a kettle of fish! He would have liked to
kick one of the dainty bits of furniture very hard indeed. But he had
noticed that, of the four electric light prisms in the ceiling, one was
a blank, protruding eyeball. Closed-circuit television? If so, what
would be its range? Not much more than a wide circle covering the centre
of the room. Microphones? Probably the whole expanse of ceiling was one.
That was the war-time gimmick. He must, he simply must assume that he
was under constant supervision.

James Bond, his thoughts racing, proceeded to unpack, take a shower, and
make himself presentable for 'my girls'.




CHAPTER 10. TEN GORGEOUS GIRLS


It was one of those leather-padded bars, bogus-masculine, and
still, because of its newness, smelling like the inside of a new
motor-car. It was made to look like a Tyrolean Stube by a big stone
fire-place with a roaring log fire and cartwheel chandeliers with
red-stemmed electric 'candles'. There were many wrought-iron
gimmicks--wall-light brackets, ashtrays, table lamps--and the bar itself
was 'gay' with small flags and miniature liqueur bottles. Attractive
zither music tripped out from a hidden loud-speaker. It was not, Bond
decided, a place to get seriously drunk in.

When he closed the leather-padded, brass-studded door behind him, there
was a moment's hush, then a mounting of decibels to hide the covert
glances, the swift summing-up. Bond got a fleeting impression of one of
the most beautiful groups of girls he had ever seen, when Irma Bunt,
hideous in some kind of home-made, homespun 'aprs-ski', in which orange
and black predominated, waddled out from among the galaxy and took him
in charge. 'Sair Hilary.' She grasped his hand with a dry, monkey grip.
'How delightful, isn't it? Come please, and meet my girls.'

It was tremendously hot in the room and Bond felt the sweat bead on his
forehead as he was led from table to table and shook this cool, this
warm, this languid hand. Names like Ruby, Violet, Pearl, Anne,
Elizabeth, Beryl, sounded in his ears, but all he saw was a sea of
beautiful, sunburned faces and a succession of splendid, sweatered young
bosoms. It was like being at home to the Tiller or the Bluebell Girls.
At last he got to the seat that had been kept for him, between Irma Bunt
and a gorgeous, bosomy blonde with large blue eyes. He sat down,
overcome. The barman hovered. Bond pulled himself together. 'Whisky and
soda, please,' he said, and heard his voice from far away. He took some
time lighting a cigarette while sham, stage conversation broke out among
the four tables in the semicircular embrasure that must, during the day,
be the great lookout point. Ten girls and Irma. All English. No
surnames. No other man. Girls in their twenties. Working girls probably.
Sort of air-hostess type. Excited at having a man among them--a
personable man and a baronet to boot--if that was what one did to a
baronet. Pleased with his private joke, Bond turned to the blonde. 'I'm
terribly sorry, but I didn't catch your name.'

'I'm Ruby.' The voice was friendly but refined. 'It must be quite an
ordeal being the only chap--among all us girls, I mean.'

'Well, it was rather a surprise. But a very pleasant one. It's going to
be difficult getting all your names right.' He lowered his voice
conspiratorially. 'Be an angel and run through the field, so to speak.'

Bond's drink came and he was glad to find it strong. He took a long but
discreet pull at it. He had noticed that the girls were drinking Colas
and squashes with a sprinkling of feminine cocktails--Orange Blossoms,
Daiquiris. Ruby was one of the ones with a Daiquiri. It was apparently
OK to drink, but he would be careful to show a gentlemanly moderation.

Ruby seemed pleased to be able to break the ice. 'Well, I'll start on
your right. That's Miss Bunt, the sort of matron, so to speak. You've
met her. Then, in the violet camelot sweater, well, that's Violet of
course. Then at the next table. The one in the green and gold Pucci
shirt is Anne and next to her in green is Pearl. She's my sort of best
friend here.' And so it went on, from one glorious golden girl to the
next. Bond heard scraps of their conversation. 'Fritz says I'm not
getting enough Vorlage. My skis keep on running away from me.' 'It's the
same with me'--a giggle--'my sit-upon's black and blue.' 'The Count says
I'm getting on very well. Won't it be awful when we have to go?' 'I
wonder how Polly's doing? She's been out a month now.' 'I think Skol's
the only stuff for sunburn. All those oils and creams are nothing but
frying-fat.' And so on--mostly the chatter you would expect from a group
of cheerful, healthy girls learning to ski, except for the occasional
rather awed reference to the Count and the covert glances at Irma Bunt
and Bond to make sure that they were behaving properly, not making too
much noise.

While Ruby continued her discreet roll-call, Bond tried to fix the names
to the faces and otherwise add to his comprehension of this lovely but
bizarre group locked up on top of a very high Alp indeed. The girls all
seemed to share a certain basic, girl-guidish simplicity of manners and
language, the sort of girls who, in an English pub, you would find
sitting demurely with a boy friend sipping a Babycham, puffing rather
clumsily at a cigarette and occasionally saying 'pardon'. Good girls,
girls who, if you made a pass at them, would say, 'Please don't spoil it
all', 'Men only want one thing' or, huffily, 'Please take your hand
away'. And there were traces of many accents, accents from all over
Britain--the broad vowels of Lancashire, the lilt of Wales, the burr of
Scotland, the adenoids of refined Cockney.

Yours truly foxed, concluded Bond as Ruby finished with 'And that's
Beryl in the pearls and twin-set. Now do you think you've got us all
straight?'

Bond looked into the round blue eyes that now held a spark of animation.
'Frankly no. And I feel like one of those comic film stars who get
snarled up in a girls' school. You know. Sort of St Trinian's.'

She giggled. (Bond was to discover that she was a chronic giggler. She
was too 'dainty' to open her lovely lips and laugh. He was also to find
that she couldn't sneeze like a human, but let out a muffled, demure
squeak into her scrap of lace handkerchief, and that she took very small
mouthfuls at meals and barely masticated with the tips of her teeth
before swallowing with hardly a ripple of her throat. She had been 'well
brought up'.) 'Oh, but we're not at all like St Trinian's. Those awful
girls! How could you ever say such a thing!'

'Just a thought,' said Bond airily. 'Now then, how about another drink?'

'Oh, thenks awfully.'

Bond turned to Frulein Bunt. 'And you, Miss Bunt?'

'Thank you, Sair Hilary. An apple-juice, if you please.'

Violet, the fourth at their table, said demurely that she wouldn't have
another Coke. 'They give me wind,' she explained.

'Oh Violet!' Ruby's sense of the proprieties was outraged. 'How can you
say such a thing!'

'Well, anyway, they do,' said Violet obstinately. 'They make me hiccup.
No harm in saying that, is there?'

Good old Manchester, thought Bond. He got up and went to the bar,
wondering how he was going to plough on through this and other evenings.
He ordered the drinks and had a brain-wave. He would break the ice! By
hook or by crook he would become the life and soul of the party! He
asked for a tumbler and that its rim should be dipped in water. Then he
picked up a paper cocktail napkin and went back to the table. He sat
down. 'Now,' he said as eyes goggled at him, 'if we were paying for our
drinks, I'll show you how we'd decide who should pay. I learned this in
the Army.' He placed the tumbler in the middle of the table, opened the
paper napkin and spread the centre tightly over the top so that it clung
to the moist edge of the glass. He took his small change out of his
pocket, selected a five-centime piece, and dropped it gently on to the
centre of the stretched tissue. 'Now then,' he announced, remembering
that the last time he had played this game had been in the dirtiest bar
in Singapore. 'Who else smokes? We need three others with lighted
cigarettes.' Violet was the only one at their table. Irma clapped her
hands with authority. 'Elizabeth, Beryl, come over here. And come and
watch, girls, Sair Hilary is making the joke game.' The girls clustered
round, chattering happily at the diversion. 'What's he doing?' 'What's
going to happen?' 'How do you play?'

'Now then,' said Bond, feeling like the games director on a cruise ship,
'this is for who pays for the drinks. One by one, you take a puff at
your cigarette, knock off the ash, like this, and touch the top of the
paper with the lighted end--just enough to burn a tiny hole, like this.'
The paper sparkled briefly. 'Now Violet, then Elizabeth, then Beryl. The
point is, the paper gets like a sort of cobweb with the coin just
supported in the middle. The person who burns the last hole and makes
the coin drop has to pay for the drinks. See? Now then, Violet.'

There were squeaks of excitement. 'What a lovely game!' 'Oh Beryl, look
out!' Lovely heads craned over Bond. Lovely hair brushed his cheek.
Quickly the three girls got the trick of very delicately touching a
space that would not collapse the cobweb until Bond, who considered
himself an expert at the game, decided to be chivalrous and purposely
burned a vital strand. With the chink of the coin falling into the glass
there was a burst of excited laughter and applause.

'So, you see, girls.' It was as if Irma Bunt had invented the game.
'Sair Hilary pays, isn't it? A most delightful pastime. And now'--she
looked at her mannish wrist-watch--'we must finish our drinks. It is
five minutes to supper time.'

There were cries of 'Oh, one more game, Miss Bunt!' But Bond politely
rose with his whisky in his hand. 'We will play again tomorrow. I hope
it's not going to start you all off smoking. I'm sure it was invented by
the tobacco companies!'

There was laughter. But the girls stood admiringly round Bond. What a
sport he was! And they had all expected a stuffed shirt! Bond felt
justifiably proud of himself. The ice had been broken. He had got them
all minutely on his side. Now they were all chums together. From now on
he would be able to get to talk to them without frightening them.
Feeling reasonably pleased with his gambit, he followed the tight pants
of Irma Bunt into the dining-room next door.

It was seven-thirty. Bond suddenly felt exhausted, exhausted with the
prospect of boredom, exhausted with playing the most difficult role of
his career, exhausted with the enigma of Blofeld and the Piz Gloria.
What in hell was the bastard up to? He sat down on the right of Irma
Bunt in the same placing as for drinks, with Ruby on his right and
Violet, dark, demure, self-effacing, opposite him, and glumly opened his
napkin. Blofeld had certainly spent money on his eyrie. Their three
tables, in a remote corner by the long, curved, curtained window,
occupied only a fraction of the space in the big, low, luxuriously
appointed, mock-German baroque room, ornate with candelabra suspended
from the stomachs of flying cherubs, festooned with heavy gilt
plaster-work, solemnized by the dark portraits of anonymous noblemen.
Blofeld must be pretty certain he was here to stay. What was the
investment? Certainly not less than a million sterling, even assuming a
fat mortgage from Swiss banks on the cost of the cable railway. To lease
an alp, put up a cable railway on mortgage, with the engineers and the
local district council participating--that, Bond knew, was one of the
latest havens for fugitive funds. If you were successful, if you and the
council could bribe or bully the local farmers to allow right-of-way
through their pastures, cut swaths through the tree-line for the cable
pylons and the ski-runs, the rest was publicity and amenities for the
public to eat their sandwiches. Add to that the snob-appeal of a posh,
heavily restricted club such as Bond imagined this, during the daytime,
to be, the coroneted G, and the mystique of a research institute run by
a Count, and you were off to the races. Skiing today, Bond had read, was
the most widely practised sport in the world. It sounded unlikely, but
then one reckoned the others largely by spectators. Skiers were
participants, and bigger spenders on equipment than in other sports.
Clothes, boots, skis, bindings, and now the whole 'aprs-ski' routine
which took care of the day from four o'clock, when the sun went,
onwards, were a tremendous industry. If you could lay your hands on a
good alp, which Blofeld had somehow managed to do, you really had it
good. Mortgages paid off--snow was the joker, but in the Engadine, at
this height, you would be all right for that--in three or four years,
and then jam for ever! One certainly had to hand it to him!

It was time to make the going again! Resignedly, Bond turned to Frulein
Bunt. 'Frulein Bunt. Please explain to me. What is the difference
between a piz and an alp and a berg?'

The yellow eyes gleamed with academic enthusiasm. 'Ah, Sair Hilary, but
that is an interesting question. It had not occurred to me before. Now
let me see.' She gazed into the middle distance. 'A piz, that is only a
local name in this department of Switzerland for a peak. An alp, that
one would think would be smaller than a berg--a hill, perhaps, or an
upland pasture, as compared with a mountain. But that is not so.
These'--she waved her hand--'are all alps and yet they are great
mountains. It is the same in Austria, certainly in the Tyrol. But in
Germany, in Bavaria for instance, which is my home land, there it is all
bergs. No Sair Hilary'--the box-like smile was switched on and off--'I
cannot help you. But why do you ask?'

'In my profession,' said Bond prosily, 'the exact meaning of words is
vital. Now, before we met for cocktails, it amused me to look up your
surname, Bunt, in my books of reference. What I found, Frulein, was
most interesting. Bunt, it seems, is German for "gay", "happy". In
England, the name has almost certainly been corrupted into Bounty,
perhaps even into Bront, because the grandfather of the famous literary
family by that name had in fact changed his name from the less
aristocratic name of Brunty. Now this is most interesting.' (Bond knew
that it wasn't, that this was all hocus-pocus, but he thought it would
do no harm to stretch his heraldic muscles.) 'Can you remember if your
ancestors had any connexion with England? There is the Dukedom of
Bront, you see, which Nelson assumed. It would be interesting to
establish a connexion.'

The penny dropped! A duchess! Irma Bunt, hooked, went off into a dreary
chronicle of her forebears, including proudly, distant relationship with
a Graf von Bunt. Bond listened politely, prodding her back to the
immediate past. She gave the name of her father and mother. Bond filed
them away. He now had enough to find out in due course exactly who Irma
Bunt was. What a splendid trap snobbery was! How right Sable Basilisk
had been! There is a snob in all of us and only through snobbery could
Bond have discovered who the parents of this woman were.

Bond finally calmed down the woman's momentary fever, and the head
waiter, who had been politely hovering, presented giant menus covered in
violet ink. There was everything from caviar down to Double Mokka au
whisky irlandais. There were also many 'spcialits Gloria'--Poulet
Gloria, Homard Gloria, Tournedos Gloria, and so on. Bond, despite his
forswearing of spcialits, decided to give the chicken a chance. He
said so and was surprised by the enthusiasm with which Ruby greeted his
choice. 'Oh, how right you are, Sir Hilary! I adore chicken too. I
absolutely dote on it. Can I have that too, please, Miss Bunt?'

There was such surprising fervour in her voice that Bond watched Irma
Bunt's face. What was that matronly gleam in her eye as she gave her
approval? It was more than approval for a good appetite among her
charges. There was enthusiasm, even triumph there. Odd! And it happened
again when Violet stipulated plenty of potatoes with her tournedos. 'I
simply love potatoes,' she explained to Bond, her eyes shining. 'Don't
you?'

'They're fine,' agreed Bond. 'When you're taking plenty of exercise,
that is.'

'Oh, they're just darling,' enthused Violet. 'Aren't they, Miss Bunt?'

'Very good indeed, my dear. Very good for you too. And Fritz, I will
just have the mixed salad with some cottage cheese.' She gave the
caricature of a simper. 'Alas'--she spoke to Bond--'I have to watch my
figure. These young things take plenty of exercise, while I must stay in
my office and do the paper-work, isn't it?'

At the next table Bond heard the girl with the Scottish burr, her voice
full of saliva, ask that her Aberdeen Angus steak should be cooked very
rare indeed. 'Guid and bluidy,' she emphasized.

What was this? wondered Bond. A gathering of beautiful ogresses? Or was
this a day off from some rigorous diet? He felt completely clueless, out
of his depth. Well, he would just go on digging. He turned to Ruby. 'You
see what I mean about surnames. Frulein Bunt may even have distant
claim to an English title. Now what's yours, for instance? I'll see what
I can make of it.'

Frulein Bunt broke in sharply. 'No surnames here, Sair Hilary. It is a
rule of the house. We use only first names for the girls. It is part of
the Count's treatment. It is bound up with a change, a transference of
identity, to help the cure. You understand?'

'No, I'm afraid that's way out of my depth,' said Bond cheerfully.

'No doubt the Count will explain some of these matters to you tomorrow.
He has special theories. One day the world will be startled when he
reveals his methods.'

'I'm sure,' said Bond politely. 'Well now'--he searched for a subject
that would leave his mind free to roam on its own. 'Tell me about your
skiing. How are you getting on? Don't do it myself, I'm afraid. Perhaps
I shall pick up some tips watching your classes.'

It was an adequate ball which went bouncing on between Ruby and Violet,
and Bond kept it in play while their food came and proved delicious.
Poulet Gloria was spatchcocked, with a mustard-and-cream sauce. The
girls fell silent over their dishes, consuming them with polite but
concentrated greed. There was a similar pause in the chatter at the
other tables. Bond made conversation about the dcor of the room and
this gave him a chance to have a good look at the waiters. There were
twelve of them in sight. It was not difficult to sum them up as three
Corsicans, three Germans, three vaguely Balkan faces, Turks, Bulgars,
or Yugoslavs, and three obvious Slavs. There would probably be three
Frenchmen in the kitchen. Was this the old pattern of SPECTRE? The
well-tried communist-cell pattern of three men from each of the great
gangster and secret-service organizations in Europe? Were the three
Slavs ex-Smersh men? The whole lot of them looked tough enough, had that
quiet smell of the pro. The man at the airport was one of them. Bond
recognized others as the reception steward and the man who had come to
his room about the table. He heard the girls calling them Fritz, Joseph,
Ivan, Achmed. And some of them were ski-guides during the day. Well, it
was a nice little set-up if Bond was right.

Bond excused himself after dinner on the grounds of work. He went to his
room and laid out his books and papers on the desk and on the extra
table that had been provided. He bent over them studiously while his
mind reviewed the day.

At ten o'clock he heard the goodnights of the girls down the corridor
and the click of the doors shutting. He undressed, turned the thermostat
on the wall down from eighty-five to sixty, switched off the light, and
lay on his back for a while staring up into the darkness. Then he gave
an authentic sigh of exhaustion for the microphones, if any, and turned
over on his side and went to sleep.

Later, much later, he was awakened by a very soft murmuring that seemed
to come from somewhere under the floor, but very, very far away. He
identified it as a minute, spidery whispering that went on and on. But
he could not make out any words and he finally put it down to the
central-heating pipes, turned over, and went to sleep again.




CHAPTER 11. DEATH FOR BREAKFAST


James Bond awoke to a scream. It was a terrible, masculine scream
out of hell. It fractionally held its first high, piercing note
and then rapidly diminished as if the man had jumped off a cliff.
It came from the right, from somewhere near the cable station perhaps.
Even in Bond's room, muffled by the double windows, it was terrifying
enough. Outside it must have been shattering.

Bond jumped up and pulled back the curtains, not knowing what scene of
panic, of running men, would meet his eyes. But the only man in sight
was one of the guides, walking slowly, stolidly up the beaten snow-path
from the cable station to the club. The spacious wooden veranda that
stretched from the wall of the club out over the slope of the mountain
was empty, but tables had been laid for breakfast and the upholstered
chaises-longue for the sunbathers had already been drawn up in their
meticulous, colourful rows. The sun was blazing down out of a crystal
sky. Bond looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. Work began early in
this place! People died early. For that had undoubtedly been the
death-scream. He turned back into his room and rang the bell.

It was one of the three men Bond had suspected of being Russians. Bond
became the officer and gentleman. 'What is your name?'

'Peter sir.'

'Piotr?' Bond longed to say. 'And how are all my old friends from
SMERSH?' He didn't. He said, 'What was that scream?'

'Pliss?' The granite-grey eyes were careful.

'A man screamed just now. From over by the cable station. What was it?'

'It seems there has been an accident, sir. You wish for breakfast?' He
produced a large menu from under his arm and held it out clumsily.

'What sort of an accident?'

'It seems that one of the guides has fallen.'

How could this man have known that, only minutes after the scream? 'Is
he badly hurt?'

'Is possible, sir.' The eyes, surely trained in investigation, held
Bond's blandly. 'You wish for breakfast?' The menu was once again nudged
forward.

Bond said, with sufficient concern, 'Well, I hope the poor chap's all
right.' He took the menu and ordered. 'Let me know if you hear what
happened.'

'There will no doubt be an announcement if the matter is serious. Thank
you, sir.' The man withdrew.

It was the scream that triggered Bond into deciding that, above all
things, he must keep fit. He suddenly felt that, despite all the mystery
and its demand for solution, there would come a moment when he would
need all his muscle. Reluctantly he proceeded to a quarter of an hour of
knee-bends and press-ups and deep-breathing chest-expansions--exercises
of the skiing muscles. He guessed that he might have to get away from
this place. But quick!

He took a shower and shaved. Breakfast was brought by Peter. 'Any more
news about this poor guide?'

'I have heard no more, sir. It concerns the outdoor staff. I work inside
the club.'

Bond decided to play it down. 'He must have slipped and broken an ankle.
Poor chap! Thank you, Peter.'

'Thank you, sir.' Did the granite eyes contain a sneer?

James Bond put his breakfast on the desk and, with some difficulty,
managed to prise open the double window. He removed the small bolster
that lay along the sill between the panes to keep out draughts, and blew
away the accumulated dust and small fly-corpses. The cold, savourless
air of high altitudes rushed into the room and Bond went to the
thermostat and put it up to 90 as a counter-attack. While, his head
below the level of the sill, he ate a spare continental breakfast, he
heard the chatter of the girls assembling outside on the terrace. The
voices were high with excitement and debate. Bond could hear every word.

'I really don't think Sarah should have told on him.'

'But he came in in the dark and started mucking her about.'

'You mean actually _interfering_ with her?'

'So she says. If I'd been her, I'd have done the same. And he's such a
beast of a man.'

'_Was_, you mean. Which one was it, anyway?'

'One of the Yugos. Bertil.'

'Oh, I know. Yes, he was pretty horrible. He had such dreadful teeth.'

'You oughtn't to say such things of the dead.'

'How do you know he's dead? What happened to him, anyway?'

'He was one of the two you see spraying the start of the bob-run. You
see them with hoses every morning. It's to get it good and icy so
they'll go faster. Fritz told me he somehow slipped, lost his balance,
or something. And that was that. He just went off down the run like a
sort of human bob-sleigh.'

'Elizabeth! How can you be so heartless about it!'

'Well, that's what happened. You asked.'

'But couldn't he save himself?'

'Don't be idiotic. It's sheet ice, a mile of it. And the bobs get up to
sixty miles an hour. He hadn't got a prayer.'

'But didn't he fly off at one of the bends?'

'Fritz said he went all the way to the bottom. Crashed into the timing
hut. But Fritz says he must have been dead in the first hundred yards or
so.'

'Oh, here's Franz. Franz, can I have scrambled eggs and coffee? And tell
them to make the scrambled eggs runny like I always have them.'

'Yes, miss. And you, miss?' The waiter took the orders and Bond heard
his boots creak off across the boards.

The sententious girl was being sententious again. 'Well, all I can say
is it must have been some kind of punishment for what he tried to do to
Sarah. You always get paid off for doing wrong.'

'Don't be ridiculous. God would never punish you as severely as that.'
The conversation followed this new hare off into a maze of infantile
morality and the Scriptures.

Bond lit a cigarette and sat back, gazing thoughtfully at the sky. No,
the girl was right. God wouldn't mete out such a punishment. But Blofeld
would. Had there been one of those Blofeld meetings at which, before the
full body of men, the crime and the verdict had been announced? Had this
Bertil been taken out and dropped on to the bob-run? Or had his
companion been quietly dealt the card of death, told to give the sinner
the trip or the light push that was probably all that had been needed?
More likely. The quality of the scream had been of sudden, fully
realized terror as the man fell, scrabbled at the ice with his
fingernails and boots, and then, as he gathered speed down the polished
blue gully, the blinding horror of the truth. And what a death! Bond had
once gone down the Cresta, from 'Top', to prove to himself that he
dared. Helmeted, masked against the blast of air, padded with leather
and foam rubber, that had still been sixty seconds of naked fear. Even
now he could remember how his limbs had shaken when he rose stiffly from
the flimsy little skeleton bob at the end of the run-out. And that had
been a bare three-quarters of a mile. This man, or the flayed remains of
him, had done over a mile. Had he gone down head or feet first? Had his
body started tumbling? Had he tried, while consciousness remained, to
brake himself over the edge of one of the early, scientifically banked
bends with the unspiked toe of this boot or that...? No. After the
first few yards, he would already have been going too fast for any
rational thought or action. God, what a death! A typical Blofeld death,
a typical SPECTRE revenge for the supreme crime of disobedience.
That was the way to keep discipline in the ranks! So, concluded Bond as
he cleared the tray away and got down to his books, SPECTRE walks
again! But down what road this time?

                        *          *          *

At ten minutes to eleven, Irma Bunt came for him. After an exchange of
affabilities, Bond gathered up an armful of books and papers and
followed her round the back of the club building and along a narrow,
well-trodden path past a sign that said PRIVAT. EINTRITT VERBOTEN.

The rest of the building, whose outlines Bond had seen the night before,
came into view. It was an undistinguished but powerfully built
one-storey affair made of local granite blocks, with a flat cement roof
from which, at the far end, protruded a small, professional-looking
radio mast which, Bond assumed, had given the pilot his landing
instructions on the previous night and which would also serve as the
ears and mouth of Blofeld. The building was on the very edge of the
plateau and below the final peak of Piz Gloria, but out of avalanche
danger. Beneath it the mountain sloped sharply away until it disappeared
over a cliff. Far below again was the tree line and the Bernina valley
leading up to Pontresina, the glint of a railway track and the tiny
caterpillar of a long goods train of the Rhtische Bahn, on its way,
presumably, over the Bernina Pass into Italy.

The door to the building gave the usual pneumatic hiss, and the central
corridor was more or less a duplicate of the one at the club, but here
there were doors on both sides and no pictures. It was dead quiet and
there was no hint of what went on behind the doors. Bond put the
question.

'Laboratories,' said Irma Bunt vaguely. 'All laboratories. And of course
the lecture-room. Then the Count's private quarters. He lives with his
work, Sair Hilary.'

'Good show.'

They came to the end of the corridor. Irma Bunt knocked on the facing
door.

'Herein!'

James Bond was tremendously excited as he stepped over the threshold and
heard the door sigh shut behind him. He knew what not to expect, the
original Blofeld, last year's model--about twenty stone, tall, pale,
bland face with black crew-cut, black eyes with the whites showing all
round, like Mussolini's, ugly thin mouth, long pointed hands and
feet--but he had no idea what alterations had been contrived on the
envelope that contained the man.

But Monsieur le Comte de Bleuville, who now rose from the chaise-longue
on the small private veranda and came in out of the sun into the
penumbra of the study, his hands outstretched in welcome, was surely not
even a distant relative of the man on the files!

Bond's heart sank. This man was tallish, yes, and, all right, his hands
and naked feet were long and thin. But there the resemblance ended. The
Count had longish, carefully-tended, almost dandified hair that was a
fine silvery white. His ears, that should have been close to his head,
stuck out slightly and, where they should have had heavy lobes, had
none. The body that should have weighed twenty stone, now naked save for
a black woollen slip, was not more than twelve stone, and there were no
signs of the sagging flesh that comes from middle-aged weight-reduction.
The mouth was full and friendly, with a pleasant, up-turned, but perhaps
rather unwavering smile. The forehead was serrated with wrinkles above a
nose that, while the files said it should be short and squat, was
aquiline and, round the right nostril, eaten away, poor chap, by what
looked like the badge of tertiary syphilis. The eyes? Well, there might
be something there if one could see them, but they were only rather
frightening dark-green pools. The Count wore, presumably against the
truly dangerous sun at these altitudes, dark-green tinted contact
lenses.

Bond unloaded his books on to a conveniently empty table and took the
warm, dry hand.

'My dear Sir Hilary. This is indeed a pleasure.' Blofeld's voice had
been said to be sombre and even. This voice was light and full of
animation.

Bond said to himself, furiously, by God this has _got_ to be Blofeld! He
said, 'I'm so sorry I couldn't come on the 21st. There's a lot going on
at the moment.'

'Ah yes. So Frulein Bunt told me. These new African States. They must
indeed present a problem. Now, shall we settle down here'--he waved
towards his desk--'or shall we go outside? You see'--he gestured at his
brown body--'I am a heliotrope, a sun-worshipper. So much so that I have
had to have these lenses devised for me. Otherwise, the ultraviolet
rays, at this altitude...' He left the phrase unfinished.

'I haven't seen that kind of lens before. After all, I can leave the
books here and fetch them if we need them for reference. I have the case
pretty clear in my mind. And'--Bond smiled chummily--'it would be nice
to go back to the fogs with something of a sunburn.'

Bond had equipped himself at Lillywhites with clothing he thought would
be both appropriate and sensible. He had avoided the modern elasticized
vorlage trousers and had chosen the more comfortable but old-fashioned
type of ski-trouser in a smooth cloth. Above these he wore an aged black
wind-cheater that he used for golf, over his usual white sea-island
cotton shirt. He had wisely reinforced this outfit with long and ugly
cotton and wool pants and vests. He had conspicuously brand-new
ski-boots with powerful ankle-straps. He said, 'Then I'd better take off
my sweater,' He did so and followed the Count out on to the veranda.

The Count lay back again in his upholstered aluminium chaise-longue.
Bond drew up a light chair made of similar materials. He placed it also
facing the sun, but at an angle so that he could watch the Count's face.

'And now,' said the Comte de Bleuville, 'what have you got to tell me
that necessitated this personal visit?' He turned his fixed smile on
Bond. The dark-green glass eyes were unfathomable. 'Not of course that
the visit is not most welcome, most welcome. Now then, Sir Hilary.'

Bond had been well trained in two responses to this obvious first
question. The first was for the event that the Count had lobes to his
ears. The second, if he had not. He now, in measured, serious tones,
launched himself into Number Two.

'My dear Count'--the form of address seemed dictated by the silvery
hair, by the charm of the Count's manners--'there are occasions in the
work of the College when research and paperwork are simply not enough.
We have, as you know, come to a difficult passage in our work on your
case. I refer of course to the hiatus between the disappearance of the
de Bleuville line around the time of the French Revolution and the
emergence of the Blofeld family, or families, in the neighbourhood of
Augsburg. And'--Bond paused impressively--'in the latter context I may
later have a proposal that I hope will find favour with you. But what I
am coming to is this. You have already expended serious funds on our
work, and it would not have been fair to suggest that the researches
should go forward unless there was a substantial ray of hope in the sky.
The possibility of such a ray existed, but it was of such a nature that
it definitely demanded a physical confrontation.'

'Is that so? And for what purpose, may I inquire?'

James Bond recited Sable Basilisk's examples of the Habsburg lip, the
royal tail, and the others. He then leaned forward in his chair for
emphasis. 'And such a physical peculiarity exists in connexion with the
de Bleuvilles. You did not know this?'

'I was not aware of it. No. What is it?'

'I have good news for you, Count' Bond smiled his congratulations. 'All
the de Bleuville effigies or portraits that we have been able to trace
have been distinctive in one vital respect, in one inherited
characteristic. It appears that the family had no lobes to their ears!'

The Count's hands went up to his ears and felt them. Was he acting?

'I see,' he said slowly. 'Yes, I see.' He reflected. 'And you had to see
this for yourself? My word, or a photograph, would not have been
sufficient?'

Bond looked embarrassed. 'I am sorry, Count. But that was the ruling of
Garter King of Arms. I am only a junior free-lance research worker for
one of the Pursuivants. He in turn takes his orders in these matters
from above. I hope you will appreciate that the College has to be
extremely strict in cases concerned with a most ancient and honourable
title such as the one in question.'

The dark pools aimed themselves at Bond like the muzzles of guns. 'Now
that you have seen what you came to see, you regard the title as still
in question?'

This was the worst hurdle. 'What I have seen certainly allows me to
recommend that the work should continue, Count. And I would say that our
chances of success have greatly multiplied. I have brought out the
materials for a first sketch of the Line of Descent, and that, in a
matter of days, I could lay before you. But alas, as I have said, there
are still many gaps, and it is most important for me to satisfy Sable
Basilisk particularly about the stages of your family's migration from
Augsburg to Gdynia. It would be of the greatest help if I might question
you closely about your parentage in the male line. Even details about
your father and grandfather would be of the greatest assistance. And
then, of course, it would be of the utmost importance if you could spare
a day to accompany me to Augsburg to see if the handwriting of these
Blofeld families in the Archives, their Christian names and other family
details, awaken any memories or connexions in your mind. The rest would
then remain with us at the College. I could spare no more than a week on
this work. But I am at your disposal if you wish it.'

The Count got to his feet. Bond followed suit. He walked casually over
to the railing and admired the view. Would this bedraggled fly be taken?
Bond now desperately hoped so. During the interview he had come to one
certain conclusion. There was not a single one of the peculiarities in
the Count's appearance that could not have been achieved by good acting
and by the most refined facial and stomach surgery applied to the
original Blofeld. Only the eyes could not have been tampered with. And
the eyes were obscured.

'You think that with patient work, even with the inclusion of a few
question marks where the connecting links are obscure, I would achieve
an Acre de Notorit that would satisfy the Minister of Justice in
Paris?'

'Most certainly,' lied Bond. 'With the authority of the College in
support.'

The fixed smile widened minutely. 'That would give me much satisfaction,
Sir Hilary. I _am_ the Comte de Bleuville. I am certain of it in my
heart, in my veins.' There was real fervour in the voice. 'But I am
determined that my title shall be officially recognized. You will be
most welcome to remain as my guest and I shall be constantly at your
disposal to help with your researches.'

Bond said politely, but with a hint of weariness, of resignation, 'All
right, Count. And thank you. I will go and make a start straight away.'




CHAPTER 12. TWO NEAR MISSES


Bond was shown out of the building by a man in a white coat with
the conventional white gauze of the laboratory worker over the lower
half of his face. Bond attempted no conversation. He was now well inside
the fortress, but he would have to continue to walk on tiptoe and be
damned careful where he put his feet!

He returned to his room and got out one of the giant sheets of squared
paper with which he had been furnished. He sat down at his table and
wrote firmly at the top centre of the paper 'Guillaume de Bleuville,
1207-1243'. Now there were five hundred years of de Bleuvilles, with
their wives and children, to be copied down from his books and notes.
That would fill up an impressive number of pages with impeccable fact.
He could certainly spread that chore over three days, interspersed with
more tricky work--gassing with Blofeld about the Blofeld end of the
story. Fortunately there were some English Blofields he could throw in
as make-weight. And some Bluefields and Blumfields. He could start some
pretty hares running in those directions! And, in between these idiotic
activities, he would ferret and ferret away at the mystery of what in
hell the new Blofeld, the new SPECTRE, were up to!

One thing was certain, they had already been through his belongings.
Before going for his interview, Bond had gone into the bathroom, away
from that seemingly watchful hole in the ceiling, and had painfully
pulled out half a dozen of his hairs. These, while he had selected the
books he needed to take with him, he had dispersed inconspicuously among
his other papers and in his passport. The hairs were all gone. Someone
had been through all his books. He got up and went to the chest of
drawers, ostensibly for a handkerchief. Yes, the careful patterns in
which he had laid out his things had all been minutely disturbed.
Unemotionally he went back to his work, thanking heaven he had travelled
as 'clean' as a whistle! But by God he'd have to keep his cover solid!
He didn't at all like the thought of that one-way trip down the bob-run!

Bond got as far as 1350 and then the noise from the veranda became too
distracting. Anyway, he had done a respectable stint, almost to the
bottom of the giant page. He would go out and do a little very discreet
exploring. He wanted to get his bearings, or rather confirm them, and
this would be a perfectly reasonable activity for a newcomer. He had
left his door into the passage ajar. He went out and along to the
reception lounge, where the man in the plum coat was busy entering the
names of the morning's visitors in a book. Bond's greeting was politely
answered. There was a ski-room and workshop to the left of the exit.
Bond wandered in. One of the Balkan types was at the work-bench,
screwing a new binding on to a ski. He looked up and went on with his
work while Bond gazed with seeming curiosity at the ranks of skis
standing along the wall. Things had changed since his day. The bindings
were quite different and designed, it seemed, to keep the heel dead flat
on the ski. And there were new safety releases. Many of the skis were of
metal and the ski-sticks were fibre-glass lances that looked to Bond
extremely dangerous in the event of a bad fall. Bond wandered over to
the work-bench and feigned interest in what the man was doing. In fact
he had seen something that excited him very much--an untidy pile of
lengths of thin plastic strip for the boot to rest on in the binding, so
that, on the shiny surface, snow would not ball under the sole. Bond
leaned over the work-bench, resting on his right elbow, and commented on
the precision of the man's work. The man grunted and concentrated all
the more closely to avoid further conversation. Bond's left hand slid
under his leaning arm, secured one of the strips and slid it up his
sleeve. He made a further inane comment, which was not answered, and
strolled out of the ski-room.

(When the man in the workshop heard the front door hiss shut, he turned
to the pile of plastic strips and counted them carefully twice. Then he
went out to the man in the plum-coloured coat and spoke to him in
German. The man nodded and picked up the telephone receiver and dialled
O. The workman went stolidly back to his ski-room.)

As Bond strolled along the path that led to the cable station, he
transferred the plastic strip from his sleeve to his trouser pocket,
feeling pleased with himself. He had at least provided himself with one
tool--the traditional burglar's tool for opening the Yale-type locks
that secured the doors.

Away from the club-house, to which only a thin trickle of smart-looking
people were making their way, he got into the usual mountain-top
crowd--people swarming out of the cable-head, skiers wobbling or
schussing down the easy nursery slopes on the plateau, little groups
marshalled under individual teachers and guides from the valley. The
terrace of the public restaurant was already crowded with the
underprivileged who hadn't got the money or the connexions to join the
club. He walked below it on the well-trampled snow and stood among the
skiers at the top of the first plunging schuss of the Gloria run. A
large notice-board, crowned with the G and the coronet, announced
GLORIA ABFAHRT! Then below, ROT -- FREIE FAHRT. GELB -- FREIE FAHRT.
SCHWARZ -- GESPERRT, meaning that the red and yellow runs were
open but the black closed, presumably because of avalanche danger.
Below this again was a painted metal map of the three runs. Bond had a
good look at it, reflecting that it might be wise to commit to memory
the red, which was presumably the easiest and most popular. There were
red, yellow, and black marker flags on the map, and Bond could see the
actual flags fluttering way down the mountain until the runs, studded
with tiny moving figures, disappeared to the left, round the shoulder of
the mountain and under the cable railway. The red seemed to continue to
zigzag under the cable and between the few high pylons until it met the
tree line. Then there was a short stretch of wood-running until the
final easy schuss across the undulating lower meadows to the bottom
cable-head, beyond which lay the main railway line and then the
Pontresina-Samaden road. Bond tried to get it all fixed in his mind.
Then he watched some of the starts. These varied between the arrow-like
dive of the Kannonen, the stars, who took the terrific schuss dead
straight in a low crouch with their sticks jauntily tucked under their
arm-pits, the average amateur who braked perhaps three or four times on
his way down, and the terrified novice who, with stuck-out behind,
stemmed his way down, his skis angled and edged like a snow-plough, with
occasional straight runs diagonally across the polished slope--dashing
little sprints that usually ended in a mild crash as he ran off the
flattened surface into the thick powder snow that edged the wide, beaten
piste.

The scene was the same as a thousand others Bond had witnessed when, as
a teenager, he learned his skiing in the old Hannes Schneider School at
St Anton in the Arlberg. He had got pretty good and had won his golden
K, but the style in those days was rudimentary compared with what he was
now witnessing from the occasional expert who zoomed down and away from
beside him. Today the metal skis seemed to run faster and truer than the
old steel-edged hickory. There was less shoulder-work and the art of
Wedeln, a gentle waggling of the hips, was a revelation. Would it be as
effective in deep new snow as it was on the well-beaten piste? Bond was
doubtful, but he was envious of it. It was so much more graceful than
the old Arlberg crouch. Bond wondered how he would fare on this terrific
run. He would certainly not dare to take the first schuss straight. He
would brake at least twice, perhaps there and there. And his legs would
be trembling before he had been going for five minutes. His knees and
ankles and wrists would be giving out. He _must_ get on with his
exercises!

Bond, excited, left the scene and followed arrows that pointed to the
GLORIA EXPRESS BOB-RUN. It lay on the other side of the cable station.
There was a small wooden hut, the starter's hut, with telephone-wires
connected to the station, and, beneath the cable station, a little
'garage' that housed the bob-sleighs and one-man skeleton-bobs.
A chain, with a notice on it saying ABFAHRTEN TGLICH 0900-1100,
was stretched across the wide mouth of the gulch of blue ice that
curved away to the left and then disappeared over the shoulder.
Here again was a metal map showing the zigzag course of the run down
into the valley. In deference to the English traditions at the sport,
outstanding curves and hazards were marked with names such as
'Dead Man's Leap', 'Whizz-Bang Straight', 'Battling S', 'Hell's
Delight', 'The Boneshaker', and the finishing straight down 'Paradise
Alley'. Bond visualized the scene that morning, heard again that
heart-rending scream. Yes, that death certainly had the old Blofeld
touch!

'Sair Hilary! Sair Hilary!'

Startled out of his thoughts, Bond turned. Frulein Irma Bunt, her short
arms akimbo, was standing on the path to the club.

'Lunch time! Lunch!'

'Coming,' Bond called back, and strolled up the slope towards her. He
noted that, even in that hundred yards, his breathing was shallow and
his limbs were heavy. This blasted height! He really must get into
training!

He came up with her. She looked surly. He said that he was sorry, he had
not noticed the time. She said nothing. The yellow eyes surveyed him
with active dislike before she turned her back and led the way along the
path.

Bond looked back over the morning. What had he done? Had he made a
mistake? Well, he just might have. Better re-insure! As they came
through the entrance into the reception lounge, Bond said casually, 'Oh,
by the way, Frulein Bunt, I was in the ski-room just now.'

She halted. Bond noticed that the head of the receptionist bent a
fraction lower over his visitors' book.

'Yes?'

Bond took the length of plastic out of his pocket. 'I found just what I
wanted.' He stitched a smile of innocent pleasure on his face. 'Like an
idiot I forgot to bring a ruler with me. And there were these things on
the work-bench. Just right. So I borrowed one. I hope that was all
right. Of course I'll leave it behind when I go. But for these family
trees, you know'--Bond sketched a series of descending straight lines in
the air--'one has to get them on the right levels. I hope you don't
mind.' He smiled charmingly. 'I was going to confess the next time I saw
you.'

Irma Bunt veiled her eyes. 'It is of no consequence. In future, anything
you need you will perhaps ring for, isn't it? The Count wishes you to
have every facility. Now'--she gestured--'if you will perhaps go out on
the terrace. You will be shown to our table. I will be with you in a
moment.'

Bond went through the restaurant door. Several of the interior tables
were occupied by those who had had enough sun. He went across the room
and out through the now open french windows. The man Fritz, who appeared
to be the matre d'htel, came towards him through the crowded tables.
His eyes too were cold with hostility. He held up a menu. 'Please to
follow me.'

Bond followed him to the table up against the railing. Ruby and Violet
were already there. Bond felt almost light-hearted with relief at having
clean hands again. By God, he must pay attention, take care! This time
he had got away with it. And he still had the strip of plastic! Had he
sounded innocent enough, stupid enough? He sat down and ordered a double
medium-dry vodka Martini, on the rocks, with lemon peel, and edged his
feet up against Ruby's.

She didn't withdraw hers. She smiled. Violet smiled. They all started
talking at once. It was suddenly a beautiful day.

Frulein Bunt appeared and took her place. She was gracious again. 'I am
so pleased to hear that you will be staying with us for a whole week,
Sair Hilary. You enjoyed your interview with the Count? Is he not an
interesting man?'

'Very interesting. Unfortunately our talk was too short and we discussed
only my own subject. I was longing to ask him about his research work. I
hope he didn't think me very rude.'

Irma Bunt's face closed perceptibly. 'I am sure not. The Count does not
often like to discuss his work. In these specialized scientific fields,
you understand, there is much jealousy and, I am sorry to say, much
intellectual thieving.' The box-like smile. 'I do not of course refer to
yourself, my dear Sair Hilary, but to scientists less scrupulous than
the Count, to spies from the chemical companies. That is why we keep
ourselves very much to ourselves in our little Eagle's Nest up here. We
have total privacy. Even the police in the valley are most co-operative
in safeguarding us from intruders. They appreciate what the Count is
doing.'

'The study of allergies?'

'Just so.' The matre d'htel was standing by her side. His feet came
together with a perceptible click. Menus were handed round and Bond's
drink came. He took a long pull at it and ordered oeufs Gloria and a
green salad. Chicken again for Ruby, cold cuts 'with stacks of potatoes'
for Violet. Irma Bunt ordered her usual cottage cheese and salad.

'Don't you girls eat anything but chicken and potatoes? Is this
something to do with your allergies?'

Ruby began, 'Well, yes, in a way. Somehow I've come to simply love...'

Irma Bunt broke in sharply. 'Now then. Ruby. No discussion of
treatments, you remember? Not even with our good friend Sair Hilary.'
She waved a hand towards the crowded tables around them. 'A most
interesting crowd, do you not find, Sair Hilary? Everybody who is
anybody. We have quite taken the international set away from Gstaad and
St Moritz. That is your Duke of Marlborough over there with such a gay
party of young things. And near by that is Mr Whitney and Lady Daphne
Straight. Is she not chic? They are both wonderful skiers. And that
beautiful girl with the long fair hair at the big table, that is Ursula
Andress, the film star. What a wonderful tan she has! And Sir George
Dunbar, he always has the most enchanting companions.' The box-like
smile. 'Why, we only need the Aga Khan and perhaps your Duke of Kent and
we would have everybody, but everybody. Is it not sensational for the
first season?'

Bond said it was. The lunch came. Bond's eggs were delicious--chopped
hard-boiled eggs, with a cream and cheese sauce laced with English
mustard (English mustard seemed to be the clue to the Gloria
specialities), gratins in a copper dish. Bond commented on the
excellence of the cooking.

'Thank you,' said Irma Bunt. 'We have three expert Frenchmen in the
kitchen. Men are very good at cooking, is it not?'

Bond felt rather than saw a man approaching their table. He came up to
Bond. He was a military-looking man, of about Bond's age, and he had a
puzzled expression on his face. He bowed slightly to the ladies and said
to Bond, 'Excuse me, but I saw your name in the visitors' book. It is
Hilary Bray, isn't it?'

Bond's heart sank. This situation had always been a possibility and he
had prepared a fumbling counter to it. But this was the worst possible
moment with that damned woman watching and listening!

Bond said, 'Yes, it is,' with heartiness.

'_Sir_ Hilary Bray?' The pleasant face was even more puzzled.

Bond got to his feet and stood with his back to his table, to Irma Bunt.
'That's right.' He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose to
obscure the next question, which might be fatal.

'In the Lovat Scouts during the war?'

'Ah,' said Bond. He looked worried, lowered his voice appropriately.
'You're thinking of my first cousin. From Ben Trilleachan. Died six
months ago, poor chap. I inherited the title.'

'Oh, lord!' The man's puzzlement cleared. Grief took its place. 'Sorry
to hear that. Great pal of mine in the war. Funny! I didn't see anything
about it in _The Times_. Always read the "Births, Marriages, and
Deaths". What was it?'

Bond felt the sweat running down under his arms. 'Fell off one of those
bloody mountains of his. Broke his neck.'

'My God! Poor chap! But he was always fooling around the tops by
himself. I must write to Jenny at once.' He held out his hand. 'Well,
sorry to have butted in. Thought this was a funny place to find old
Hilary. Well, so long, and sorry again.' He moved off between the
tables. Out of the corner of his eye, Bond saw him rejoin a very
English-looking table of men and, obviously, wives, to whom he began
talking animatedly.

Bond sat down, reached for his drink and drained it and went back to his
eggs. The woman's eyes were on him. He felt the sweat running down his
face. He took out his handkerchief and mopped at it. 'Gosh, it's hot out
here in the sun! That was some pal of my first cousin's. My cousin had
the same name. Collateral branch. Died not long ago, poor chap.' He
frowned sadly. 'Didn't know this man from Adam. Nice-looking fellow.'
Bond looked bravely across the table. 'Do you know any of his party,
Frulein Bunt?'

Without looking at the party, Frulein Bunt said shortly, 'No, I do not
know everyone who comes here.' The yellow eyes were still inquisitive,
holding his. 'But it was a curious coincidence. Were you very alike, you
and your cousin?'

'Oh, absolutely,' said Bond, gushing. 'Spit image. Often used to get
taken for each other.' He looked across at the English group. Thank God
they were picking up their things and going. They didn't look
particularly smart or prosperous. Probably staying at Pontresina or
under the ex-officers' scheme at St Moritz. Typical English skiing
party. With any luck they were just doing the big runs in the
neighbourhood one by one. Bond reviewed the way the conversation had
gone while coffee came and he made cheerful small talk with Ruby, whose
foot was again clamped against his, about her skiing progress that
morning.

Well, he decided, the woman couldn't have heard much of it with all the
clatter and chatter from the surrounding tables. But it had been a
narrow squeak, a damned narrow squeak. The second of the day!

So much for walking on tiptoe inside the enemy lines!

Not good enough! Definitely not good enough!




CHAPTER 13. PRINCESS RUBY?


    My dear Sable Basilisk,

    I arrived safely--by helicopter, if you please!--at this
    beautiful place called Piz Gloria, 10,000 feet up somewhere in
    the Engadine. Most comfortable with an excellent male staff of
    several nationalities and a most efficient secretary to the
    Count named Frulein Irma Bunt who tells me that she comes from
    Munich.

    I had a most profitable interview with the Count this morning as
    a result of which he wishes me to stay on for a week to complete
    the first draft of his genealogical tree. I do hope you can
    spare me for so long. I warned the Count that we had much work
    to do on the new Commonwealth States. He himself, though busily
    engaged on what sounds like very public-spirited research work
    on allergies and their cause (he has ten English girls here as
    his patients), has agreed to see me daily in the hope that
    together we may be able to bridge the gap between the migration
    of the de Bleuvilles from France and their subsequent
    transference, as Blofelds, from Augsburg to Gdynia. I have
    suggested to him that we conclude the work with a quick visit to
    Augsburg for the purposes you and I discussed, but he has not
    yet given me his decision.

    Please tell my cousin Jenny Bray that she may be hearing from a
    friend of her late husband who apparently served with him in the
    Lovat Scouts. He came up to me at lunch today and took me for
    the other Hilary! Quite a coincidence!

    Working conditions are excellent. We have complete privacy here,
    secure from the madding world of skiers, and very sensibly the
    girls are confined to their rooms after ten at night to put them
    out of the temptation of roaming and gossiping. They seem a very
    nice lot, from all over the United Kingdom, but rather on the
    dumb side!

    Now for my most interesting item. The Count has _not_ got lobes
    to his ears! Isn't that good news! He also is of a most
    distinguished appearance and bearing with a fine head of silvery
    hair and a charming smile. His slim figure also indicates noble
    extraction. Unfortunately he has to wear dark-green contact
    lenses because of weak eyes and the strength of the sunshine at
    this height, and his aquiline nose is blemished by a deformed
    nostril which I would have thought could easily have been put
    right by facial surgery. He speaks impeccable English with a gay
    lilt to his voice and I am sure that we will get on very well.

    Now to get down to business. It would be most helpful if you
    would get in touch with the old printers of the Almanach de
    Gotha and see if they can help us over our gaps in the lineage.
    They may have some traces. Cable anything helpful. With the new
    evidence of the ear-lobes I am quite confident that the
    connexion exists.

    That's all for now.

                                                 Yours ever,
                                                     HILARY BRAY

        P.S. Don't tell my mother, or she will be worried for my
        safety among the eternal snows! But we had a nasty
        accident here this morning. One of the staff, a Yugoslav
        it seems, slipped on the bob-run and went the whole way
        to the bottom! Terrible business. He's apparently being
        buried in Pontresina tomorrow. Do you think we ought to
        send some kind of a wreath? H.B.

Bond read the letter several times. Yes, that would give the officers in
charge of Operation 'Corona' plenty to bite on. Particularly the hint
that they should get the dead man's name from the registrar in
Pontresina. And he had covered up a bit on the Bray mix-up when the
letter, as Bond was sure it would be, was steamed open and photostated
before dispatch. They might of course just destroy it. To prevent this,
the bit of bogosity about the Almanach de Gotha would be a clincher.
This source of heraldic knowledge hadn't been mentioned before. It would
surely excite the interest of Blofeld.

Bond rang the bell, handed out the letter for dispatch, and got back to
his work, which consisted initially of going into the bathroom with the
strip of plastic and his scissors in his pocket and snipping two
inch-wide strips off the end. These would be enough for the purposes he
and, he hoped, Ruby would put them to. Then, using the first joint of
his thumb as a rough guide, he marked off the remaining eighteen inches
into inch measures, to support his lie about the ruler, and went back to
his desk and to the next hundred years of the de Bleuvilles.

At about five o'clock the light got so bad that Bond got up from his
table and stretched, preparatory to going over to the light-switch near
the door. He took a last look out of the window before he closed it. The
veranda was completely deserted and the foam rubber cushions for the
reclining-chairs had already been taken in. From the direction of the
cable-head there still came the whine of machinery that had been part of
the background noises to the day. Yesterday the railway had closed at
about five, and it must be time for the last pair of gondolas to
complete their two-way journey and settle in their respective stations
for the night. Bond closed the double windows, walked across to the
thermostat and put it down to seventy. He was just about to reach for
the light-switch when there came a very soft tapping at the door.

Bond kept his voice low. 'Come in!'

The door opened and quickly closed to within an inch of the lock. It was
Ruby. She put her fingers to her lips and gestured towards the bathroom.
Bond, highly intrigued, followed her in and shut the door. Then he
turned on the light. She was blushing. She whispered imploringly, 'Oh,
please forgive me, Sir Hilary. But I did so want to talk to you for a
second.'

'That's fine, Ruby. But why the bathroom?'

'Oh, didn't you know? No, I suppose you wouldn't. It's supposed to be a
secret, but of course I can tell you. You won't let on, will you?'

'No, of course not.'

'Well, all the rooms have microphones in them. I don't know where. But
sometimes we girls have got together in each other's rooms, just for a
gossip, you know, and Miss Bunt has always known. We think they've got
some sort of television too.' She giggled. 'We always undress in the
bathroom. It's just a sort of feeling. As if one was being watched the
whole time. I suppose it's something to do with the treatment.'

'Yes, I expect so.'

'The point is, Sir Hilary, I was tremendously excited by what you were
saying at lunch today, about Miss Bunt perhaps being a duchess. I mean,
is that really possible?'

'Oh yes,' said Bond airily.

'I was so disappointed at not being able to tell you my surname. You
see, you see'--her eyes were wide with excitement--'it's Windsor!'

'Gosh,' said Bond, 'that's interesting!'

'I knew you'd say that. You see, there's always been talk in my family
that we're distantly connected with the Royal Family!'

'I can quite understand that.' Bond's voice was thoughtful, judicious.
'I'd like to be able to do some work on that. What were your parents'
names? I must have them first.'

'George Albert Windsor and Mary Potts. Does that mean anything?'

'Well, of course, the Albert's significant.' Bond felt a cur. 'You see,
there was the Prince Consort to Queen Victoria. He was Albert.'

'Oh golly!' Ruby's knuckles went up to her mouth.

'But of course all this needs a lot of working on. Where do you come
from in England? Where were you born?'

'In Lancashire. Morecambe Bay, where the shrimps come from. But a lot of
poultry too. You know.'

'So that's why you love chicken so much.'

'Oh, no.' She seemed surprised by the remark. 'That's just the point.
You see, I was allergic to chickens. I simply couldn't bear them--all
those feathers, the stupid pecking, the mess and the smell. I loathed
them. Even eating chicken brought me out in a sort of rash. It was
awful, and of course my parents were mad at me, they being poultry
farmers in quite a big way and me being supposed to help clean out the
batteries--you know, those modern mass-produced chicken places. And then
one day I saw this advertisement in the paper, in the _Poultry Farmer's
Gazette_. It said that anyone suffering from chicken allergy--then
followed a long Latin name--could apply for a course of re... of re...
for a cure in a Swiss institute doing research work on the thing.
All found and ten pounds a week pocket-money. Rather like those people
who go and act as rabbits in that place that's trying to find a cure for
colds.'

'I know,' said Bond encouragingly.

'So I applied and my fare was paid down to London and I met Miss Bunt
and she put me through some sort of exam.' She giggled. 'Heaven only
knows how I passed it, as I failed my G.C.E. twice. But she said I was
just what the Institute wanted and I came out here about two months ago.
It's not bad. They're terribly strict. But the Count has absolutely
cured my trouble. I simply love chickens now.' Her eyes became suddenly
rapt. 'I think they're just the most beautiful, wonderful birds in the
world.'

'Well, that's a jolly good show,' said Bond, totally mystified. 'Now
about your name. I'll get to work on it right away. But how are we going
to talk? You all seem to be pretty carefully organized. How can I see
you by yourself? The only place is my room or yours.'

'You mean _at night_?' The big blue eyes were wide with fright,
excitement, maidenly appraisal.

'Yes, it's the only way.' Bond took a bold step towards her and kissed
her full on the mouth. He put his arms round her clumsily. 'And you know
I think you're terribly attractive.'

'Oh, Sir Hilary!'

But she didn't recoil. She just stood there like a great lovely doll,
passive, slightly calculating, wanting to be a princess. 'But how would
you get out of here? They're terribly strict. A guard goes up and down
the passage every so often. Of course'--the eyes were calculating--'it's
true that I'm next door to you, in Number Three actually. If only we had
some way of getting out.'

Bond took one of the inch strips of plastic out of his pocket and showed
it to her. 'I knew you were somewhere close to me. Instinct, I suppose.
[Cad!] I learned a thing or two in the Army. You can get out of these
sort of doors by slipping this in the door crack in front of the lock
and pushing. It slips the latch. Here, take this, I've got another. But
hide it away. And promise not to tell anyone.'

'Ooh! You are a one! But of course I promise. But do you think there's
any hope--about the Windsors, I mean?' Now she put her arms round his
neck, round the witchdoctor's neck, and the big blue orbs gazed
appealingly into his.

'You definitely mustn't rely on it,' said Bond firmly, trying to get
back an ounce of his self-respect. 'But I'll have a quick look now in my
books. Not much time before drinks. Anyway, we'll see.' He gave her
another long and, he admitted to himself, extremely splendid kiss, to
which she responded with an animalism that slightly salved his
conscience. 'Now then, baby.' His right hand ran down her back to the
curve of her behind, to which he gave an encouraging and hastening pat.
'We've got to get you out of here.'

His bedroom was dark. They listened at the door like two children
playing hide-and-seek. The building was in silence. He inched open the
door. He gave the behind an extra pat and she was gone.

Bond paused for a moment. Then he switched on the light. The innocent
room smiled at him. Bond went to his table and reached for the
_Dictionary of British Surnames_. Windsor, Windsor, Windsor. Here we
are! Now then! As he bent over the small print, an important reflection
seared his spy's mind like a shooting star. All right. So sexual
perversions, and sex itself, were a main security risk. So was greed for
money. But what about status? What about that most insidious of vices,
snobbery?

Six o'clock came. Bond had a nagging headache, brought on by hours of
poring over small-print reference books and aggravated by the lack of
oxygen at the high altitude. He needed a drink, three drinks. He had a
quick shower and smartened himself up, rang his bell for the 'warder'
and went along to the bar. Only a few of the girls were already there.
Violet sat alone at the bar and Bond joined her. She seemed pleased to
see him. She was drinking a Daiquiri. Bond ordered another and, for
himself, a double Bourbon on the rocks. He took a deep pull at it and
put the squat glass down. 'By God, I needed that! I've been working like
a slave all day while you've been waltzing about the ski-slopes in the
sun!'

'Have I indeed!' A slight Irish brogue came out with the indignation.
'Two lectures this morning, frightfully boring, and I had to catch up
with my reading most of this afternoon. I'm way behind with it.'

'What sort of reading?'

'Oh, sort of agricultural stuff.' The dark eyes watched him carefully.
'We're not supposed to talk about our cures, you know.'

'Oh, well,' said Bond cheerfully, 'then let's talk about something else.
Where do you come from?'

'Ireland. The South. Near Shannon.'

Bond had a shot in the dark. 'All that potato country.'

'Yes, that's right. I used to hate them. Nothing but potatoes to eat and
potato crops to talk about. Now I'm longing to get back. Funny, isn't
it?'

'Your family'll be pleased.'

'You can say that again! And my boy friend! He's on the wholesale side.
I said I wouldn't marry anyone who had anything to do with the damned,
dirty, ugly things. He's going to get a shock all right...'

'How's that?'

'All I've learned about how to improve the crop. The latest scientific
ways, chemicals, and so on.' She put her hand up to her mouth. She
glanced swiftly round the room, at the bartender. To see if anyone had
heard this innocent stuff? She put on a hostess smile. 'Now you tell me
what you've been working on, Sir Hilary.'

'Oh, just some heraldic stuff for the Count. Like I was talking about at
lunch. I'm afraid you'd find it frightfully dry stuff.'

'Oh no, I wouldn't. I was terribly interested in what you were saying to
Miss Bunt. You see'--she lowered her voice and spoke into her raised
glass--'I'm an O'Neill. They used to be almost kings of Ireland. Do you
think...' She had seen something over his shoulder. She went on
smoothly, 'And I simply can't get my shoulders round enough. And when I
try to I simply over-balance.'

''Fraid I don't know anything about skiing,' said Bond loudly.

Irma Bunt appeared in the mirror over the bar. 'Ah, Sair Hilary.' She
inspected his face. 'But yes, you are already getting a little of the
sunburn, isn't it? Come! Let us go and sit down. I see poor Miss Ruby
over there all by herself.'

They followed her meekly. Bond was amused by the little undercurrent of
rule-breaking that went on among the girls--the typical resistance
pattern to strict discipline and the governessy ways of this hideous
matron. He must be careful how he handled it, useful though it was
proving. It wouldn't do to get these girls too much 'on his side'. But,
if only because the Count didn't want him to know them, he must somehow
ferret away at their surnames and addresses. Ferret! That was the word!
Ruby would be his ferret. Bond sat down beside her, the back of his hand
casually brushing against her shoulder.

More drinks were ordered. The Bourbon was beginning to uncoil Bond's
tensions. His headache, instead of occupying his whole head, had
localized itself behind the right temple. He said, gaily, 'Shall we play
the game again?'

There was a chorus of approval. The glass and paper napkins were brought
from the bar and now more of the girls joined in. Bond handed round
cigarettes and the girls puffed vigorously, occasionally choking over
the smoke. Even Irma Bunt seemed infected by the laughter and squeals of
excitement as the cobweb of paper became more and more tenuous.
'Careful! Gently, Elizabeth! Ayee! But now you have done it! And there
was still this little corner that was safe!'

Bond was next to her. Now he sat back and suggested that the girls
should have a game among themselves. He turned to Frulein Bunt. 'By the
way, if I can find the time, it crossed my mind that it might be fun to
go down in the cable car and pay a visit to the valley. I gathered from
talk among the crowds today that St Moritz is the other side of the
valley. I've never been there. I'd love to see it.'

'Alas, my dear Sair Hilary, but that is against the rules of the house.
Guests here, and the staff too, have no access to the Seilbahn. That is
only for the tourists. Here we keep ourselves to ourselves. We are--how
shall I say?--a little dedicated community. We observe the rules almost
of a monastery. It is better so, isn't it? Thus we can pursue our
researches in peace.'

'Oh, I quite see that.' Bond's smile was understanding, friendly. 'But I
hardly count myself as a patient here, really. Couldn't an exception be
made in my case?'

'I think that would be a mistake, Sair Hilary. And surely you will need
all the time you have to complete your duties for the Count. No'--it was
an order--'I am afraid, with many apologies, that what you ask is out of
the question.' She glanced at her watch and clapped her hands. 'And now,
girls,' she called, 'it is time for the supper. Come along! Come along!'

It had only been a try-on, to see what form the negative answer would
take. But, as Bond followed her into the dining-room, it was quite an
effort to restrain his right shoe from giving Irma Bunt a really
tremendous kick in her tight, bulging behind.




CHAPTER 14. SWEET DREAMS--SWEET NIGHTMARE!


It was eleven o'clock and the place was as quiet as the grave.
Bond, with due respect for the eye in the ceiling, went through the
motions of going to the bathroom and then climbing into bed and
switching off his light. He gave it ten minutes, then got quietly out of
bed and pulled on his trousers and shirt. Working by touch, he slipped
the end of the inch of plastic into the door crack, found the lock and
pressed gently. The edge of the plastic caught the curve of the lock and
slid it back. Bond now only had to push gently and the door was open. He
listened, his ears pricked like an animal's. Then he carefully put his
head out. The empty corridor yawned at him. Bond slipped out of the
door, closed it softly, took the few steps along to Number Three and
gently turned the handle. It was dark inside but there was a stirring in
the bed. Now to avoid the click of the shutting door! Bond took his bit
of plastic and got it against the lock, holding it in the mortice. Then
he inched the door shut, at the same time gently withdrawing the
plastic. The lock slid noiselessly into place.

There came a whisper from the bed. 'Is that you?'

'Yes, darling.' Bond slid out of his clothes and, assuming the same
geography as in his own room, walked gingerly over to the bed and sat
down on its edge.

A hand came out of the darkness and touched him. 'Ooh, you've got
nothing on!'

Bond caught the hand and reached along it. 'Nor have you,' he whispered.
'That's how it should be.'

Gingerly he lay down on the bed and put his head beside hers on the
pillow. He noticed with a pang of pleasure that she had left room for
him. He kissed her, at first softly and then with fierceness. Her body
stirred. Her mouth yielded to his and when his left hand began its
exploration she put her arms round him. 'I'm catching cold.' Bond
followed the lie by pulling the single sheet away from under him and
then covering them both with it. The warmth and softness of her splendid
body were now all his. Bond lay against her. He drew the fingernails of
his left hand softly down her flat stomach. The velvety skin fluttered.
She gave a small groan and reached down for his hand and held it. 'You
do love me a little bit?'

That awful question! Bond whispered, 'I think you're the most adorable,
beautiful girl. I wish I'd met you before.'

The stale, insincere words seemed to be enough. She removed her
restraining hand.

Her hair smelt of new-mown summer grass, her mouth of Pepsodent, and her
body of Mennen's Baby Powder. A small night wind rose up outside and
moaned round the building, giving an extra sweetness, an extra warmth,
even a certain friendship to what was no more than an act of physical
passion. There was real pleasure in what they did to each other, and in
the end, when it was over and they lay quietly in each other's arms,
Bond knew, and knew that the girl knew, that they had done nothing
wrong, done no harm to each other.

After a while Bond whispered into her hair, 'Ruby!'

'Mmmm.'

'About your name. About the Windsors. I'm afraid there's not much hope.'

'Oh, well, I never really believed. You know these old family stories.'

'Anyway, I haven't got enough books here. When I get back I'll dig into
it properly. Promise. It'll be a question of starting with your family
and going back--church and town records and so forth. I'll have it done
properly and send it to you. Great slab of parchment with a lot of
snazzy print. Heavy black italics with coloured letters to start each
line. Although it mayn't get you anywhere, it might be nice to have.'

'You mean like old documents in museums?'

'That's right.'

'That'd be nice.'

There was silence in the little room. Her breathing became regular. Bond
thought: how extraordinary! Here on top of this mountain, a death's run
away from the nearest hamlet in the valley, in this little room were
peace, silence, warmth, happiness--many of the ingredients of love. It
was like making love in a balloon. Which nineteenth-century rake had it
been who had recorded a bet in a London club that he would make love to
a woman in a balloon?

Bond was on the edge of sleep. He let himself slide down the soft, easy
slope. Here it was wonderful. It would be just as easy for him to get
back to his room in the early hours. He softly eased his right arm from
under the sleeping girl, took a lazy glance at his left wrist. The big
luminous numerals said midnight.

Bond had hardly turned over on his right side, up against the soft
flanks of the sleeping girl, when, from underneath the pillow, under the
floor, deep in the bowels of the building, there came the peremptory
ringing of a deep-toned, melodious electric bell. The girl stirred. She
said sleepily, 'Oh, damn!'

'What is it?'

'Oh, it's only the treatment. I suppose it's midnight?'

'Yes.'

'Don't pay any attention. It's only for me. Just go to sleep.'

Bond kissed her between the shoulder-blades but said nothing.

Now the bell had stopped. In its place there started up a droning whine,
rather like the noise of a very fast electric fan, with, behind it, the
steady, unvarying tick-pause-tock, tick-pause-tock of some kind of
metronome. The combination of the two sounds was wonderfully soothing.
It compelled attention, but only just on the fringe of
consciousness--like the night-noises of childhood, the slow tick of the
nursery clock combined with the sound of the sea or the wind outside.
And now a voice, the Count's voice came over the distant wire or tape
that Bond assumed was the mechanical source of all this. The voice was
pitched in a low, singsong murmur, caressing yet authoritative, and
every word was distinct. 'You are going to sleep.' The voice fell on the
word 'sleep'. 'You are tired and your limbs feel like lead.' Again the
falling cadence on the last word. 'Your arms feel as heavy, as lead.
Your breathing is quite even. Your breathing is as regular as a child's.
Your eyes are closed and the eyelids are heavy as lead. You are becoming
tireder and tireder. Your whole body is becoming tired and heavy as
lead. You are warm and comfortable. You are slipping, slipping, slipping
down into sleep. Your bed is as soft and downy as a nest. You are as
soft and sleepy as a chicken in a nest. A dear little chicken, fluffy
and cuddly.' There came the sound of a sweet cooing and clucking, the
gentle brushing together of wings, the dozy murmuring of mother hens
with their chicks. It went on for perhaps a full minute. Then the voice
came back. 'The little darlings are going to sleep. They are like you,
comfortable and sleepy in their nests. You love them dearly, dearly,
dearly. You love all chickens. You would like to make pets of them all.
You would like them to grow up beautiful and strong. You would like no
harm to come to them. Soon you will be going back to your darling
chickens. Soon you will be able to look after them again. Soon you will
be able to help all the chickens of England. You will be able to improve
the breed of chickens all over England. This will make you very, very
happy. You will be doing so much good that it will make you very, very
happy. But you will keep quiet about it. You will say nothing of your
methods. They will be your own secret, your very own secret. People will
try and find out your secret. But you will say nothing because they
might try and take your secret away from you. And then you would not be
able to make your darling chickens happy and healthy and strong.
Thousands, millions of chickens made happier because of you. So you will
say nothing and keep your secret. You will say nothing, nothing at all.
You will remember what I say. You will remember what I say.' The
murmuring voice was getting farther and farther away. The sweet cooing
and clucking of chickens softly obscured the vanishing voice, then that
too died away and there was only the electric whine and the
tick-pause-tock of the metronome.

Ruby was deeply asleep. Bond reached out for her wrist and felt the
pulse. It was plumb on beat with the metronome. And now that, and the
whine of the machine, receded softly until all was dead silence again
save for the soft moan of the night wind outside.

Bond let out a deep sigh. So now he had heard it all! He suddenly wanted
to get back to his room and think. He slipped out from under the sheet,
got to his clothes, and put them on. He manipulated the lock without
trouble. There was no movement, no sound, in the passage. He slipped
back into Number Two and eased the door shut. Then he went into his
bathroom, closed the door, switched on the light, and sat down on the
lavatory and put his head in his hands.

Deep hypnosis! That was what he had heard. The Hidden Persuader! The
repetitive, singsong message injected into the brain while it was on the
twilight edge of consciousness. Now, in Ruby's subconscious, the message
would work on all by itself through the night, leaving her, after weeks
of repetition, with an in-built mechanism of obedience to the voice that
would be as deep, as compelling, as hunger.

But what in hell was the message all about? Surely it was a most
harmless, even a praiseworthy message to instil in the simple mind of
this country girl. She had been cured of her allergy and she would
return home fully capable of helping with the family poultry
business--more than that, enthusiastic, dedicated. Had the leopard
changed his spots? Had the old lag become, in the corny, hackneyed
tradition, a do-gooder? Bond simply couldn't believe it. What about all
those high-powered security arrangements? What about the multi-racial
staff that positively stank of SPECTRE? And what about the bob-run
murder? Accident? So soon after the man's attempted rape of this Sarah
girl? An impossible coincidence! Malignity must somewhere lie behind the
benign, clinical front of this maddeningly innocent research outfit! But
where? How in hell could he find out?

Bond, exhausted, got up and turned off the light in the bathroom and
quietly got himself into bed. The mind whirred on for a sterile
half-hour in the over-heated brain and then, mercifully, he went to
sleep.

                        *          *          *

When, at nine o'clock, he awoke and threw open his windows, the sky was
overcast with the heavy blank grey that meant snow. Over by the
Berghaus, the Schneefinken, and Schneevgel, the snow-finches and Alpine
choughs, that lived on the crumbs and left-overs of the picnickers, were
fluttering and swooping close round the building--a sure storm-warning.
The wind had got up and was blowing in sharp, threatening gusts, and no
whine of machinery came from the cable railway. The light aluminium
gondolas would have too bad a time in winds of this strength,
particularly over the last great swoop of cable that brought them a good
quarter of a mile over the exposed shoulder beneath the plateau.

Bond shut the windows and rang for his breakfast. When it came there was
a note from Frulein Bunt on the tray. 'The Count will be pleased to
receive you at eleven o'clock. I.B.'

Bond ate his breakfast and got down to his third page of de Bleuvilles.
He had quite a chunk of work to show up, but this was easy stuff. The
prospect of successfully bamboozling his way along the Blofeld part of
the trail was not so encouraging. He would start boldly at the Gdynia
end and work back--get the old rascal to talk about his youth and his
parents. Old rascal? Well, dammit, whatever he had become since
Operation 'Thunderball', there weren't two Ernst Stavro Blofelds in the
world!

They met in the Count's study. 'Good morning, Sir Hilary. I hope you
slept well? We are going to have snow.' The Count waved towards the
window. 'It will be a good day for work. No distractions.'

Bond smiled a man-to-man smile. 'I certainly find those girls pretty
distracting. But most charming. What's the matter with them, by the way?
They all look healthy enough.'

The Count was off-hand. 'They suffer from allergies, Sir Hilary.
Crippling allergies. In the agricultural field. They are country girls
and their disabilities affect the possibility of their employment. I
have devised a cure for such symptoms. I am glad to say that the signs
are propitious. We are making much progress together.' The telephone by
his side buzzed. 'Excuse me.' The Count picked up the receiver and
listened. 'Ja. Machen Sie die Verbindung.' He paused. Bond politely
studied the papers he had brought along. 'Zdies de Bleuville... Da...
Da... Kharascho!' He put the receiver back. 'Forgive me. That was
one of my research workers. He has been purchasing some materials for
the laboratories. The cable railway is closed, but they are making a
special trip up for him. Brave man. He will probably be very sick, poor
fellow.' The green contact lenses hid any sympathy he may have felt. The
fixed smile showed none. 'And now, my dear Sir Hilary, let us get on
with our work.'

Bond laid out his big sheets on the desk and proudly ran his finger down
through the generations. There was excitement and satisfaction in the
Count's comments and questions. 'But this is tremendous, really
tremendous, my dear fellow. And you say there is mention of a broken
spear or a broken sword in the arms? Now when was that granted?'

Bond rattled off a lot of stuff about the Norman Conquest. The broken
sword had probably been awarded as a result of some battle. More
research in London would be needed to pin the occasion down. Finally
Bond rolled up the sheets and got out his notebook. 'And now we must
start working back from the other end, Count.' Bond became
inquisitorial, authoritative. 'We have your birth date in Gdynia, May
28th, 1908. Yes?'

'Correct.'

'Your parents' names?'

'Ernst George Blofeld and Maria Stavro Michelopoulos.'

'Also born in Gdynia?'

'Yes.'

'Now your grandparents?'

'Ernst Stefan Blofeld and Elizabeth Lubomirskaya.'

'Hm, so the Ernst is something of a family Christian name?'

'It would seem so. My great-grandfather, he was also Ernst.'

'That is most important. You see, Count, among the Blofelds of Augsburg
there are no less than two Ernsts!'

The Count's hands had been lying on the green blotting-pad on his desk,
relaxed. Now, impulsively, they joined together and briefly writhed,
showing white knuckles.

My God, you've got it bad! thought Bond.

'And that is important?'

'Very. Christian names run through families. We regard them as most
significant clues. Now, can you remember any farther back? You have done
well. We have covered three generations. With the dates I shall later
ask you for, we have already got back to around 1850. Only another fifty
years to go and we shall have arrived at Augsburg.'

'No.' It was almost a cry of pain. 'My great-great-grandfather. Of him I
know nothing.' The hands writhed on the blotting-paper. 'Perhaps,
perhaps. If it is a question of money. People, witnesses could be
found.' The hands parted, held themselves out expansively. 'My dear Sir
Hilary, you and I are men of the world. We understand each other.
Extracts from archives, registry offices, the churches--these things, do
they have to be completely authentic?'

Got you, you old fox! Bond said affably, with a hint of conspiracy, 'I
don't quite understand what you mean, Count.'

The hands were now flat on the desk again, happy hands. Blofeld had
recognized one of his kind. 'You are a hardworking man, Sir Hilary. You
live modestly in this remote region of Scotland. Life could perhaps be
made easier for you. There are perhaps material benefits you
desire--motorcars, a yacht, a pension. You have only to say the word,
name a figure.' The dark-green orbs bored into Bond's modestly evasive
eyes, holding them. 'Just a little co-operation. A visit here and there
in Poland and Germany and France. Of course your expenses would be
heavy. Let us say five hundred pounds a week. The technical matters, the
documents, and so forth. Those I can arrange. It would only require your
supporting evidence. Yes? The Ministry of Justice in Paris, for them the
word of the College of Arms is the word of God. Is that not so?'

It was too good to be true! But how to play it? Diffidently, Bond said,
'What you are suggesting, Count, is--er--not without interest. Of
course'--Bond's smile was sufficiently expansive, sufficiently
bland--'if the documents were convincing, so to speak solid, very solid,
then it would be quite reasonable for me to authenticate them.' Bond put
spaniel into his eyes, asking to be patted, to be told that everything
would be all right, that he would be completely protected. 'You see what
I mean?'

The Count began, with force, sincerity, 'You need have absolutely no...'
when there was the noise of an approaching hubbub down the passage. The
door burst open. A man, propelled from behind, lurched into the room and
fell, writhing, to the floor.

Two of the guards came stiffly to attention behind him. They looked
first at the Count and then, sideways, towards Bond, surprised to see
him there.

The Count said sharply, 'Was ist denn los?'

Bond knew the answer and, momentarily, he died. Behind the snow and the
blood on the face of the man on the floor, Bond recognized the face of a
man he knew.

The blond hair, the nose broken boxing for the Navy, belonged to a
friend of his in the Service. It was, unmistakably, Number 2 from
Station Z in Zrich!




CHAPTER 15. THE HEAT INCREASES


Yes, it was Shaun Campbell all right! Christ Almighty, what a mess!
Station Z had especially been told nothing about Bond's mission.
Campbell must have been following a lead of his own, probably trailing
this Russian who had been 'buying supplies'. Typical of the sort of
balls-up that over-security can produce!

The leading guard was talking in rapid, faulty German with a Slav
accent. 'He was found in the open ski compartment at the back of the
gondola. Much frozen, but he put up a strong resistance. He had to be
subdued. He was no doubt following Captain Boris.' The man caught
himself up. 'I mean, your guest from the valley, Herr Graf. He says he
is an English tourist from Zrich. That he had got no money for the
fare. He wanted to pay a visit up here. He was searched. He carried five
hundred Swiss francs. No identity papers.' The man shrugged. 'He says
his name is Campbell.'

At the sound of his name, the man on the ground stirred. He lifted his
head and looked wildly round the room. He had been badly battered about
the face and head with a pistol or a cosh. His control was shot to
pieces. When his eyes lit on the familiar face of Bond, he looked
astonished, then, as if a lifebuoy had been thrown to him, he said
hoarsely, 'Thank God, James. Tell 'em it's me! Tell 'em I'm from
Universal Export. In Zrich. You know! For God's sake, James! Tell 'em
I'm O.K.' His head fell forward on the carpet.

The Count's head slowly turned towards Bond. The opaque green eyes
caught the pale light from the window and glinted whitely. The tight,
face-lifted smile was grotesquely horrible. 'You know this man, Sir
Hilary?'

Bond shook his head sorrowfully. He knew he was pronouncing the death
sentence on Campbell. 'Never seen him before in my life. Poor chap. He
sounds a bit daft to me. Concussed, probably. Why not ship him down to a
hospital in the valley? He looks in a pretty bad way.'

'And Universal Export?' The voice was silky. 'I seem to have heard that
name before.'

'Well, _I_ haven't,' said Bond indifferently. 'Never heard of it.' He
reached in his pocket for his cigarettes, lit one with a dead steady
hand.

The Count turned back to the guards. He said softly, 'Zur
Befragungszelle.' He nodded his dismissal. The two guards bent down and
hauled Campbell up by his armpits. The hanging head raised itself, gave
one last terrible look of appeal at Bond. Then the man who was Bond's
colleague was hustled out of the room and the door was closed softly
behind his dragging feet.

To the interrogation cell! That could mean only one thing, under modern
methods, total confession! How long would Campbell hold out for? How
many hours had Bond got left?

'I have told them to take him to the sick-room. He will be well looked
after.' The Count looked from the papers on his desk to Bond. 'I am
afraid this unhappy intrusion has interfered with my train of thought,
Sir Hilary. So perhaps you will forgive me for this morning?'

'Of course, of course. And, regarding your proposition, that we should
work a little more closely together on your interests, I can assure you,
Count, that I find it most interesting.' Bond smiled conspiratorially.
'I'm sure we could come to some satisfactory arrangement.'

'Yes? That is good.' The Count linked his hands behind his head and
gazed for a moment at the ceiling and then, reflectively, back at Bond.
He said casually, 'I suppose you would not be connected in any way with
the British Secret Service, Sir Hilary?'

Bond laughed out loud. The laugh was a reflex, forced out of him by
tension. 'Good God, no! Didn't even know we had one. Didn't all that
sort of thing go out with the end of the war?' Bond chuckled to himself,
fatuously amused. 'Can't quite see myself running about behind a false
moustache. Not my line of country at all. Can't bear moustaches.'

The Count's unwavering smile did not seem to share Bond's amusement. He
said coldly, 'Then please forget my question, Sir Hilary. The intrusion
by this man has made me over-suspicious. I value my privacy up here, Sir
Hilary. Scientific research can only be pursued in an atmosphere of
peace.'

'I couldn't agree more.' Bond was effusive. He got to his feet and
gathered up his papers from the desk. 'And now I must get on with my own
research work. Just getting into the fourteenth century. I think I shall
have some interesting data to show you tomorrow, Count.'

The Count got politely to his feet and Bond went out of the door and
along the passage.

He loitered, listening for any sound. There was none, but half-way down
the corridor one of the doors was ajar. A crack of blood-red light
showed. Bond thought, I've probably had it anyway. In for a penny, in
for a pound! He pushed the door open and stuck his head into the room.
It was a long, low laboratory with a plastic-covered work-bench
extending its whole length beneath the windows, which were shuttered.
Dark red light, as in a film-developing chamber, came from neon strips
above the cornice. The bench was littered with retorts and test-tubes,
and there were line upon line of test-tubes and phials containing a
cloudy liquid in racks against the far wall. Three men in white, with
gauze pads over the bottoms of their faces and white surgical caps over
their hair, were at work, absorbed. Bond took in the scene, a scene from
a theatrical hell, withdrew his head, and walked on down the corridor
and out into what was now a driving snow-storm. He pulled the top of his
sweater over his head and forced his way along the path to the blessed
warmth of the club-house. Then he walked quickly to his room, closed the
door, and went into the bathroom and sat down on his usual throne of
reflection and wondered what in God's name to do.

Could he have saved Campbell? Well, he could have had a desperate shot
at it. 'Oh, yes. I know this man. Perfectly respectable chap. We used to
work for the same export firm, Universal, in London. You look in pretty
bad shape, old boy. What the devil happened?' But it was just as well he
hadn't tried. As cover, solid cover, Universal was 'brl' with the
pros. It had been in use too long. All the secret services in the world
had penetrated it by now. Obviously Blofeld knew all about it. Any
effort to save Campbell would simply have tied Bond in with him. There
had been no alternative except to throw him to the wolves. If Campbell
had a chance to get his wits back before they really started on him, he
would know that Bond was there for some purpose, that his disavowal by
Bond was desperately important to Bond, to the Service. How long would
he have the strength to cover for Bond, retrieve his recognition of
Bond? At most a few hours. But how many hours? That was the vital
question. That and how long the storm would last. Bond couldn't possibly
get away in this stuff. If it stopped, there might be a chance, a damned
slim one, but better than the alternatives, of which, if and when
Campbell talked, there was only one--death, probably a screaming death.

Bond surveyed his weapons. They were only his hands and feet, his
Gillette razor and his wrist-watch, a heavy Rolex Oyster Perpetual on an
expanding metal bracelet. Used properly, these could be turned into most
effective knuckledusters. Bond got up, took the blade out of his
Gillette and dropped the razor into his trouser pocket. He slipped the
shaft between the first and second fingers of his left hand so that the
blade-carrier rested flat along his knuckles. Yes, that was the way! Now
was there anything, any evidence he should try and take with him? Yes,
he must try and get more, if not all, of the girls' names and, if
possible, addresses. For some reason he knew they were vital. For that
he would have to use Ruby. His head full of plans for getting the
information out of her, Bond went out of the bathroom and sat down at
his desk and got on with a fresh page of de Bleuvilles. At least he must
continue to show willing, if only to the recording eye in the ceiling.

                        *          *          *

It was about twelve-thirty when Bond heard his door-knob being softly
turned. Ruby slipped in and, her finger to her lips, disappeared into
his bathroom. Bond casually threw down his pen, got up and stretched and
strolled over and went in after her.

Ruby's blue eyes were wide and frightened. 'You're in trouble,' she
whispered urgently. 'What _have_ you been doing?'

'Nothing,' said Bond innocently. 'What's up?'

'We've all been told that we mustn't talk to you unless Miss Bunt is
there.' Her knuckles went distractedly up to her teeth. 'Do you think
they know about _us_?'

'Couldn't possibly,' said Bond, radiating confidence. 'I think I know
what it is.' (With so much obfuscation in the air, what did an extra, a
reassuring, lie matter?) 'This morning the Count told me I was an
upsetting influence here, that I was what he called "disruptive",
interfering with your treatments. He asked me to keep myself more to
myself. Honestly'--(how often that word came into a lie!)--'I'm sure
that's all it is. Rather a pity really. Apart from you--I mean you're
sort of special--I think all you girls are terribly sweet. I'd like to
have helped you all.'

'How do you mean? Helped us?'

'Well, this business of surnames. I talked to Violet last night. She
seemed awfully interested. I'm sure it would have amused all the others
to have theirs done. Everyone's interested in where they came from.
Rather like palmistry in a way.' Bond wondered how the College of Arms
would have liked _that_ one! He shrugged. 'Anyway, I've decided to get
the hell away from here. I can't bear being shepherded and ordered about
like this. Who the hell do they think I am? But I'll tell you what I'll
do. If you can give me the names of the girls, as many as you know, I'll
do a piece on each of them and post them when you all get back to
England. How much longer have you got, by the way?'

'We're not told exactly, but the rumour is about another week. There's
another batch of girls due about then. When we're slow at our work or
get behind-hand with our reading, Miss Bunt says she hopes the next lot
won't be so stupid. The old bitch! But Sir Hilary'--the blue eyes filled
with concern--'how _are_ you going to get away? You know we're
practically prisoners up here.'

Bond was off-hand. 'Oh, I'll manage somehow. They can't hold _me_ here
against my will. But what about the names, Ruby? Don't you think it
would give the girls a treat?'

'Oh, they'd love it. Of course I know all of them. We've found plenty of
ways of exchanging secrets. But you won't be able to remember. Have you
got anything to write down on?'

Bond tore off some strips of lavatory paper and took out a pencil. 'Fire
away!'

She laughed. 'Well, you know me and Violet, then there's Elizabeth
Mackinnon. She's from Aberdeen. Beryl Morgan from somewhere in
Herefordshire. Pearl Tampion, Devonshire--by the way, all those simply
loathed every kind of cattle. Now they live on steaks! Would you believe
it? I must say the Count's a wonderful man.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Then there's Anne Charter from Canterbury and Caresse Ventnor from the
National Stud, wherever that is--fancy her working there and she came up
in a rash all over whenever she went near a horse! Now all she does is
dream of pony clubs and read every word she can get hold of about Pat
Smythe! And Denise Robertson...'

The list went on until Bond had got the whole ten. He said, 'What about
that Polly somebody who left in November?'

'Polly Tasker. She was from East Anglia. Don't remember where, but I can
find out the address when I get back to England. Sir Hilary'--she put
her arm round his neck--'I _am_ going to see you again, aren't I?'

Bond held her tight and kissed her. 'Of course, Ruby. You can always get
me at the College of Arms in Queen Victoria Street. Just send me a
postcard when you get back. But for God's sake cut out the "Sir". You're
my girl friend. Remember?'

'Oh, yes, I will--er--Hilary,' she said fervently. 'And you will be
careful, getting away I mean. You're sure it's all right? Is there
anything I can do to help?'

'No, darling. Just don't breathe a word of all this. It's a secret
between us. Right?'

'Of course, darling.' She glanced at her watch. 'Oh lord! I must simply
fly. Only ten minutes to lunch-time. Now, can you do your trick with the
door? There shouldn't be anyone about. It's their lunch-time from twelve
till one.'

Bond, out of any possible line of vision from the eye in the ceiling,
did his trick with the door and she was gone with a last whispered
goodbye.

Bond eased the door shut. He let out a deep sigh and went over to the
window and peered out through the snow-heaped panes. It was thick as
Hades outside and the fine powder snow on the veranda was whirling up in
little ghosts as the wind tore at the building. Pray God it would let up
by nighttime! Now, what did he need in the way of equipment? Goggles and
gloves were two items he might harvest over lunch. Bond went into the
bathroom again and rubbed soap into his eyes. It stung like hell, but
the blue-grey eyes emerged from the treatment realistically bloodshot.
Satisfied, Bond rang for the 'warden' and went thoughtfully off to the
restaurant.

Silence fell as he went through the swing doors, followed by a polite,
brittle chatter. Eyes followed him discreetly as he crossed the room and
the replies to his good-mornings were muted. Bond took his usual seat
between Ruby and Frulein Bunt. Apparently oblivious to her frosty
greeting, he snapped his fingers for a waiter and ordered his double
vodka dry Martini. He turned to Frulein Bunt and smiled into the
suspicious yellow eyes. 'Would you be very kind?'

'Yes, Sair Hilary. What is it?'

Bond gestured at his still watering eyes. 'I've got the Count's trouble.
Sort of conjunctivitis, I suppose. The tremendous glare up here. Better
today of course, but there's still a lot of reflection from the snow.
And all this paperwork. Could you get me a pair of snow-goggles? I'll
only need to borrow them for a day or two. Just till my eyes get used to
the light. Don't usually have this sort of trouble.'

'Yes. That can be done. I will see that they are put in your room.' She
summoned the head waiter and gave him the order in German. The man,
looking at Bond with overt dislike, said, 'Sofort, gndiges Frulein,'
and clicked his heels.

'And one more thing, if you will,' said Bond politely. 'A small flask of
schnapps.' He turned to Frulein Bunt. 'I find I am not sleeping well up
here. Perhaps a nightcap would help. I always have one at
home--generally whisky. But here I would prefer schnapps. When in
Gloria, do as the Glorians do. Ha ha!'

Frulein Bunt looked at him stonily. She said to the waiter curtly, 'In
Ordnung!' The man took Bond's order of Pt Maison followed by oeufs
Gloria and the cheese tray (Bond thought he had better get some stuffing
into him!), clicked his heels and went away. Was he one of those who had
been at work in the interrogation room? Bond silently ground his teeth.
By God, if it came to hitting any of these guards tonight, he was going
to hit them damned hard, with everything he'd got! He felt Frulein
Bunt's eyes inquisitively on him. He untensed himself and began to make
amiable conversation about the storm. How long would it last? What was
the barometer doing?

Violet, guardedly but helpfully, said the guides thought it would clear
up during the afternoon. The barometer was rising. She looked nervously
at Frulein Bunt to see if she had said too much to the pariah, and
then, not reassured, went back to her two vast baked potatoes with
poached eggs in them.

Bond's drink came. He swallowed it in two gulps and ordered another. He
felt like making any gesture that would startle and outrage. He said,
combatively, to Frulein Bunt, 'And how is that poor chap who came up in
the cable car this morning? He looked in terrible shape. I do hope he's
up and about again.'

'He makes progress.'

'Oh! Who was that?' asked Ruby eagerly.

'It was an intruder.' Frulein Bunt's eyes were hard with warning. 'It
is not a subject for conversation.'

'Oh, but why not?' asked Bond innocently. 'After all, you can't get much
excitement up here. Anything out of the ordinary should be a bit of a
relief.'

She said nothing. Bond raised his eyebrows politely and then accepted
the snub with a good grace. He asked if any newspapers came up. Or was
there a radio bulletin like on board ship? Did they get any news from
the outside world?

'No.'

Bond gave up the struggle and got on with his lunch. Ruby's foot crept
up against his in sympathy with the man sent to Coventry. Bond gave it a
gentle kick of warning and withdrew his. The girls at the other tables
began to leave. Bond toyed with his cheese and coffee until Frulein
Bunt got to her feet and said, 'Come, girls.' Bond rose and sat down
again. Now, except for the waiters clearing up, he was alone in the
restaurant. That was what he wanted. He got up and strolled to the door.
Outside, on pegs against the wall, the girls' outdoor coats and skiing
gloves hung in an orderly row. The corridor was empty. Bond swept the
largest pair of leather gauntlets he could see off the peg where they
hung by their joining cord and stuffed them inside his sweater. Then he
sauntered along to the reception room. It was empty. The door to the
ski-room was open and the surly man was at his work-bench. Bond went in
and made one-sided conversation about the weather. Then, under cover of
desultory talk about whether the metal skis were not more dangerous than
the old wooden ones, he wandered, his hands innocently in his pockets,
round the numbered racks in which the skis stood against the wall. They
were mostly the girls' skis. No good! The bindings would be too small
for his boots. But, by the door, in unnumbered slots, stood the guides'
skis. Bond's eyes narrowed to slits as he scanned them, measuring,
estimating. Yes, the pair of metal Heads with the red V's painted on the
black curved tips was the best bet. They were of the stiffer, Master's,
category, designed for racing. Bond remembered reading somewhere that
the Standard model was inclined to 'float' at speed. His choice had the
Attenhofer Flex forward release with the Marker lateral release. Two
transverse leather thongs wound round the ankle and buckled over the
instep would, if he fell, which he was certain to do, ensure against
losing a ski.

Bond made a quick guess at how much the bindings would need adjustment
to fit his boots and went off down the corridor to his room.




CHAPTER 16. DOWNHILL ONLY


Now it was just a question of sitting out the hours. When would
they have finished with Campbell? Quick, rough torture is rarely
effective against a professional, apart from the likelihood of the man
rapidly losing consciousness, becoming so punch-drunk that he is
incoherent. The pro, if he is a tough man spiritually, can keep the
'game' alive for hours by minor admissions, by telling long, rambling
tales and sticking to them. Such tales need verification. Blofeld would
undoubtedly have his man in Zrich, would be able to contact him on his
radio, get him to check this or that date or address, but that also
would require time. Then, if it was proved that Campbell had told lies,
they would have to begin again. So far as Bond and his identity were
concerned, it all depended on Campbell's reading of why Bond was up at
the Gloria Club. He must guess, because of Bond's curt disavowal of him,
that it was something clandestine, something important. Would he have
the wits to cover up Bond, the guts, against the electrical and
mechanical devices they would surely use against him? He could say that,
when he came to and saw Bond, in his semi-conscious state he had for a
moment thought Bond was his brother, James Campbell. Some story like
that. If he had the wits! If he had the guts! Had Campbell got a death
pill, perhaps one of the buttons on his ski-jacket or trousers? Bond
sharply put the thought away. He had been on the edge of wishing that
Campbell had!

Well, he would be wise to assume that it was only a matter of hours and
then they would come for him. They wouldn't do it until after
lights-out. To do it before would cause too much talk among the girls.
No, they would fetch him at night and the next day it would be put about
that he had left by the first cable car down to the valley. Meanwhile he
would be buried deep in a snow overcoat, or more likely deposited in a
high crevasse in the near-by Piz Languard glacier, to come out at the
bottom, fifty years later, out of his deep freeze, with multiple
contusions but no identification marks--a nameless victim of 'les neiges
ternelles'!

Yes, he must plan for that. Bond got up from the desk where he had been
automatically scribbling down lists of fifteenth-century de Bleuvilles
and opened the window. The snow had stopped and there was broken blue in
the sky. It would be perfect powder snow, perhaps a foot of it, on the
Gloria Run. Now to make everything ready!

There are hundreds of secret inks, but there was only one available to
Bond, the oldest one in the world, his own urine. He went into the
bathroom (what must the televising eye think of his digestive tracts?)
with his pen, a clean nib, and his passport. Then he sat down and
proceeded to transcribe, from the flimsy pieces of paper in his pocket
on to a blank page of his passport, the names and approximate locations
by county of the girls. The page showed nothing. Held in front of a
flame, the writing would come up brown. He slipped the passport into his
hip-pocket. Next he took the gloves from under his sweater, tried them
on, and found them an adequate but tight fit, took the top off the
lavatory cistern and laid the gloves along the arm of the stop-cock.

What else? It was going to be fiendishly cold at the start, but his body
would soon be drenched in sweat. He would just have to make do with the
ski-clothes he possessed, the gloves, the goggles that had been placed
on his table, and the flat glass flask of schnapps that he would carry
in one of his side pockets and not, in case of a fall, in his
hip-pocket. Extra covering for his face? Bond thought of using one of
his warm vests and cutting eye-holes in it. But it would surely slip and
perhaps blind him. He had some dark-red silk bandana handkerchiefs. He
would tie one tight over his face below the goggles and discard it if it
interfered with his breathing. So! That was the lot! There was nothing
else he could do or insure against. The rest was up to the Fates. Bond
relaxed his thoughts and went out and back to his desk. He sat down and
bent to his paper-work and tried not to listen to the hastening tick of
the Rolex on his wrist, tried to fix in his mind the rough geography of
the Gloria Run he had inadequately learned from the metal map. It was
too late now to go and have another look at it. He must stay put and
continue to play the toothless tiger!

                        *          *          *

Dinner was as ghastly as lunch. Bond concentrated on getting plenty of
whisky and food under his belt. He made urbane conversation and
pretended he didn't notice the chill in the air. Then he gave Ruby's
foot one warm press under the table, excused himself on the grounds of
work, and strode with dignity out of the room.

He had changed for dinner and he was relieved to find his ski-clothes in
the half-tidy heap in which he had left them. He went, with utter
normalcy, about his work--sharpened pencils, laid out his books, bent to
the squared paper: 'Simon de Bleuville, 1510-1570. Alphonse de
Bleuville, 1546-1580, married 1571 Mariette d'Escourt, and had issue,
Jean, Francoise, Pierre'. Thank God he would soon be released from all
this blether!

9.15, 9.30, 9.45, 10! Bond felt the excitement ball up inside him like
cat's fur. He found that his hands were wet. He wiped them down the
sides of his trousers. He got up and stretched. He went into the
bathroom and made appropriate noises, retrieved the gloves, and laid
them on the bathroom floor just inside the door. Then, naked, he came
back into the room and got into bed and switched off the light. He
regularized his breathing and, in ten minutes, began to snore softly. He
gave it another ten, then slid out of bed and, with infinite precaution,
dressed himself in his ski clothes. He softly retrieved his gloves from
the bathroom, put on the goggles so that they rested in his hair above
the forehead, tied the dark-red handkerchief tightly across his nose,
schnapps into pocket, passport into hip-pocket and, finally, Gillette
through the fingers of the left hand and the Rolex transferred to his
right, the bracelet clasped in the palm of his hand and round the
fingers so that the face of the watch lay across his middle knuckles.

James Bond paused and ran over his equipment. The ski-gloves, their cord
drawn through his sweater and down the sleeves, hung from his wrists.
They would be a hindrance until he was outside. Nothing to be done about
that. The rest was all right. He was set! He bent to the door,
manipulated the lock with the plastic and, praying that the television
eye had been closed down and would not see the light shining in from the
passage, listened briefly and slipped out.

There was, as usual, light from the reception room to his left. Bond
crept along, inched round the door jamb. Yes! The guard was there, bent
over something that looked like a time sheet. The neck was offered. Bond
dropped the Gillette in his pocket and stiffened the fingers of his left
hand into the old Commando cutting edge. He took the two steps into the
room and crashed the hand down on the back of the offered neck. The
man's face hit the table top with a thud, bounced up, and half turned
towards Bond. Bond's right flashed out and the face of the Rolex
disintegrated against the man's jaw. The body slid sluggishly off its
chair on to the carpet and lay still, its legs untidy as if in sleep.
The eyes fluttered and stared, unseeing, upwards. Bond went round the
desk and bent down. There was no heartbeat. Bond straightened himself.
It was the man he had seen coming back alone from the bob-run on his
first morning, when Bertil had met with his accident. So! Rough justice!

The telephone on the desk buzzed like a trapped wasp. Bond looked at it.
He picked up the receiver and spoke through the handkerchief across his
mouth. 'Ja?'

'Alles in Ordnung?'

'Ja.'

'Also hr zu! Wir kommen fr den Englnder in zehn Minuten. Verstanden?'

'Is' recht.'

'Also, aufpassen. Ja?'

'Zu Befehl!'

At the other end the receiver went down. The sweat was beading on Bond's
face. Thank God he had answered! So they were coming for him in ten
minutes! There was a bunch of keys on the desk. Bond snatched them up
and ran to the front door. After three misfits, he had the right one. He
tried the door. It was now only held by its air-pressure device. Bond
leaped for the ski-room. Unlocked! He went in and, by the light from the
reception room, found his skis. There were sticks beside them. Carefully
he lifted everything out of its wooden slot and strode to the main door
and opened it. He laid the skis and sticks softly down in the snow,
turned back to the door, locked it from the outside, and threw the keys
far away into the snow.

The three-quarter moon burned down with an almost dazzling fire and the
snow crystals scintillated back at it like a carpet of diamond dust. Now
minutes would have to be wasted getting the bindings absolutely right.
James Bond kicked one boot into the groove of the Marker toe-hold and
knelt down, feeling for the steel cable that went behind his heel. It
was too short. Coolly, unhurriedly, he adjusted the regulating screw on
the forward latch and tried again. This time it was all right. He
pressed down on the safety latch and felt it lock his boot into the
toe-hold. Next, the safety thong round the top of his boot that would
keep the ski prisoner if the latch sprung, which it would do with a
fall. His fingers were beginning to freeze. The tip of the thong refused
to find its buckle! A full minute wasted! Got it! And now the same job
on the other ski. At last Bond stood up, slipped the gloves over his
aching fingers, picked up the lance-like sticks, and pushed himself off
along the faint ridge that showed the outlines of yesterday's well
trodden path. It felt all right! He pulled the goggles down over his
eyes and now the vast snowscape was a silvery green as if he was
swimming under sunny water. The skis hissed smoothly through the powder
snow. Bond tried to get up more speed down the gentle slope by
langlaufing, the sliding, forward stride of the first Norwegian skiers.
But it didn't work. The heels of his boots felt nailed to the skis. He
punted himself forward as fast as he could with his sticks. God, what a
trail he must be leaving--like a tram-line! As soon as they got the
front door open, they would be after him. Their fastest guide would
certainly catch him easily unless he got a good start! Every minute,
every second was a bonus. He passed between the black outlines of the
cable head and the Berghaus. There was the starting point of the Gloria
Run, the metal notices beside it hatted with snow! Bond didn't pause. He
went straight for it and over the edge.

The first vertical drop had a spine-chilling bliss to it. Bond got down
into his old Arlberg crouch, his hands forward of his boots, and just
let himself go. His skis were an ugly six inches apart. The Kannonen he
had watched had gone down with their boots locked together, as if on a
single ski. But this was no time for style, even if he had been capable
of it! Above all he must stay upright!

Bond's speed was now frightening. But the deep cushion of cold, light
powder snow gave him the confidence to try a parallel swing. Minimum of
shoulder turn needed at this speed--weight on to the left ski--and he
came round and held it as the right-hand edges of his skis bit against
the slope, throwing up a shower of moonlit snow crystals. Danger was
momentarily forgotten in the joy of speed, technique, and mastery of the
snow. Bond straightened up and almost dived into his next turn, this
time to the left, leaving a broad S on the virgin mountain behind him.
Now he could afford to schuss the rest down to the hard left-hand turn
round the shoulder. He pointed his skis down and felt real rapture as,
like a black bullet on the giant slope, he zoomed down the 45-degree
drop. Now for the left-hand corner. There was the group of three flags,
black, red, and yellow, hanging limply, their colours confused by the
moonlight! He would have to stop there and take a recce over the next
lap. There was a slight upward slope short of the big turn. Bond took it
at speed, felt his skis leave the ground at the crest of it, jabbed into
the snow with his left stick as an extra lever and threw his skis and
his right shoulder and hips round to the left. He landed in a spray of
snow, at a dead halt. He was delighted with himself! A Sprung-Christiana
is a showy and not an easy turn at speed. He wished his old teacher,
Fuchs, had been there to see that one!

He was now on the shoulder of the mountain. High overhead the silver
strands of the cable railway plunged downwards in one great swoop
towards the distant black line of the trees, where the moonlight glinted
on a spidery pylon. Bond remembered that there now followed a series of
great zigs and zags more or less beneath the cables. With the piste
unobscured, it would have been easy, but the new snow made every descent
look desirable. Bond jerked up his goggles to see if he could spot a
flag. Yes, there was one away down to the left. He would do some S turns
down the next slope and then make for it.

As he pulled down his goggles and gripped his sticks, two things
happened. First there came a deep boom from high up the mountain, and a
speck of flame, that wobbled in its flight, soared into the sky above
him. There was a pause at the top of its parabola, a sharp crack, and a
blazing magnesium flare on a parachute began its wandering descent,
wiping out the black shadows in the hollows, turning everything into a
hideous daylight. Another and another sprayed out across the sky,
lighting every cranny over the mountain side.

And, at the same time, the cables high above Bond's head began to sing!
They were sending the cable car down after him!

Bond cursed into the sodden folds of his silk handkerchief and got
going. The next thing would be a man after him--probably a man with a
gun!

He took the second lap more carefully than the first, got across to the
second flag, turned at it and made back across the plunging slope for
the series of linked S's under the cables. How fast did these bloody
gondolas go? Ten, fifteen, twenty miles an hour? This was the latest
type. It would be the fastest. Hadn't he read somewhere that the one
between Arosa and the Weisshorn did 25? Even as he got into his first S,
the tune of the singing cable above him momentarily changed and then
went back to its usual whine. That was the gondola passing the first
pylon! Bond's knees, the Achilles heel of all skiers, were beginning to
ache. He cut his S's narrower, snaking down faster, but now feeling the
rutted tracks of the piste under his skis at every turn. Was that a flag
away over to the left? The magnesium flares were swaying lower, almost
directly over him. Yes. It looked all right. Two more S turns and he
would do a traverse schuss to it!

Something landed with a tremendous crack amidst a fountain of snow to
his right! Another to his left! They had a grenade-thrower up front in
the cable car! A bracket! Would the next one be dead on? Almost before
the thought flashed through his mind, there came a tremendous explosion
just ahead of him and he was hurled forward and sideways in a catherine
wheel of sticks and skis.

Bond got gingerly to his feet, gasping and spitting snow. One of his
bindings had opened. His trembling fingers found the forward latch and
banged it tight again. Another sharp crack, but wide by twenty yards. He
must get away from the line of fire from the blasted railway! Feverishly
he thought, the left-hand flag! I must do the traverse now. He took a
vague bearing across the precipitous slope and flung himself down it.




CHAPTER 17. BLOODY SNOW


It was tricky, undulating ground. The magnesium flares had sailed
lower and there were ugly patches of black shadow, any of which might
have been a small ravine. Bond had to check at all of them and each time
the sharp Christie reminded him of his legs and ankles. But he got
across without a fall and pulled up at the flag, panting. He looked
back. The gondola had stopped. They had telephone communication with the
top and bottom stations, but why had it stopped? As if in answer, blue
flames fluttered gaily from the forward cabin. But Bond heard no
bullets. The gondola would be swaying on its cable. But then, high up
above him, from somewhere near the first flags on the shoulder, came
more rapid fire, from two points, and the snow kicked up daintily around
him. So the guides had finally got after him! His fall would have cost
him minutes. How much lead had he got? Certainly less than ten minutes.
A bullet whanged into one of his skis and sang off down the mountain.
Bond took a last gulp of breath and got going again, still left-handed,
away from the cable railway, towards the next flag, a distant dot on the
edge of the shadow thrown by the great Matterhorn-shaped peak of Piz
Gloria, which knifed up into the spangled sky in dreadful majesty.

It looked as if the run was going to take him dangerously close to the
skirts of the peak. Something was nagging at his mind, a tiny memory.
What was it? It was something unpleasant. Yes, by God! The last flag! It
had been black. He was on the Black Run, the one closed because of
avalanche danger! God! Well, he'd had it now. No time to try and get
back on the Red Run. And anyway the Red had a long stretch close to the
cables. He'd just have to chance it. And what a time to chance it, just
after a heavy fall of new snow, and with all these detonations to loosen
up the stuff! When there was danger of an avalanche, guides forbade even
speech! Well, to hell with it! Bond zoomed on across the great unmarked
slope, got to the next flag, spotted the next, away down the mountain
side towards the tree line. Too steep to schuss! He would just have to
do it in S's.

And then the bastards chose to fire off three more flares followed by a
stream of miscellaneous rockets that burst prettily among the stars. Of
course! Bright idea! This was for the sake of watchers in the valley who
might be inquisitive about the mysterious explosions high up the
mountain. They were having a party up there, celebrating something. What
fun these rich folk had, to be sure! And then Bond remembered. But of
course! It was Christmas Eve! God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing
ye dismay! Bond's skis hissed an accompaniment as he zigzagged fast down
the beautiful snow slope. White Christmas! Well, he'd certainly got
himself that!

But then, from high up above him, he heard that most dreaded of all
sounds in the high Alps, that rending, booming crack! The Last Trump!
Avalanche!

The ground shook violently under Bond's skis and the swelling rumble
came down to him like the noise of express trains roaring through a
hundred tunnels. God Almighty, now he really had had it! What was the
rule? Point the skis straight downhill! Try and race it! Bond pointed
his skis down towards the tree line, got down in his ugly crouch and
shot, his skis screaming, into white space.

Keep forward, you bastard! Get your hands way in front of you! The wind
of his speed was building up into a great wall in front of him, trying
to knock him off balance. Behind him the giant roar of the mountain
seemed to be gaining. Other, smaller cracks sounded high up among the
crags. The whole bloody mountain was on the move! If he beat the
gigantic mass of hurtling snow to the tree line, what comfort would he
find there? Certainly no protection until he was deep in the wood. The
avalanche would snap perhaps the first hundred yards of firs down like
match-sticks. Bond used his brain and veered slightly left-handed. The
opening, the glade cut for the Black Run, would surely be somewhere
below the last flag he had been aiming for. If it wasn't, he was a dead
duck!

Now the wild schuss was coming to an end. The trees were rushing towards
him. Was there a break in the bloody black line of them? Yes! But more
to the left. Bond veered, dropping his speed, gratefully, but with his
ears strained to gauge the range of the thunder behind and above him. It
couldn't be far from him. The shudder in the ground had greatly
increased and a lot of the stuff would also find the hole through the
trees, funnel itself in and pursue him even down there! Yes! There was
the flag! Bond hurtled into a right-hand Christie just as, to his left,
he heard the first trees come crashing down with the noise of a hundred
monster crackers being pulled--Christmas crackers! Bond flung himself
straight down the wide white glade between the trees. But he could hear
that he was losing! The crashing of the trees was coming closer. The
first froth of the white tide couldn't be far behind his heels! What did
one do when the avalanche hit? There was only one rule. Get your hands
to your boots and grip your ankles. Then, if you were buried, there was
some hope of undoing your skis, being able, perhaps, to burrow your way
to the surface--if you knew in your tomb where the surface lay! If you
couldn't go down like a ball, you would end up immovable, a buried
tangle of sticks and skis at all angles. Thank God the opening at the
end of the glade, the shimmer of the last, easily sloping fields before
the finish, was showing up! The crackling roar behind him was getting
louder! How high would the wall of snow be? Fifty feet? A hundred? Bond
reached the end of the glade and hurled himself into a right-hand
Christie. It was his last hope, to get below the wide belt of trees and
pray that the avalanche wouldn't mow down the lot of them. To stay in
the path of the roaring monster at his heels would be suicide!

The Christie came off, but Bond's right ski snarled a root or a sapling
and he felt himself flying through space. He landed with a crash and lay
gasping, all the wind knocked out of him. Now he was done for! Not even
enough strength to get his hands to his ankles! A tremendous buffet of
wind hit him and a small snow-storm covered him. The ground shook wildly
and a deep crashing roar filled his ears. And then it had passed him and
given way to a slow, heavy rumble. Bond brushed the snow out of his eyes
and got unsteadily to his feet, both skis loose, his goggles gone. Only
a cricket pitch away, a great torrent of snow, perhaps twenty feet high,
was majestically pouring out of the wood and down into the meadows. Its
much higher, tumbling snout, tossing huge crags of broken snow around
it, was already a hundred yards ahead and still going fast. But, where
Bond stood, it was now silent and peaceful except for the
machine-gunfire crackling of the trees as they went down in the wood
that had finally protected him. The crackling was getting nearer! No
time to hang about! But Bond took off one sodden glove and dug into his
trouser pocket. If ever he needed a drink it was now! He tilted the
little flask down his throat, emptied it, and threw the bottle away.
Happy Christmas! he said to himself, and bent to his bindings.

He got to his feet and, rather light-headed but with the wonderful glow
of the Enzian in his stomach, started on the last mile of finishing
schuss across the meadows to the right, away from the still hurtling
river of snow. Blast! There was a fence across the bottom of the
meadows! He would have to take the normal outlet for the runs beside the
cable station. It looked all right. There was no sign of the gondola,
but he could now hear the song of the cables. Had the downcoming car
reversed back up to Piz Gloria, assuming him to have been killed by the
avalanche? There was a large black saloon car in the forecourt to the
cable station, and lights on in the station, but otherwise no sign of
life. Well, it was his only way to get off the run and on to the road
that was his objective. Bond schussed easily downwards, resting his
limbs, getting his breath back.

The sharp crack of a heavy-calibre pistol and the phut as the bullet hit
the snow beside him pulled him together. He jinked sideways and glanced
quickly up to the right, where the shot had come from. The gun blazed
again. A man on skis was coming fast after him. One of the guides! Of
course! He would have taken the Red Run. Had the other followed Bond on
the Black? Bond hoped so, gave a deep sigh of anger, and put on all the
speed he could, crouching low and jinking occasionally to spoil the
man's aim. The single shots kept on coming. It was going to be a narrow
shave who got to the end of the run first!

Bond studied the finishing point that was now coming at him fast. There
was a wide break in the fence to let the skiers through, a large parking
place in front of the cable station, and then the low embankment that
protected the main line of the Rhtische Bahn up to Pontresina and the
Bernina Pass. On the other side of the rails the railway embankment
dropped into the road from Pontresina to Samaden, the junction for St
Moritz, perhaps two miles down the valley.

Another shot kicked up the snow in front of him. That was six that had
gone. With any luck the man's pistol was empty. But that wouldn't help
much. There was no stuffing left in Bond for a fight.

Now a great blaze of light showed coming up the railway line, and,
before it was hidden by the cable station, Bond identified an express
and could just hear the thudding of its electro-diesels. By God, it
would just about be passing the cable station as he wanted to get across
the track! Could he make it--take a run at the low embankment and clear
it and the lines before the train got there? It was his only hope! Bond
dug in with his sticks to get on extra speed. Hell! A man had got out of
the black car and was crouching, aiming at him. Bond jinked and jinked
again as fire bloomed from the man's hand. But now Bond was on top of
him. He thrust hard with the rapier point of a ski-stick and felt it go
through clothing. The man gave a scream and went down. The guide, now
only yards behind, yelled something. The great yellow eye of the diesel
glared down the tracks, and Bond caught a sideways glimpse of a huge red
snow-fan below the headlight that was fountaining the new snow to right
and left of the engine in two white wings. Now! He flashed across the
parking place, heading straight at the mound of the embankment and, as
he hit, dug both his sticks in to get his skis off the ground, and
hurled himself forward into the air. There was a brief glimpse of steel
rails below, a tremendous thudding in his ears, and a ferocious blast,
only yards away, from the train's siren. Then he crashed on to the icy
road, tried to stop, failed, and fetched up in an almighty skid against
the hard snow wall on the other side. As he did so, there came a
terrible scream from behind him, a loud splintering of wood, and the
screech of the train's brakes being applied.

At the same time, the spray from the snow-fan, that had now reached
Bond, turned pink!

Bond wiped some of it off his face and looked at it. His stomach turned.
God! The man had tried to follow him, had been too late or had missed
his jump, and had been caught by the murderous blades of the snow-fan!
Mincemeat! Bond dug a handful of snow off the bank and wiped it over his
face and hair. He rubbed more of it down his sweater. He suddenly
realized that people were pulling down the windows in the
brilliantly-lit train above him. Others had got down on the line. Bond
pulled himself together and punted off down the black ice of the road.
Shouts followed him--the angry bawls of Swiss citizens. Bond edged his
skis a little against the camber of the road and kept going. Ahead of
him, down the black gulch of the road, in his mind's eye, the huge red
propeller whirred, sucking him into its steel whirlpool. Bond, close to
delirium, slithered on towards its bloody, beckoning vortex.

                        *          *          *

Bond, a grey-faced, lunging automaton, somehow stayed upright on the two
miles of treacherous Langlauf down the gentle slope to Samaden. Once a
passing car, its snow-chains clattering, forced him into the bank. He
leaned against the comforting soft snow for a moment, the breath sobbing
in his throat. Then he drove himself on again. He had got so far, done
so well! Only a few more hundred yards to the lights of the darling,
straggling little paradise of people and shelter! The slender campanile
of the village church was floodlit and there was a great warm lake of
light on the left of the twinkling group of houses. The strains of a
waltz came over the still, frozen air. The skating-rink! A Christmas Eve
skaters' ball. That was the place for him! Crowds! Gaiety! Confusion!
Somewhere to lose himself from the double hunt that would now be on--by
SPECTRE and the Swiss police, the cops and the robbers hand in hand!

Bond's skis hit a pile of horse's dung from some merrymaker's sleigh. He
lurched drunkenly into the snow wall of the road and righted himself,
cursing feebly. Come on! Pull yourself together! Look respectable! Well,
you needn't look _too_ respectable. After all, it's Christmas Eve. Here
were the first houses. The noise of accordion music, deliriously
nostalgic, came from a Gasthaus with a beautiful iron sign over its
door. Now there was a twisty, uphill bit--the road to St Moritz. Bond
shuffled up it, placing his sticks carefully. He ran a hand through his
matted hair and pulled the sweat-soaked handkerchief down to his neck,
tucking the ends into his shirt collar. The music lilted down towards
him from the great pool of light over the skating-rink. Bond pulled
himself a little more upright. There were a lot of cars drawn up, skis
stuck in mounds of snow, luges and toboggans, festoons of paper
streamers, a big notice in three languages across the entrance: 'Grand
Christmas Eve Ball! Fancy Dress! Entrance 2 Francs! Bring all your
friends! Hooray!'

Bond dug in his sticks and bent down to unlatch his skis. He fell over
sideways. If only he could just lie there, go to sleep on the hard,
trodden snow that felt like swansdown! He gave a small groan and heaved
himself gingerly into a crouch. The bindings were frozen solid, caked,
like his boots, with ice. He got one of his sticks and hacked feebly at
the metal and tried again. At last the latches sprang and the thongs
were off. Where to put the bloody things, hide their brilliant red
markings? He lugged them down the trodden path towards the entrance, gay
with fairy lights, shoved the skis and the sticks under a big saloon
car, and staggered on. The man at the ticket-table was as drunk as Bond
seemed. He looked up blearily: 'Zwo Franken. Two francs. Deux francs.'
The routine incantation was slurred into one portmanteau word. Bond held
on to the table, put down the coins, and got his ticket. The man's eyes
focused. 'The fancy dress, the travesti, it is obligatoire.' He reached
into a box by his side and threw a black and white domino-mask on the
table. 'One franc' He gave a lop-sided smile. 'Now you are the gangster,
the spy. Yes?'

'Yeah, that's right.' Bond paid and put on the mask. He reluctantly let
go of the table and wove through the entrance. There were raised tiers
of wooden benches round the big square rink. Thank God for a chance to
sit down! There was an empty seat on the aisle in the bottom row at rink
level. Bond stumbled down the wooden steps and fell into it. He righted
himself, said 'Sorry,' and put his head in his hands. The girl beside
him, part of a group of harlequins, Wild Westerners, and pirates, drew
her spangled skirt away, whispered something to her neighbour. Bond
didn't care. They wouldn't throw him out on a night like this. Through
the loudspeakers the violins sobbed into 'The Skaters' Waltz'. Above
them the voice of the MC called, 'Last dance, ladies and gentlemen. And
then all out on to the rink and join hands for the grand finale. Only
ten minutes to go to midnight! Last dance, ladies and gentlemen. Last
dance!' There was a rattle of applause. People laughed excitedly.

God in Heaven! thought Bond feebly. Now this! Won't anybody leave me
alone? He fell asleep.

Hours later he felt his shoulder being shaken. 'On to the rink, sir.
Please. All on to the rink for the grand finale. Only a minute to go.' A
man in purple and gold uniform was standing beside him, looking down
impatiently.

'Go away,' said Bond dully. Then some inner voice told him not to make a
scene, not to be conspicuous. He struggled to his feet, made the few
steps to the rink, somehow stood upright. His head lowered, like a
wounded bull, he looked to left and right, saw a gap in the human chain
round the rink, and slid gingerly towards it. A hand was held out to him
and he grasped it thankfully. On the other side someone else was trying
to get hold of his free hand. And then there came a diversion. From
right across the rink, a girl in a short black skating-skirt topped by a
shocking-pink fur-lined parka, sped like an arrow across the ice and
came to a crash-stop in front of Bond. Bond felt the ice particles hit
his legs. He looked up. It was a face he recognized--those brilliant
blue eyes, the look of authority now subdued beneath golden sunburn and
a brilliant smile of excitement. Who in hell?

The girl slipped in beside him, seized his right hand in her left,
joined up on her right. 'James'--it was a thrilling whisper--'oh, James.
It's me! Tracy! What's the matter with you? Where have you come from?'

'Tracy,' said Bond dully. 'Tracy. Hold on to me. I'm in bad shape. Tell
you later.'

Then Auld Lang Syne began and everyone swung linked hands in unison to
the music.




CHAPTER 18. FORK LEFT FOR HELL!


Bond had no idea how he managed to stay upright, but at last it
was over and everyone cheered and broke up into pairs and groups.

Tracy got her arm under his. Bond pulled himself together. He said
hoarsely, 'Mix with the crowd, Tracy. Got to get away from here. People
after me.' A sudden hope came to him. 'Got your car?'

'Yes, darling. Everything'll be all right. Just hang on to me. Are
people waiting for you outside?'

'Could be. Watch out for a big black Mercedes. There may be shooting.
Better stay away from me. I can make it. Where's the car?'

'Down the road to the right. But don't be silly. Here, I've got an idea.
You get into this parka.' She ran the zip down and stripped it off.
'It'll be a tight fit. Here, put your arm into this sleeve.'

'But you'll get cold.'

'Do as I tell you. I've got a sweater and plenty on underneath. Now the
other arm. That's right.' She pulled up the zip. 'Darling James, you
look sweet.'

The fur of the parka smelt of Guerlain's 'Ode'. It took Bond back to
Royale. What a girl! The thought of her, of having an ally, of not being
on his own, of being away from that bloody mountain, revived Bond. He
held her hand and followed her through the crowd that was now streaming
towards the exit. This was going to be a bad moment! Whether or not that
cable car had come on down the mountain, by now Blofeld would have had
time to get one down full of SPECTRE men. Bond had been seen from the
train, would be known to have made for Samaden. By now they would have
covered the railway station. They would expect him to try and hide in
a crowd. Perhaps the drunken man at the entrance had remembered him.
If that saloon moved off and revealed the red-arrowed skis, it would be
a cert. Bond let go the girl's hand and slipped the shattered Rolex back
over the knuckles of his right hand. He had gathered enough strength,
mostly from the girl, to have one more bash at them!

She looked at him. 'What are you doing?'

He took her hand again. 'Nothing.'

They were getting near the exit. Bond peered through the slits in his
mask. Yes, by God! Two of the thugs were standing beside the ticket man
watching the throng with deadly concentration. On the far side of the
road stood the black Mercedes, petrol vapour curling up from its
exhaust. No escape. There was only bluff. Bond put his arm round Tracy's
neck and whispered, 'Kiss me all the way past the ticket-table. They're
there, but I think we can make it.'

She flung an arm over his shoulder and drew him to her. 'How did you
know that that's what I've been waiting for?' Her lips crushed down
sideways on his and, in a tide of laughing, singing people, they were
through and on the street.

They turned, still linked, down the road. Yes! There was the darling
little white car!

And then the horn on the Mercedes began sounding urgently. Bond's gait,
or perhaps his old-fashioned ski-trousers, had given him away to the man
in the car!

'Quick, darling!' said Bond urgently.

The girl threw herself in under the wheel, pressed the starter and the
car was moving as Bond scrambled in through the opposite door. Bond
looked back. Through the rear window he could see the two men standing
in the road. They would not shoot with so many witnesses about. Now they
ran to the Mercedes. Thank God it was pointing up the hill towards St
Moritz! And then Tracy had done a controlled skid round the S bend in
the village and they were on the main road that Bond had staggered down
half an hour before.

It would be five minutes at least before the Mercedes could turn and get
after them. The girl was going like hell, but there was traffic on the
road--tinkling sleighs full of fur-wrapped merrymakers on their way back
to Pontresina, an occasional car, its snow-chains rattling. She drove on
her brakes and her horn, the same triple wind-horn that sounded the high
discord Bond remembered so well. Bond said, 'You're an angel, Tracy. But
take it easy. We don't want to end up in the ditch.'

The girl glanced sideways at him and laughed with pleasure. 'That sounds
as if you were feeling better. But I cannot see you. Now you can take
off that silly mask and my parka. In a minute the heat will come on and
you will be roasted. And I would like to see you as I remember you. But
you are pleased with me?'

Life was beginning to come back into Bond. It was so wonderful to be in
this little car with this marvellous girl. The memory of the dreadful
mountain, of all that he had been through, was receding. Now there was
hope again, after so much dread and despair. He could feel the tensions
uncoiling in his stomach. He said, 'I'll tell you if I'm pleased when we
get to Zrich. Can you make it? It's a hell of a way to spend
Christmas.' He wound down the window and threw the domino-mask out,
stripped off the parka and draped it over her shoulders. The big sign
for the main road down into the valley came up. He said, 'Left here,
Tracy. Filisur and then Coire.'

She took the turning, in Bond's estimation, dangerously fast. She went
into a skid that Bond swore was going to be uncontrolled. But, even on
the black ice of the road, she got out of it and motored blithely on.
Bond said, 'For God's sake, Tracy! How in hell did you manage that? You
haven't even got chains on.'

She laughed, pleased at the awe in his voice. 'Dunlop Rally studs on all
the tyres. They're only supposed to be for Rally drivers, but I managed
to wangle a set out of them. Don't worry. Just sit back and enjoy the
drive.'

There was something entirely new in the girl's voice, a lilt and
happiness that had certainly not been there at Royale. Bond turned and
looked at her carefully for the first time. Yes, she was somehow a new
woman, radiating health and a kind of inner glow. The tumbled fair hair
glittered with vitality and the half-open, beautiful lips seemed always
to be on the verge of a smile.

'Satisfied?'

'You look absolutely wonderful. But now for God's sake tell me how you
happened to be at Samaden. It was a bloody miracle. It saved my life.'

'All right. But then you tell. I've never seen a man look so dead on his
feet. I couldn't believe my eyes. I thought you must be plastered.' She
gave him a quick glance. 'You still look pretty bad. Here'--she leant
forward to the dashboard--'I'll switch on the blower. Get you properly
warmed up.' She paused. 'Well, my bit of the story's quite simple
really. Papa rang me up one day from Marseilles to find out how I was.
He asked if I had seen you and seemed very annoyed when he heard I
hadn't. He practically ordered me to go and find you.' She glanced at
him. 'He's quite taken to you, you know. Anyway he said he had found out
the address of a certain man you were looking for. He said he was sure
that by now you would have found out that address too. He said that,
knowing you, I would find you somewhere close to this address. It was
the Piz Gloria Club. He told me if I found you to tell you to watch your
step, to look after yourself.' She laughed. 'How right he was! Well, so
I left Davos, which had really put me on my feet again, like you said it
would, and I came up to Samaden the day before yesterday. The Seilbahn
wasn't running yesterday, so I was going to come up today to look for
you. It was all as simple as that. Now you tell.'

They had been keeping up a good speed down the sloping, winding road
into the valley. Bond turned to look through the rear window. He swore
under his breath. Perhaps a mile behind, twin lights were coming after
them. The girl said, 'I know. I've been watching in the mirror. I'm
afraid they're gaining a little. Must be a good driver who knows the
road. Probably got snow-chains. But I think I can hold them. Now go on.
What have you been up to?'

Bond gave her a garbled version. There was a big gangster up the
mountain, living under a false name. He was wanted by the police in
England. Bond was vaguely connected with the police, with the Ministry
of Defence. (She snorted, 'Don't try and fool me. I know you're in the
Secret Service. Papa told me so.' Bond said curtly, 'Well, Papa's
talking through his hat.' She laughed knowingly.) Anyway, Bond
continued, he had been sent out to make sure this was the man they
wanted. He had found out that he was. But the man had become suspicious
of Bond and Bond had had to get out quickly. He gave her a graphic
account of the moonlit nightmare of the mountain, of the avalanche, of
the man who had been killed by the train, of how he had got to Samaden,
dead beat, and had tried to hide in the crowd on the skating-rink. 'And
then,' he ended lamely, 'you turned up like a beautiful angel on skates,
and here we are.'

She thought the story over for a minute. Then she said calmly, 'And now,
my darling James, just tell me how many of them you killed. And tell me
the truth.'

'Why?'

'I'm just curious.'

'You promise to keep this between you and me?'

She said enigmatically, 'Of course. Everything's between you and me from
now on.'

'Well, there was the main guard at the so-called Club. That had to be
done or I'd be dead myself by now. Then I suppose one got caught by the
avalanche. Then, at the bottom, one of them shot at me and I had to
spear him with my ski-stick--self-defence. I don't know how badly he's
hurt. And then there was the man killed by the train. He'd fired six
shots at me. And anyway it was his own fault. Let's say three and a half
got themselves killed one way or another.'

'How many are left?'

'What are you getting at?'

'I just want to know. Trust me.'

'Well, I think there were about fifteen up there all told. So that
leaves eleven and a half--plus the big man.'

'And there are three in the car behind? Would they kill us if they
caught us?'

'I'm afraid so. I haven't got any weapons. I'm sorry, Tracy, but I'm
afraid you wouldn't have much chance either, being a witness and a sort
of accomplice of mine. These people think I'm pretty bad news for them.'

'And you are?'

'Yes. From now on, I'm the worst.'

'Well, I've got pretty bad news for you. They're gaining on us and I've
only got a couple of gallons left in the tank. We'll have to stop in
Filisur. There won't be a garage open and it'll mean waking someone up.
Can't hope to do it under ten minutes and they'll have us. You'll have
to think up something clever.'

There was a ravine and an S turn over a bridge. They were coming out of
the first curve over the bridge. Lights blazed at them from across the
ravine. There was half a mile between the two cars, but the range across
the ravine was perhaps only three hundred yards. Bond wasn't surprised
to see the familiar blue flames flutter from the front of the car. Chips
of granite from the overhang splattered down on the bonnet of the car.
Then they were into the second half of the S bend and out of sight of
their pursuers.

Now came a stretch of reconstruction work where there had been a
landslide. There were big warning notices: Achtung! Baustelle!
Vorsichtig Fahren!' The broken road hugged the mountain-side on the
right. On the left was rickety fencing and then a precipice falling
hundreds of feet down into a gorge with an ice-floed river. In the
middle of the bad stretch, a huge red wooden arrow pointed right to a
narrow track across a temporary bridge. Bond suddenly shouted 'Stop!'

Tracy pulled up, her front wheels on the bridge. Bond tore open the
door. 'Get on! Wait for me round the next corner. It's the only chance.'

Good girl! She got going without a word. Bond ran back the few yards to
the big red arrow. It was held in the forks of two upright poles. Bond
wrenched it off, swung it round so that it pointed to the left, towards
the flimsy fence that closed off the yards of old road leading to the
collapsed bridge. Bond tore at the fence, pulling the stakes out,
flattening it. Glare showed round the corner behind him. He leaped
across the temporary road into the shadow of the mountain, flattened
himself against it, waited, holding his breath.

The Mercedes was coming faster than it should over the bumpy track, its
chains clattering inside the mudguards. It made straight for the black
opening to which the arrow now pointed. Bond caught a glimpse of white,
strained faces and then the desperate scream of brakes as the driver saw
the abyss in front of him. The car seemed almost to stop, but its front
wheels must have been over the edge. It balanced for a moment on its
iron belly and then slowly, slowly toppled and there was a first
appalling crash as it hit the rubble beneath the old bridge. Then
another crash and another. Bond ran forward past the lying arrow and
looked down. Now the car was flying upside-down through the air. It hit
again and a fountain of sparks flashed from a rock ledge. Then,
somersaulting, and with its lights somehow still blazing, it smashed on
down into the gorge. It hit a last outcrop that knocked it sideways and,
spinning laterally, but now with its lights out and only the glint of
the moon on metal, it took the last great plunge into the iced-up river.
A deep rumble echoed up from the gorge and there was the patter of rocks
and stones following the wreckage. And then all was peaceful, moonlit
silence.

Bond let out his breath in a quiet hiss between his clenched teeth.
Then, mechanically, he straightened things out again, put up the remains
of the fence, lifted the arrow, and put it back facing to the right.
Then he wiped his sweating hands down the side of his trousers and
walked unsteadily down the road and round the next corner.

The little white car was there, pulled in to the side, with its lights
out. Bond got in and slumped into his seat. Tracy said nothing but got
the car going. The lights of Filisur appeared, warm and yellow in the
valley below. She reached out a hand and held his tightly. 'You've had
enough for one day. Go to sleep. I'll get you to Zrich. Please do what
I say.'

Bond said nothing. He pressed her hand weakly, leaned his head against
the door jamb and was instantly asleep.

He was out for the count.




CHAPTER 19. LOVE FOR BREAKFAST


In the grey dawn, Zrich airport was depressing and almost deserted,
but, blessedly, there was a Swissair Caravelle, delayed by fog at
London Airport, waiting to take off for London. Bond parked Tracy in
the restaurant and, regretfully forsaking the smell of coffee and fried
eggs, went and bought himself a ticket, had his passport stamped by a
sleepy official (he had half expected to be stopped, but wasn't), and
went to a telephone booth and shut himself in. He looked up Universal
Export in the telephone book, and read underneath, as he had hoped,
'Hauptvertreter Alexander Muir. Privat Wohnung' and the number. Bond
glanced through the glass window at the clock in the departure hall. Six
o'clock. Well, Muir would just have to take it.

He rang the number and, after minutes, a sleepy voice said, 'Ja! Hier
Muir.'

Bond said, 'Sorry, 410, but this is 007. I'm calling from the airport.
This is bloody urgent so I'll have to take a chance on your line being
bugged. Got a paper and pencil?'

The voice at the other end had grown brisker. 'Hang on, 007. Yes, got
it. Go ahead.'

'First of all I've got some bad news. Your Number Two has had it. Almost
for sure. Can't give you any details over this line, but I'm off to
London in about an hour--Swissair Flight 110--and I'll signal the dope
back straight away. Could you put that on the teleprinter? Right. Now
I'm guessing that in the next day or so a party of ten girls, British,
will be coming in here by helicopter from the Engadine. Yellow Sud
Aviation Alouette. I'll be teleprinting their names back from London
some time today. My bet is they'll be flying to England, probably on
different flights and perhaps to Prestwick and Gatwick as well as London
Airport, if you've any planes using those airports. Anyway, I guess
they'll be dispersed. Now, I think it may be very important to tell
London their flight numbers and ETA. Rather a big job, but I'll get you
authority in a few hours to use men from Berne and Geneva to lend a
hand. Got it? Right. Now I'm pretty certain you're blown. Remember the
old Operation Bedlam that's just been cancelled? Well, it's him and he's
got radio and he'll probably have guessed I'd be contacting you this
morning. Just take a look out of the window and see if there's any sign
of watchers. He's certainly got his men in Zrich.'

'Christ, what a shambles!' The voice at the other end was tight with
tension. 'Hang on.' There was a pause. Bond could visualize Muir, whom
he didn't know except as a number, going over to the window, carefully
drawing aside the curtain. Muir came back on the wire. 'Looks damn like
it. There's a black Porsche across the road. Two men in it. I'll get my
friends in the Scurit to chase them away.'

Bond said, 'Be careful how you go about it. My guess is that our man has
got a pretty good fix in with the police. Anyway, put all this on the
telex to M personally, would you? Ciphered of course. And tell him if I
get back in one piece I must see him today, with 501 [the Chief
Scientific Officer to the Service] and if possible with someone in the
same line of business from the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries.
Sounds daft, but there it is. It's going to upset their paper hats and
Christmas pudding, but I can't help that. Can you manage all that? Good
lad. Any questions?'

'Sure I oughtn't to come out to the airport and get some more about my
Number Two? He was tailing one of Redland's men. Chap's been buying some
pretty odd stuff from the local rep. of Badische Anilin. Number Two
thought it seemed damned fishy. Didn't tell me what the stuff was. Just
thought he'd better see where it was being delivered to.'

'I thought it must be some kind of a spiel like that. No. You stay away
from me. I'm hot as a pistol, going to be hotter later in the day when
they find a certain Mercedes at the bottom of a precipice. I'll get off
the line now. Sorry to have wrecked your Christmas. 'Bye.'

Bond put down the receiver and went up to the restaurant. Tracy had been
watching the door. Her face lit up when she saw him. He sat down very
close to her and took her hand, a typical airport farewell couple. He
ordered plenty of scrambled eggs and coffee. 'It's all right, Tracy.
I've fixed everything at my end. But now about you. That car of yours is
going to be bad news. There'll be people who'll have seen you drive away
with the Mercedes on your tail. There always are, even at midnight on
Christmas Eve. And the big man on top of the mountain has got his men
down here too. You'd better finish your breakfast and get the hell on
over the frontier. Which is the nearest?'

'Schaffhausen or Konstanz, I suppose, but'--she pleaded--'James, do I
have to leave you now? It's been so long waiting for you. And I _have_
done well, haven't I? Why do you want to punish me?' Tears, that would
never have been there in the Royale days, sparkled in her eyes. She
wiped them angrily away with the back of her hand.

Bond suddenly thought, Hell! I'll never find another girl like this one.
She's got everything I've ever looked for in a woman. She's beautiful,
in bed and out. She's adventurous, brave, resourceful. She's exciting
always. She seems to love me. She'd let me go on with my life. She's a
lone girl, not cluttered up with friends, relations, belongings. Above
all, she needs me. It'll be someone for me to look after. I'm fed up
with all these untidy, casual affairs that leave me with a bad
conscience. I wouldn't mind having children. I've got no social
background into which she would or wouldn't fit. We're two of a pair,
really. Why not make it for always?

Bond found his voice saying those words that he had never said in his
life before, never expected to say.

'Tracy, I love you. Will you marry me?'

She turned very pale. She looked at him wonderingly. Her lips trembled.
'You mean that?'

'Yes, I mean it. With all my heart.'

She took her hand away from his and put her face in her hands. When she
removed them she was smiling. 'I'm sorry, James. It's so much what I've
been dreaming of. It came as a shock. But yes. Yes, of course I'll marry
you. And I won't be silly about it. I won't make a scene. Just kiss me
once and I'll be going.' She looked seriously at him, at every detail of
his face. Then she leaned forward and they kissed.

She got up briskly. 'I suppose I've got to get used to doing what you
say. I'll drive to Munich. To the Vier Jahreszeiten. It's my favourite
hotel in the world. I'll wait for you there. They know me. They'll take
me in without any luggage. Everything's at Samaden. I'll just have to
send out for a toothbrush and stay in bed for two days until I can go
out and get some things. You'll telephone me? Talk to me? When can we
get married? I must tell Papa. He'll be terribly excited.'

'Let's get married in Munich. At the Consulate. I've got a kind of
diplomatic immunity. I can get the papers through quickly. Then we can
be married again in an English church, or Scottish rather. That's where
I come from. I'll call you up tonight and tomorrow. I'll get to you just
as soon as I can. I've got to finish this business first.'

'You promise you won't get hurt?'

Bond smiled. 'I wouldn't think of it. For once I'll run away if someone
starts any shooting.'

'All right then.' She looked at him carefully again. 'It's time you took
off that red handkerchief. I suppose you realize it's bitten to ribbons.
Give it to me. I'll mend it.'

Bond undid the red bandanna from round his neck. It was a dark,
sweat-soaked rag. And she was right. Two corners of it were in shreds.
He must have got them between his teeth and chewed on them when the
going was bad down the mountain. He couldn't remember having done so. He
gave it to her.

She took it and, without looking back, walked straight out of the
restaurant and down the stairs towards the exit.

Bond sat down. His breakfast came and he began eating mechanically. What
had he done? What in hell had he done? But the only answer was a feeling
of tremendous warmth and relief and excitement. James and Tracy Bond!
Commander and Mrs Bond! How utterly, utterly extraordinary!

The voice of the Tannoy said, 'Attention, please. Passengers on Swissair
Flight Number 110 for London, please assemble at gate Number 2. Swissair
Flight Number 110 for London. Passengers to gate Number 2, please.'

Bond stubbed out his cigarette, gave a quick glance round their
trysting-place to fix its banality in his mind, and walked to the door,
leaving the fragments of his old life torn up amidst the debris of an
airport breakfast.




CHAPTER 20. M EN PANTOUFLES


Bond slept in the plane and was visited by a terrible nightmare.
It was the hallway of a very grand town-house, an embassy perhaps,
and a wide staircase led up under a spangled chandelier to where
the butler was standing at the door of the drawing-room, from
which came the murmur of a large crowd of guests. Tracy, in oyster
satin, was on his arm. She was loaded with jewels and her golden hair
had been piled up grandly into one of those fancy arrangements you see
in smart hairdressers' advertisements. On top of the pile was a diamond
tiara that glittered gorgeously. Bond was dressed in tails (where in
hell had he got _those_ from?), and the wing collar stuck into his neck
below the chin. He was wearing his medals, and his order as CMG, on its
blue and scarlet ribbon, hung below his white tie. Tracy was chattering,
gaily, excitedly, looking forward to the grand evening. Bond was cursing
the prospect before him and wishing he was playing a tough game of
bridge for high stakes at Blades. They got to the top of the stairs and
Bond gave his name.

'Commander and Mrs James Bond!' It was the stentorian bellow of a
toast-master. Bond got the impression that a sudden hush fell over the
elegant crowd in the gilt and white drawing-room.

He followed Tracy through the double doors. There was a gush of French
from Tracy as she exchanged those empty 'Mayfair' kisses, that end up
wide of the kissers' ears, with her hostess. Tracy drew Bond forward.
'And this is James. Doesn't he look sweet with that beautiful medal
round his neck? Just like the old De Reszke cigarette advertisements!'

'Fasten your seat belts, please, and extinguish your cigarettes.'

Bond awoke, sweating. God Almighty! What had he done? But no! It
wouldn't be like that! Definitely not. He would still have his tough,
exciting life, but now there would be Tracy to come home to. Would there
be room in his flat in Chelsea? Perhaps he could rent the floor above.
And what about May, his Scottish treasure? That would be tricky. He must
somehow persuade her to stay.

The Caravelle hit the runway and there came the roar of jet deflection,
and then they were trundling over the tarmac in a light drizzle. Bond
suddenly realized that he had no luggage, that he could go straight to
Passport Control and then out and back to his flat to change out of
these ridiculous skiing clothes that stank of sweat. Would there be a
car from the pool for him? There was, with Miss Mary Goodnight sitting
beside the driver.

'My God, Mary, this is a hell of a way to spend your Christmas! This is
far beyond the line of duty. Anyway, get in the back and tell me why
you're not stirring the plum pudding or going to church or something.'

She climbed in to the back seat and he followed. She said, 'You don't
seem to know much about Christmas. You make plum puddings at least two
months before and let them sort of settle and mature. And church isn't
till eleven.' She glanced at him. 'Actually I came to see how you were.
I gather you've been in trouble again. You certainly look pretty
ghastly. Don't you own a comb? And you haven't shaved. You look like a
pirate. And'--she wrinkled her nose--'when did you last have a bath? I
wonder they let you out of the airport. You ought to be in quarantine.'

Bond laughed. 'Winter sports are very strenuous--all that snowballing
and tobogganing. Matter of fact, I was at a Christmas Eve fancy-dress
party last night. Kept me up till all hours.'

'In those great clod-hopping boots? I don't believe you.'

'Well, sucks to you! It was on a skating-rink. But seriously, Mary, tell
me the score. Why this VIP treatment?'

'M. You're to check with HQ first and then go down to lunch with him at
Quarterdeck. Then, after lunch, he's having these men you wanted brought
down for a conference. Everything top priority. So I thought I'd better
stand by too. As you're wrecking so many other people's Christmases, I
thought I might as well throw mine on the slag-heap with the others.
Actually, if you want to know, I was only having lunch with an aunt. And
I loathe turkey and plum pudding. Anyway, I just didn't want to miss the
fun and when the duty officer got on to me about an hour ago and told me
there was a major flap, I asked him to tell the car to pick me up on the
way to the airport.'

Bond said seriously, 'Well, you're a damned good girl. As a matter of
fact it's going to be the hell of a rush getting down the bare bones of
a report. And I've got something for the lab to do. Will there be
someone there?'

'Of course there will. You know M insists on a skeleton staff in every
Section, Christmas Day or not. But seriously, James. Have you been in
trouble? You really do look awful.'

'Oh, somewhat. You'll get the photo as I dictate.' The car drew up
outside Bond's flat. 'Now be an angel and stir up May while I clean
myself up and get out of these bloody clothes. Get her to brew me plenty
of black coffee and to pour two jiggers of our best brandy into the pot.
You ask May for what you like. She might even have some plum pudding.
Now then, it's nine-thirty. Be a good girl and call the Duty Officer and
say OK to M's orders and that we'll be along by ten-thirty. And get him
to ask the lab to stand by in half an hour.' Bond took his passport out
of his hip-pocket. 'Then give this to the driver and ask him to get the
hell over and give it to the Duty Officer personally. Tell the DO'--Bond
turned down the corner of a page--'to tell the lab that the ink used
is--er--home-made. All it needs is exposure to heat. They'll understand.
Got that? Good girl. Now come on and we'll get May going.' Bond went up
the steps and rang two shorts and a long on the bell.

                        *          *          *

When Bond got to his desk a few minutes after ten-thirty, feeling back
to nine-tenths human, he found a folder on his desk with the red star in
the top right corner that meant Top Secret. It contained his passport
and a dozen copies of blown-up photostats of its page 21. The list of
girls' names was faint but legible. There was also a note marked
'personal'. Bond opened it. He laughed. It just said, 'The ink showed
traces of an excess of uric acid. This is often due to a super-abundancy
of alcohol in the blood-stream. You have been warned!' There was no
signature. So the Christmas spirit had permeated even into the solemn
crevices of one of the most secret Sections in the building! Bond
crumpled the paper and then, thinking of Mary Goodnight's
susceptibilities, more prudently burned it with his lighter.

She came in and sat down with her shorthand book. Bond said, 'Now this
is only a first draft, Mary, and it's got to be fast. So don't mind
about mistakes. M'll understand. We've got about an hour and a half if
I'm to get down to Windsor by lunch-time. Think you can manage it? All
right then, here goes. "Top Secret. Personal to M. As instructed, on
December 22nd I arrived at Zrich Central Airport at 1330 by Swissair to
make first contact in connexion with Operation 'Corona'..."'

Bond turned sideways to his secretary and, as he talked, looked out
across the bare trees in Regent's Park, remembering every minute of the
last three days--the sharp, empty smell of the air and the snow, the
dark green pools of Blofeld's eyes, the crunch as the edge of his left
hand, still bruised, thudded down across the offered neck of the guard.
And then all the rest until Tracy, whom, without mention of romance, he
left in his report on her way to the Vier Jahreszeiten in Munich. Then
the report was finished and the muted clack of Mary's typewriter came
from behind the closed door. He would ring Tracy up that night when he
got back to his flat. He could already hear her laughing voice at the
other end of the wire. The nightmare in the plane was forgotten. Now
there was only the happy, secret looking-forward to the days to come.
Bond lost himself in his plans--how to get the days off, how to get the
necessary papers, where to have the service in Scotland. Then he pulled
himself together, picked up the photostat containing the girls' names
and went up to the Communications Centre to get on the teleprinter to
Station Z.

                        *          *          *

M would have preferred to live by the sea, near Plymouth perhaps or
Bristol--anywhere where he could see the stuff whenever he wanted to and
could listen to it at night. As it was, and since he had to be within
easy call of London, he had chosen the next best thing to water, trees,
and had found a small Regency manor-house on the edge of Windsor Forest.
This was on Crown Lands, and Bond had always suspected that an ounce of
'Grace and Favour' had found its way into M's lease. The head of the
Secret Service earned 5,000 a year, with the use of an ancient
Rolls-Royce and driver thrown in. M's naval pay (as a Vice-Admiral on
the retired list) would add perhaps another 1,500. After taxes, he
would have about 4,000 to spend. His London life would probably take at
least half of that. Only if his rent and rates came to no more than
500, would he be able to keep a house in the country, and a beautiful
small Regency house at that.

These thoughts ran again through Bond's mind as he swung the clapper of
the brass ship's-bell of some former HMS _Repulse_, the last of whose
line, a battle-cruiser, had been M's final sea-going appointment.
Hammond, M's Chief Petty Officer in that ship, who had followed M into
retirement, greeted Bond as an old friend, and he was shown into M's
study.

M had one of the stock bachelor's hobbies. He painted in water-colour.
He painted only the wild orchids of England, in the meticulous but
uninspired fashion of the naturalists of the nineteenth century. He was
now at his painting-table up against the window, his broad back hunched
over his drawing-board, with, in front of him, an extremely dim little
flower in a tooth-glass full of water. When Bond came in and closed the
door, M gave the flower one last piercingly inquisitive glance. He got
to his feet with obvious reluctance. But he gave Bond one of his rare
smiles and said, 'Afternoon, James.' (He had the sailor's meticulous
observance of the exact midday.) 'Happy Christmas and all that. Take a
chair.' M himself went behind his desk and sat down. He was about to
come on duty. Bond automatically took his traditional place across the
desk from his Chief.

M began to fill a pipe. 'What the devil's the name of that fat American
detective who's always fiddling about with orchids, those obscene
hybrids from Venezuela and so forth? Then he comes sweating out of his
orchid house, eats a gigantic meal of some foreign muck and solves the
murder. What's he called?'

'Nero Wolfe, sir. They're written by a chap called Rex Stout. I like
them.'

'They're readable,' condescended M. 'But I was thinking of the orchid
stuff in them. How in hell can a man like those disgusting flowers? Why,
they're damned near animals, and their colours, all those pinks and
mauves and the blotchy yellow tongues, are positively hideous! Now
that'--M waved at the meagre little bloom in the tooth-glass--'that's
the real thing. That's an Autumn Lady's Tresses--_spiranthes spiralis_,
not that I care particularly. Flowers in England as late as October and
should be under the ground by now. But I got this forced-late specimen
from a man I know--assistant to a chap called Summerhayes who's the
orchid king at Kew. My friend's experimenting with cultures of a fungus
which oddly enough is a parasite on a lot of orchids, but, at the same
time, gets eaten by the orchid and acts as its staple diet. Mycorhiza
it's called.' M gave another of his rare smiles. 'But you needn't write
it down. Just wanted to take a leaf out of this fellow Nero Wolfe's
book. However'--M brushed the topic aside--'can't expect you to get
excited about these things. Now then.' He settled back. 'What the devil
have you been up to?' The grey eyes regarded Bond keenly. 'Looks as if
you haven't been getting much sleep. Pretty gay these winter sport
places, they tell me.'

Bond smiled. He reached into his inside pocket and took out the pinned
sheets of paper. 'This one provided plenty of miscellaneous
entertainment, sir. Perhaps you'd like to have a look at my report
first. 'Fraid it's only a draft. There wasn't much time. But I can fill
in anything that isn't clear.'

M reached across for the papers, adjusted his spectacles, and began
reading.

Soft rain scratched at the windows. A big log fell in the grate. The
silence was soft and comfortable. Bond looked round the walls at M's
treasured collection of naval prints. Everywhere there were mountainous
seas, crashing cannon, bellying sails, tattered battle pennants--the
fury of ancient engagements, the memories of ancient enemies, the
French, the Dutch, the Spaniards, even the Americans. All gone, all
friends now with one another. Not a sign of the enemies of today. Who
was backing Blofeld, for instance, in the inscrutable conspiracy in
which he was now certainly engaged? The Russians? The Chinese? Or was it
an independent job, as Thunderball had been? And what was the
conspiracy? What was the job for the protection of which six or seven of
Blofeld's men had died within less than a week? Would M read anything
into the evidence? Would the experts who were coming that afternoon?
Bond lifted his left wrist. Remembered that he no longer had a watch.
_That_ he would certainly be allowed on expenses. He would get another
one as soon as the shops opened after Boxing Day. Another Rolex?
Probably. They were on the heavy side, but they worked. And at least you
could see the time in the dark with those big phosphorus numerals.
Somewhere in the hall, a clock struck the half-hour. 1.30. Twelve hours
before, he must have just set up the trap that killed the three men in
the Mercedes. Self-defence, but the hell of a way to celebrate
Christmas!

M threw the papers down on his desk. His pipe had gone out and he now
slowly lit it again. He tossed the spent match accurately over his
shoulder into the fire. He put his hands flat on the desk and said--and
there was an unusual kindness in his voice--'Well, you were pretty lucky
to get out of that one, James. Didn't know you could ski.'

'I only just managed to stay upright, sir. Wouldn't like to try it
again.'

'No. And I see you say you can't come to any conclusions about what
Blofeld is up to?'

'That's right, sir. Haven't got a clue.'

'Well, nor have I. I just don't understand any part of it. Perhaps the
professors'll help us out this afternoon. But you're obviously right
that it's SPECTRE all over again. By the way, your tip about Pontresina
was a good one. He was a Bulgar. Can't remember his name, but Interpol
turned him up for us. Plastic explosives expert. Worked for KBG in
Turkey. If it's true that the U2 that fellow Powers was piloting was
brought down by delayed charges and not by rockets, it may be this man
was implicated. He was on the list of suspects. Then he turned
free-lance. Went into business on his own. That's probably when
SPECTRE picked him up. We were doubtful about your identification
of Blofeld. The Pontresina lead helped a lot. You're absolutely sure of
him, are you? He certainly seems to have done a good job on his face and
stomach. Better set him up on the Identicast when you get back this
evening. We'll have a look at him and get the views of the medical
gentry.'

'I think it must be him, sir. I was really getting the authentic smell
of him on the last day--yesterday, that is. It seems a long time ago
already.'

'You were lucky to run into this girl. Who is she? Some old flame of
yours?' M's mouth turned down at the corners.

'More or less, sir. She came into my report on the first news we got
that Blofeld was in Switzerland. Daughter of this man Draco, head of the
Union Corse. Her mother was an English governess.'

'Hm. Interesting breeding. Now then. Time for lunch. I told Hammond we
weren't to be disturbed.' M got up and pressed the bell by the
fire-place. ''Fraid we've got to go through the turkey and plum pudding
routine. Mrs Hammond's been brooding over her pots and pans for weeks.
Damned sentimental rubbish.'

Hammond appeared at the door, and Bond followed M through and into the
small dining-room beyond the hall whose walls glittered with M's other
hobby, the evolution of the naval cutlass. They sat down. M said, with
mock ferocity, to Hammond, 'All right, Chief Petty Officer Hammond. Do
your worst.' And then, with real vehemence, 'What in hell are those
things doing here?' He pointed at the centre of the table.

'Crackers, sir,' said Hammond stolidly. 'Mrs Hammond thought that seeing
as you have company...'

'Throw them out. Give 'em to the schoolchildren. I'll go so far with Mrs
Hammond, but I'm damned if I'm going to have my dining-room turned into
a nursery.'

Hammond smiled. He said, 'Aye, aye, sir,' gathered up the shimmering
crackers and departed.

Bond was aching for a drink. He got a small glass of very old Marsala
and most of a bottle of very bad Algerian wine.

M treated his two glasses as if they had been Chteau Lafitte. 'Good old
"Infuriator". Staple drink for the fleet in the Mediterranean. Got real
guts to it. I remember an old shipmate of mine, McLachlan, my Chief
Gunnery Officer at the time, betting he could get down six bottles of
the stuff. Damn fool. Measured his length on the wardroom floor after
only three. Drink up, James! Drink up!'

At last the plum pudding arrived, flaming traditionally. Mrs Hammond had
implanted several cheap silver gewgaws in it and M nearly broke a tooth
on the miniature horseshoe. Bond got the bachelor's button. He thought
of Tracy. It should have been the ring!




CHAPTER 21. THE MAN FROM AG. AND FISH.


They had coffee in M's study and smoked the thin black cheroots
of which M allowed himself two a day. Bond burnt his tongue on his. M
continued with his stories about the Navy which Bond could listen to all
day--stories of battles, tornadoes, bizarre happenings, narrow shaves,
courts martial, eccentric officers, neatly-worded signals, as when
Admiral Somerville, commanding the battleship _Queen Elizabeth_, had
passed the liner _Queen Elizabeth_ in mid-Atlantic and had signalled the
one word 'SNAP'! Perhaps it was all just the stuff of boys' adventure
books, but it was all true and it was about a great navy that was no
more and a great breed of officers and seamen that would never be seen
again.

It was three o'clock. A car's wheels scrunched on the gravel outside.
Dusk was already creeping into the room. M got up and switched on the
lights and Bond arranged two more chairs up against the desk. M said,
'That'll be 501. You'll have come across him. Head of the Scientific
Research Section. And a man called Franklin from the Ministry of
Agriculture. 501 says he's the top on his subject--Pest Control. Don't
know why Ag. and Fish. chose to send him in particular, but the Minister
told me they've got a bit of trouble on their hands, wouldn't tell even
me what it is, and they think you may have run into something pretty
big. We'll let them have a look at your report and see what they make of
it. All right?'

'Yes, sir.'

The door opened and the two men came in.

Number 501 of the Secret Service, whose name Bond remembered was
Leathers, was a big-boned, rangy man with the stoop and thick spectacles
of the stage scientist. He had a pleasant, vague smile and no deference,
but only politeness, towards M. He was appropriately dressed in shaggy
tweeds and his knitted woollen tie didn't cover his collar stud. The
other man was small and brisk and keen-looking, with darting, amused
eyes. As became a senior representative of a Ministry who had received
his orders from his Minister in person and who knew nothing of Secret
Services, he had put on a neat dark-blue pin-stripe and a stiff white
collar. His black shoes gleamed efficiently. So did the leather of his
fat brief-case. His greeting was reserved, neutral. He wasn't quite sure
where he was or what this was all about. He was going to smell his way
carefully in this business, be wary of what he said and how far he
committed his Ministry. Of such, Bond reflected, is 'Government'.

When the appropriate greetings and apologies for disturbed Christmases
had been made, and they were in their chairs, M said, 'Mr Franklin, if
you'll forgive my saying so, everything you are going to see and hear in
this room is subject to the Official Secrets Act. You will no doubt be
in possession of many secret matters affecting your own Ministry. I
would be grateful if you would respect those of the Ministry of Defence.
May I ask you to discuss what you are about to hear only with your
Minister personally?'

Mr Franklin made a little bow of acquiescence. 'My Minister has already
instructed me accordingly. My particular duties in the Ministry have
accustomed me to handling Top Secret matters. You need have no
reservations in what you tell me. Now then'--the amused eyes rested on
each of the other three in turn--'perhaps you can tell me what this is
all about. I know practically nothing except that a man on top of an alp
is making efforts to improve our agriculture and livestock. Very decent
of him. So why are we treating him as if he had stolen atomic secrets?'

'He did once, as a matter of fact,' said M drily. 'I think the best
course would be for you and Mr Leathers to read the report of my
representative here. It contains code numbers and other obscure
references which need not concern you. The story tells itself without
them.' M handed Bond's report to 501. 'Most of this will be new to you
also. Perhaps you would like to read a page at a time and then pass them
on to Mr Franklin.'

A long silence fell in the room. Bond looked at his fingernails and
listened to the rain on the window panes and the soft noises of the
fire. M sat hunched up, apparently in a doze. Bond lit a cigarette. The
rasp of his Ronson caused M's eyes to open lazily and then close again.
501 passed across the last page and sat back. Franklin finished his
reading, shuffled the pages together, and stacked them neatly in front
of him. He looked at Bond and smiled. 'You're lucky to be here.'

Bond smiled back but said nothing.

M turned to 501. 'Well?'

501 took off his thick spectacles and polished them on a none too clean
handkerchief. 'I don't get the object of the exercise, sir. It seems
perfectly above-board--praiseworthy, in fact, if we didn't know what we
do know about Blofeld. Technically, what he has done is this. He has
obtained ten, or rather eleven, counting the one that's left the place,
suitable subjects for deep hypnosis. These are all simple girls from the
country. It is significant that the one called Ruby had failed her GCE
twice. They seem to suffer, and there's no reason to believe that they
don't, from certain fairly common forms of allergy. We don't know the
origins of their allergies and these are immaterial. They are probably
psychosomatic--the adverse reaction to birds is a very common one, as is
the one brought on by cattle. The reactions to crops and plants are less
common. Blofeld appears to be attempting cures of these allergies by
hypnosis, and not only cures, but a pronounced affinity with the cause
of the allergy in place of the previous repulsion. In the case of Ruby,
for instance, she is told, in the words of the report, to "love"
chickens, to wish to "improve their breed" and so forth. The mechanical
means of the cure are, in practice, simple. In the twilight stage, on
the edge of sleep--the sharp ringing of the bell would waken those who
were already asleep--the use of the metronome exactly on the pulse-beat,
and the distant whirring noise, are both common hypnotic aids. The
singsong, authoritative murmur is the usual voice of the hypnotist. We
have no knowledge of what lectures these girls attended or what reading
they did, but we can assume that these were merely additional means to
influence the mind in the path desired by Blofeld. Now, there is plenty
of medical evidence for the efficacy of hypnosis. There are
well-authenticated cases of the successful treatment by these means of
such stubborn disabilities as warts, certain types of asthma,
bed-wetting, stammering, and even alcoholism, drugtaking, and homosexual
tendencies. Although the British Medical Association frowns officially
on the practitioners of hypnosis, you would be surprised, sir, to know
how many doctors themselves, as a last resort, particularly in cases of
alcoholism, have private treatment from qualified hypnotists. But this
is by the way. All I can contribute to this discussion is that Blofeld's
ideas are not new and that they can be completely efficacious.'

M nodded. 'Thank you, Mr Leathers. Now would you like to be unscientific
and hazard any wild guesses that would contribute in any way to what you
have told us?' M smiled briefly. 'You will not be quoted, I can assure
you.'

501 ran a worried hand through his hair. 'Well, sir, it may be nonsense,
but a train of thought came to me as I read the report. This is a very
expensive set-up of Blofeld's. Whether his intentions are benign or
malignant, and I must say that I think we can accept them as being
malignant, who is paying for all this? How did he fall upon this
particular field of research and find the finance for it? Well, sir,
this may sound fanciful, looking for burglars under the bed, so to
speak, but the leaders in this field, ever since Pavlov and his
salivating dogs, have been the Russians. If you recall, sir, at the time
of the first human orbiting of the earth by the Russians, I put in a
report on the physiology of the astronaut Yuri Gagarin. I drew attention
to the simple nature of this man, his equable temperament when faced
with his hysterical welcome in London. This equability never failed him
and, if you will remember, we kept him under discreet observation
throughout his visit and on his subsequent tours abroad, at the request
of the Atomic Energy authorities. That bland, smiling face, sir, those
wide-apart, innocent eyes, the extreme psychological simplicity of the
man, all added up, as I said in my report, to the perfect subject for
hypnosis, and I hazarded the guess that, in the extremely complicated
movements required of him in his space capsule, Gagarin was operating
throughout in a state of deep hypnosis. All right, sir'--501 made a
throw-away gesture of his hand--'my conclusions were officially regarded
as fanciful. But, since you ask, I now repeat them, and I throw out the
suggestion that the Power behind Blofeld in all this may well be the
Russians.' He turned to Bond. 'Was there any sign of Russian inspiration
or guidance at this Gloria place? Any Russians anywhere in the offing?'

'Well, there was this man, Captain Boris. I never saw him, but he was
certainly a Russian. Otherwise nothing I can think of except the three
SPECTRE men who I'd guess were ex-Smersh. But they seemed definitely
staff men, what the Americans would call "mechanics".'

501 shrugged. He said to M, 'Well, I'm afraid that's all I can
contribute, sir. But, if you come to the conclusion that this is dirty
business, for my money, this Captain Boris was either the paymaster or
supervisor of the scheme and Blofeld the independent operator. It would
fit in with the free-lance character of the old SPECTRE--an independent
gang working for whoever was willing to pay them.'

'Perhaps you've got something there, Mr Leathers,' said M reflectively.
'But what the devil's the object of the exercise?' He turned to
Franklin. 'Well now, Mr Franklin, what do _you_ think of all this?'

The man from Ag. and Fish. had lit a small, highly polished pipe. He
kept it between his teeth and reached down for his brief-case and took
out some papers. From among them he extracted a black and white outline
map of Britain and Eire and smoothed it down across the desk. The map
was dotted with symbols, forests of them here, blank spaces there. He
said, 'This is a map showing the total agricultural and livestock
resources of Britain and Eire, leaving out grassland and timber. Now, at
my first sight of the report, I admit I was completely confused. As Mr
Leathers said, these experiments seem perfectly harmless--more than
that, to use his word, praiseworthy. But'--Franklin smiled--'you
gentlemen are concerned with searching for the dark side of the moon. I
adjusted my mind accordingly. The result was that I am filled with a
very deep and terrible suspicion. Perhaps these black thoughts have
entered my mind by a process of osmosis with the present company's way
of looking at the world'--he looked deprecatingly at M--'but I also have
one piece of evidence which may be decisive. Excuse me, but there was
one sheet of paper missing from the report--the list of the girls and
their addresses. Is that available?'

Bond took the photostat out of his inside pocket. 'Sorry. I didn't want
to clutter up the report too much.' He slipped it across the table to
Franklin.

Franklin ran his eyes down it. Then he said, and there was awe in his
voice, 'I've got it! I do believe I've got it!' He sat back heavily in
his chair as if he couldn't believe what he had seen.

The three men watched him tensely, believing him, because of what was
written on his face--waiting for it.

Franklin took a red pencil out of his breast pocket and leaned over the
map. Glancing from time to time at the list, he made a series of red
circles at seemingly unrelated points across Britain and Eire, but Bond
noticed that they covered the areas where the forests of symbols were at
their densest. As he made the circles he commented, Aberdeen--Aberdeen
Angus, Devon--Red Poll, Lancashire--poultry, Kent--fruit,
Shannon--potatoes,' until ten red circles stood out on the map. Finally
he poised his pencil over East Anglia and made a big cross. He looked
up, said 'Turkeys' and threw his pencil down.

In the silence that followed, M said, rather testily, 'Well, Mr
Franklin, what have you in mind?'

The man from Ag. and Fish. had no intention of being pushed about by
someone, however grand and hush-hush, from another Ministry. He bent and
dug again into his brief-case. He came up with several papers. He
selected one, a newspaper cutting. He said, 'I don't expect you
gentlemen have time to read much of the agricultural news in the paper,
but this is from the _Daily Telegraph_ of early December. I won't read
it all. It's from their agricultural correspondent, good man by the name
of Thomas. These are the headlines: "CONCERN OVER TURKEYS. FLOCKS
RAVAGED BY FOWL PEST". Then it goes on: "Supplies of turkeys to
the Christmas market may be hit by recent fowl pest outbreaks which
have resulted in large numbers of birds being slaughtered..." and
further down, "Figures available show that 218,000 birds have been
slaughtered... last year, total supplies for the Christmas market were
estimated at between 3,700,000 and 4,000,000 birds, so much will depend
now on the extent of further fowl pest outbreaks."'

Mr Franklin put the cutting down. He said seriously, 'That news was only
the tip of the iceberg. We managed to keep later details out of the
press. But I can tell you this, gentlemen. Within the past four weeks or
so we have slaughtered three million turkeys. And that's only the
beginning of it. Fowl pest is running wild in East Anglia and there are
also signs of it in Hampshire, where a lot of turkey-raising goes on.
What you ate at lunch today was almost certainly a foreign bird. We
allowed the import of two million from America to cover this position
up.'

M said sourly, 'Well, so far as I'm concerned, I don't care if I never
eat another turkey again. However, I see you've had quite a problem on
your hands. But to get back to our case. Where do we go from turkeys?'

Franklin was not amused. He said, 'We have one clue. All the birds that
died first were exhibited at the National Poultry Show at Olympia early
this month. Olympia had been cleared and cleaned out for the next
exhibition before we had reached that conclusion, and we could find no
trace on the premises of the virus--Fowl Pest is a virus, by the way,
highly infectious, with a mortality of one hundred per cent. Now
then'--he held up a stout white pamphlet with the insignia of the United
States on it--'how much do you gentlemen know about Biological Warfare?'

Leathers said, 'We were indirectly concerned in the fringes of the
subject during the war. But in the end neither side used it. Around 1944
the Americans had a plan for destroying the whole of the Japanese rice
crop by the use of aerial sprays. But, as I recall, Roosevelt vetoed the
idea.'

'Right,' said Franklin. 'Dead right. But the subject is still very much
alive. And very much so in my Ministry. We happen to be the most highly
agriculturalized country in the world. We had to make ourselves so
during the war to keep ourselves from starvation. So, in theory, we
would be an ideal target for an attack of this kind.' He slowly brought
his hands down on the table for emphasis. 'I don't think it would be too
much to say, gentlemen, that if such an attack could be launched, and it
can only be countered by slaughtering the poultry and animals and
burning the crops, we would be a bankrupt country within a matter of
months. We would literally be down on our knees, begging for bread!'

'Never thought of that,' said M reflectively, 'but it seems to make
sense.'

'Now this,' continued Franklin, holding up the pamphlet, 'is the latest
thinking on the subject by our friends in America. It also covers
Chemical and Radiological Warfare, but we're not concerned with
those--CW, BW, and RW they call them. It's a United States Senate paper,
Number 58991, dated August 29th, 1960, prepared by "The Subcommittee on
Disarmament of the Committee on Foreign Relations". My Ministry goes
along with the general findings on BW, with the reservation that America
is a vast country and we are a very small and tightly-packed one. BW
would hit us a thousand times harder than it would hit the States. May I
read you a few extracts?'

M positively loathed the problems of other Ministries. In the end, on
the Intelligence side, they all ended up on his plate. Bond, amused,
watched him summon an expression of polite interest. 'Go ahead, Mr
Franklin.'




CHAPTER 22. SOMETHING CALLED 'BW'


Franklin began reading in an even, expository tone of voice, frequently
stopping to explain a point or when he skipped irrelevant passages.

'This section,' he said, 'is headed "Biological Warfare Weapons and
Defense". This is how it goes on:

'"Biological Warfare",' he read, '"is often referred to as
bacteriological, bacterial, or germ warfare but it is preferred over
those terms because it includes all micro-organisms, insects and other
pests, and toxic products of plant and animal life. The Army lists five
groups of BW agents, including certain chemical compounds used to
inhibit or destroy plant growth:

    Micro-organisms (bacteria, viruses, rickettsiae, fungi,
    protozoa).

    Toxins (microbial, animal, plant).

    Vectors of disease (arthropods (insects and acarids), birds and
    animals).

    Pests (of animals and crops).

    Chemical anti-crop compounds (plant-growth inhibitors,
    herbicides, defoliants).

'"Biological Warfare agents, like Chemical Warfare agents, vary in
lethality, making it possible to select an agent best suited to
accomplish the objective desired, whether it be temporary incapacity
with little after-effects or serious illness and many deaths. There are
some important differences between BW and CW other than their scientific
classifications. BW agents have an incubation period of days, sometimes
weeks"'--(Franklin looked up. 'See what I mean about Olympia?')--'"which
produces a lag in their action while CW weapons usually bring reactions
within a few seconds to a few hours. CW agents are easier to detect than
BW agents, and identification of the latter could often be too late to
permit effective counter-measures."' (Franklin again looked
significantly at his audience) '"...BW agents theoretically are more
dangerous, weight for weight, than CW agents, though this advantage may
be cancelled because of loss of virulence by BW agents under exposure."'

Franklin paused. His finger went down the page. 'Then it goes on to talk
about anti-personnel BW agents like anthrax, typhus, smallpox, botulism,
and so on. Yes'--his finger stopped--'here we are. "Anti-animal BW
agents which might be used to incapacitate or destroy domestic animals
are:

    Bacteria: Anthrax, three closely related species of brucella,
    and glanders.

    Viruses: Foot-and-mouth disease, rinderpest, Rift Valley fever,
    vesicular stomatitis, vesicular exanthema, hog cholera, African
    swine fever, fowl plague, Newcastle disease, and equine
    encephalomyelitis."'

Franklin looked up apologetically. 'Sorry about all this jaw-breaking
stuff, but there's not much more of it. Then it goes on to "Anti-crop BW
agents", which they say would be used as economic weapons, as I
personally think is the case with the Blofeld scheme, and they mention a
whole list including potato blight, cereal stem disease, crown rust of
oats, curly top disease of sugar beets, block rot of crucifers and
potato ring rot, and insects such as the Colorado beetle and something
called "the Giant African Land-snail", which I somehow don't think we
need worry about. Then they talk about "chemical anti-crop agents", but
I don't think we need worry about those either as they'd have to be
sprayed from an aeroplane, though, for what it's worth, they're damned
lethal. Now, this is more to the point.' Franklin's finger halted on the
page. '"The nature of BW agents makes them very adaptable for covert or
undercover operations. The fact that these agents are so concentrated,
cannot be detected by physical senses, and have a delayed casualty
effect, would enable an operator quietly to introduce effective amounts
into building ventilation systems, food and water supplies, and other
places where they would be spread rapidly through contact with a heavily
concentrated population."' Franklin paused. 'And that means us. You see
what I mean about livestock shows and so on? After the show, the virus
gets carried off all over the country by the exhibits.' He went back to
his pamphlet. 'And here it goes on, "A significant factor is that the
possible area of effective coverage is generally greater with BW than
with CW agents. Tests have been made which show that coverage measured
in the thousands of square miles is quite feasible with biological
agents,"' Franklin tapped the paper in front of him. 'How about that,
gentlemen? We talk about the new poison gases, the nerve gases the
Germans invented in the war. We march and counter-march about radiation
and the atom bomb. "Thousands of square miles" it says here. A Committee
of the United States Senate says it. How many thousands of square miles
are there in the United Kingdom and Eire, gentlemen?' The eyes, urgent
and holding humour no longer, looked almost scornfully into the faces of
these three top officers of the Secret Service. 'I'll tell you. There
are only something over one hundred thousand square miles of this little
atoll of ours, including the little atoll of all Ireland.' His eyes
retained their fire. 'And let me just give you a last quote and then
perhaps'--the eyes regained some of their humour--'you'll realize why
I'm getting so steamed up on this Day of Goodwill to all Men. Look here,
what it says under "Defensive Measures". It says, "Defense against BW
warfare is greatly complicated by the difficulties involved in detection
of BW agents, a situation which is almost unique as to these weapons."'
(Franklin looked up and now he smiled. 'Bad English. Perhaps we might
improve on "as to".) "They cannot be detected by sight, smell, or any
other physical sense. So far no means have been devised for their quick
detection and identification."'

Franklin threw the pamphlet on to the desk. Suddenly he gave a big,
embracing smile. He reached for his little polished pipe and began
filling it. 'All right, gentlemen. The prosecution rests.'

Franklin had had his day, a Christmas he would never forget.

M said, 'Thank you, Mr Franklin. Am I right in thinking that you
conclude that this man Blofeld is mounting Biological Warfare against
this country?'

'Yes.' Franklin was definite. 'I am.'

'And how do you work that out? It seems to me he's doing exactly the
opposite--or rather it would if I didn't know something about the man.
Anyway, what are your deductions?'

Franklin reached over and pointed to the red cross he had made over East
Anglia. 'That was my first clue. The girl, Polly Tasker, who left this
Gloria place over a month ago, came from somewhere round here where
you'll see from the symbols that there's the greatest concentration of
turkey farmers. She suffered from an allergy against turkeys. She came
back inspired to improve the breed. Within a week of her return, we have
the biggest outbreak of fowl pest affecting turkeys in the history of
England.'

Leathers suddenly slapped his thigh. 'By God, I think you've got it,
Franklin! Go on!'

'Now'--Franklin turned to Bond--'when this officer took a look into the
laboratory up there he saw rack upon rack of test-tubes containing what
he describes as "a cloudy liquid". How would it be if those were
viruses, Fowl Pest, anthrax, God knows what all? The report mentions
that the laboratory was lit with a dim red light. That would be correct.
Virus cultures suffer from exposure to bright light. And how would it be
if before this Polly girl left she was given an aerosol spray of the
right stuff and told that this was some kind of turkey elixir--a tonic
to make them grow fatter and healthier? Remember that stuff about
"improving the breed" in the hypnosis talk? And suppose she was told to
go to Olympia for the Show, perhaps even take a job for the meeting as a
cleaner or something, and just casually spray this aerosol here and
there among the prize birds. It wouldn't be bigger than one of those
shaving-soap bombs. That'd be quite enough. She'd been told to keep it
secret, that it was patent stuff. Perhaps even that she'd be given
shares in the company if the tonic proved the success this man Blofeld
claimed it would. It'd be quite easy to do. She'd just wander round the
cages--perhaps she was even given a special purse to carry the thing
in--lean up against the wire and psst! the job would be done. Easy as
falling off a log. All right, if you'll go along with me so far, she was
probably told to do the job on one of the last two days of the show, so
that the effects wouldn't be seen too soon. Then, at the end of the
show, all the prize birds are dispersed back to their owners all over
England. And that's that! And'--he paused--'mark you, that _was_ that.
Three million birds dead and still dying all over the place, and a great
chunk of foreign currency coughed up by the Treasury to replace them.'

Leathers, his face red with excitement, butted in. He swept his hand
over the map. 'And the other girls! All from the danger spots. All from
the areas of greatest concentration. Local shows taking place all the
time--cattle, poultry, even potatoes--Colorado beetle for that crop, I
suppose. Swine Fever for the pigs. Golly!' There was reverence in
Leathers's voice. 'And it's so damned simple! All you'd need would be to
keep the viruses at the right temperature for a while. They'd be
instructed in that, the little darlings. And all the time they'd be sure
they were being saints! Marvellous. I really must hand it to the man.'

M's face was thunderous with the fury of his indecision. He turned to
Bond. He barked, 'What do you think?'

'I'm afraid it fits, sir. The whole way along the line. We know the man.
It fits him too. Right up his street. And it doesn't even matter who's
paying him. He can pay himself, make a fortune. All he has to do is go a
bear of sterling or Gilt-Edged. If Mr Franklin's right, and that Senate
paper's pretty solid backing for him, our currency'll literally go
through the floor--and the country with it.'

M got to his feet. He said, 'All right, gentlemen. Mr Franklin, will you
tell your Minister what you've heard? It'll be up to him to tell the PM
and the Cabinet as he thinks fit. I'll get on with the preventive
measures, first of all through Sir Ronald Vallance of the CID. We must
pick up this Polly woman and get the others as they come into the
country. They'll be gently treated. It's not their fault. Then we'll
have to think what to do with Mister Blofeld.' He turned to Bond. 'Stay
behind, would you?'

Goodbyes were said and M rang for Hammond to see the other two out. He
then rang again, 'Tea, please, Hammond.' He turned to Bond. 'Or rather
have a whisky and soda?'

'Whisky, please, sir,' said Bond with infinite relief.

'Rot-gut,' commented M. He walked over to the window and looked out at
the darkness and rain.

Bond drew Franklin's map towards him and studied it. He reflected that
he was learning quite a lot on this case--about other people's
businesses, other people's secrets, from the innards of the College of
Arms to the innards of Ag. and Fish. Odd how this gigantic,
many-branched tree had grown from one tiny seed in September--a girl
calling banco in a casino and not having the money to pay. And what
about Bond's letter of resignation? That looked pretty silly now. He was
up to his ears, as deeply as ever in his life before, in his old
profession. And now a big mopping-up job would have to be done. And he
would have to do it, or at any rate lead it, organize it. And Bond knew
exactly what he was going to put to M when the tea and whisky came. Only
_he_ could do the cleaning up. It was written in his stars!

Hammond came in with the tray and withdrew. M came back to his desk,
gruffly told Bond to pour himself a whisky, and himself took a vast cup,
as big as a baby's chamber-pot, of black tea without sugar or milk, and
put it in front of him.

At length he said moodily, 'This is a dirty business, James. But I'm
afraid it makes sense. Better do something about it, I suppose.' He
reached for the red telephone with scrambler attachment that stood
beside the black one on his desk and picked up the receiver. It was a
direct line to that very private switchboard in Whitehall to which
perhaps fifty people in all Britain have access. 'Put me on to Sir
Ronald Vallance, would you? Home number, I suppose,' He reached out and
took a deep gulp at his cup of tea and put the cup back on its saucer.
Then, 'That you, Vallance? M here. Sorry to disturb your afternoon nap.'
There was an audible explosion at the other end of the line! M smiled.
'Reading a report on teen-age prostitution? I'm ashamed of you. On
Christmas Day too. Well, scramble, would you?' M pressed down the large
black button on the side of the cradle. 'Right? Now I'm afraid this is
top priority. Remember Blofeld and the Thunderball case? Well, he's up
to his tricks again. Too long to explain now. You'll get my side of the
report in the morning. And Ag. and Fish. are mixed up in it. Yes, of all
people. Man called Franklin is your contact. One of their top
pest-control men. Only him and his Minister. So would your chaps report
to him, copy to me? I'm only dealing with the foreign side. Your friend
007's got the ball. Yes, same chap. He can fill you in with any extra
detail you may need on the foreign angles. Now, the point is this. Even
though it's Christmas and all that, could your chaps try at once and lay
their hands on a certain girl, Polly Tasker, aged about 25, who lives in
East Anglia? Yes, I know it's a hell of a big area, but she'll probably
come from a respectable lower-middle-class family connected with turkey
farming. Certainly find the family in the telephone book. Can't give you
any description, but she's just been spending several weeks in
Switzerland. Got back the last week in November. Don't be ridiculous! Of
course you can manage it. And when you find her, take her into custody
for importing Fowl Pest into the country. Yes, that's right.' M spelt it
out. 'The stuff that's been killing all our turkeys.' M muttered 'Thank
God!' away from the receiver. 'No, I didn't say anything. Now, be kind
to the girl. She didn't know what she was doing. And tell the parents
it'll be all right. If you need a formal charge, you'll have to get one
out of Franklin. Then tell Franklin when you've got her and he'll come
down and ask her one or two simple questions. When he's got the answers,
you can let her go. Right? But we've _got_ to find that girl. You'll see
why all right when you've read the report. Now then, next assignment.
There are ten girls of much the same type as this Polly Tasker who'll
probably be flying from Zrich to England and Eire any day from tomorrow
on. Each one has got to be held by the Customs at the port or airport of
entry. 007 has a list of their names and fairly good descriptions. My
people in Zrich may or may not be able to give us warning of their
arrival. Is that all right? Yes, 007 will bring the list to Scotland
Yard this evening. No, I can't tell you what it's all about. Too long a
story. But have you ever heard of Biological Warfare? That's right.
Anthrax and so on. Well, this is it. Yes. Blofeld again. I know. That's
what I'm just going to talk to 007 about. Well now, Vallance, have you
got all that? Fine.' M listened. He smiled grimly. 'And a Happy
Christmas to _you_.'

He put the receiver back and the scrambler button automatically clicked
to OFF. He looked across at Bond. He said, with a hint of weariness,
'Well, that's taken care of this end. Vallance said it was about time we
had this fellow Blofeld in the bag. I agree. And that's _our_ job. And I
don't for a moment think we're going to get any help from the Swiss.
Even if we were to, they'd trample all over the case with their big
boots for weeks before we saw any action. By that time the man would be
in Peking or somewhere, cooking up something else,' M looked straight at
Bond. 'Any ideas?'

It had come, as Bond knew it would. He took a deep pull at his whisky
and put the glass carefully down. He began talking, urgently,
persuasively. As he expounded his plan, M's face sank deeper and deeper
in gloom, and, when Bond concluded with 'And that's the only way I can
see, sir. All I need is two weeks' leave of absence. I could put in a
letter of resignation if it would help,' M turned in his chair and gazed
deep into the dying flames of the log fire.

Bond sat quietly, waiting for the verdict. He hoped it would be yes, but
he also hoped it would be no. That damned mountain! He never wanted to
see the bloody thing again!

M turned back. The grey eyes were fierce. 'All right, 007. Go ahead. I
can't go to the PM about it. He'd refuse. But for God's sake bring it
off. I don't mind being sacked, but we don't want to get the Government
mixed up in another U2 fiasco. Right?'

'I understand, sir. And I can have the two weeks' leave?'

'Yes.'




CHAPTER 23. GAULOISES AND GARLIC


With the Walther PPK in its leather holster warm against his stomach
and his own name in his passport, James Bond looked out of the window
at the English Channel sliding away beneath the belly of the Caravelle
and felt more like his old, his pre-Sir Hilary Bray, self.

He glanced at the new Rolex on his wrist--the shops were still shut and
he had had to blarney it out of Q Branch--and guessed they would be on
time, 6 pm at Marseilles. It had been the hell of a rush to get off. He
had worked until late in the night at HQ and all that morning, setting
up the Identicast of Blofeld, checking details with Ronnie Vallance,
fixing up the private, the Munich side of his life, chattering on the
teleprinter to Station Z, even remembering to tell Mary Goodnight to get
on to Sable Basilisk after the holiday and ask him to please do some
kind of a job on the surnames of the ten girls and please to have the
family tree of Ruby Windsor embellished with gold capitals.

At midnight he had called Tracy in Munich and heard her darling, excited
voice. 'I've got the toothbrush, James,' she had said, 'and a pile of
books. Tomorrow I'm going to go up the Zugspitze and sit in the sun so
as to look pretty for you. Guess what I had for dinner tonight in my
room! Krebsschwnze mit Dilltunke. That's crayfish tails with rice and a
cream and dill sauce. And Rehrcken mit Sahne. That's saddle of roebuck
with a smitane sauce. I bet it was better than what you had.'

'I had two ham sandwiches with stacks of mustard and half a pint of
Harper's Bourbon on the rocks. The bourbon was better than the ham. Now
listen, Tracy, and stop blowing down the telephone.'

'I was only sighing with love.'

'Well, you must have got a Force Five sigh. Now listen. I'm posting my
birth certificate to you tomorrow with a covering letter to the British
Consul saying I want to get married to you as soon as possible. Look,
you're going up to Force Ten! For God's sake pay attention. It'll take a
few days, I'm afraid. They have to post the banns or something. He'll
tell you all about it. Now, you must quickly get your birth certificate
and give it to him, too. Oh, you have, have you?' Bond laughed. 'So much
the better. Then we're all set. I've got three days or so of work to do
and I'm going down to see your father tomorrow and ask for your hand,
both of them, and the feet and all the rest, in marriage. No, you're to
stay where you are. This is men's talk. Will he be awake? I'm going to
ring him up now. Good. Well, now you go off to sleep or you'll be too
tired to say "Yes" when the time comes.'

They had not wanted to let go of each other's voices, but finally the
last goodnight, the last kiss, had been exchanged, and Bond called the
Marseilles number of Appareils lectriques Draco, and Marc-Ange's voice,
almost as excited as Tracy's, was on the line. Bond dampened down the
raptures about the 'fianailles' and said, 'Now listen, Marc-Ange. I
want you to give me a wedding present.'

'Anything, my dear James. Anything I possess.' He laughed. 'And perhaps
certain things of which I could take possession. What is it you would
like?'

'I'll tell you tomorrow evening. I'm booked on the afternoon Air France
to Marseilles. Will you have someone meet me? And it's business, I'm
afraid. So could you have your other directors present for a little
meeting? We shall need all our brains. It is about our sales
organization in Switzerland. Something drastic needs to be done about
it.'

'Aha!' There was full understanding in the voice. 'Yes, it is indeed a
bad spot on our sales map. I will certainly have my colleagues
available. And I assure you, my dear James, that anything that can be
done will be done. And of course you will be met. I shall perhaps not be
there in person--it is very cold out these winter evenings. But I shall
see that you are properly looked after. Goodnight, my dear fellow.
Goodnight.'

The line had gone dead. The old fox! Had he thought Bond might commit an
indiscretion, or had he got fitted to his telephone a 'bug-meter', the
delicate instrument that measures the resonance on the line and warns of
listening-in?

The winter sun spread a last orange glow over the thick overcast 10,000
feet below the softly whistling plane and switched itself off for the
night.

Bond dozed, reflecting that he must somehow, and pretty soon, find a way
of catching up on his sleep.

                        *          *          *

There was a stage-type Marseilles taxi-driver to meet Bond--the
archetype of all Mariuses, with the face of a pirate and the razor-sharp
badinage of the lower French music-halls. He was apparently known and
enjoyed by everyone at the airport, and Bond was whisked through the
formalities in a barrage of wisecracks about 'le milord anglais', which
made Marius, for his name turned out in fact to be Marius, the centre of
attraction and Bond merely his butt, the dim-witted English tourist.
But, once in the taxi, Marius made curt, friendly apologies over his
shoulder. 'I ask your pardon for my bad manners.' His French had
suddenly purified itself of all patois. It also smelt like acetylene
gas. 'I was told to extract you from the airport with the least possible
limelight directed upon you. I know all those "flics" and douaniers.
They all know me. If I had not been myself, the cab-driver they know as
Marius, if I had shown deference, eyes, inquisitive eyes, would have
been upon you, mon Commandant, I did what I thought best. You forgive
me?'

'Of course I do, Marius. But you shouldn't have been so funny. You
nearly made me laugh. That would have been fatal.'

'You understand our talk here?'

'Enough of it.'

'So!' There was a pause. Then Marius said, 'Alas, since Waterloo, one
can never underestimate the English.'

Bond said, seriously, 'The same date applied to the French. It was a
near thing.' This was getting too gallant. Bond said, 'Now tell me, is
the bouillabaisse chez Guido always as good?'

'It is passable,' said Marius. 'But this is a dish that is dead, gone.
There is no more true bouillabaisse, because there is no more fish in
the Mediterranean. For the bouillabaisse, you must have the rascasse,
the tender flesh of the scorpion fish. Today they just use hunks of
morue. The saffron and the garlic, they are always the same. But you
could eat pieces of a woman soaked in those and it would be good. Go to
any of the little places down by the harbour. Eat the plat du jour and
drink the vin du Cassis that they give you. It will fill your stomach as
well as it fills the fishermen's. The toilette will be filthy. What does
that matter? You are a man. You can walk up the Canebire and do it at
the Noailles for nothing after lunch.'

They were now weaving expertly through the traffic down the famous
Canebire and Marius needed all his breath to insult the other drivers.
Bond could smell the sea. The accordions were playing in the cafs. He
remembered old times in this most criminal and tough of all French
towns. He reflected that it was rather fun, this time, being on the side
of the devil.

At the bottom of the Canebire, where it crosses the Rue de Rome, Marius
turned right and then left into the Rue St Ferrol, only a long stone's
throw from the Quai des Belges and the Vieux Port. The lights from the
harbour's entrance briefly winked at them and then the taxi drew up at a
hideous, but very new apartment house with a broad vitrine on the ground
floor, which announced in furious neon 'Appareils lectriques Draco'.
The well-lit interior of the store contained what you would
expect--television sets, radios, gramophones, electric irons, fans, and
so forth. Marius very quickly carried Bond's suitcase across the
pavement and through the swing doors beside the vitrine. The
close-carpeted hallway was more luxurious than Bond had expected. A man
came out of the porter's lodge beside the lift and wordlessly took the
suitcase. Marius turned to Bond, gave him a smile and a wink and a
bone-crushing handshake, said curtly, 'A la prochaine,' and hurried out.
The porter stood beside the open door of the lift. Bond noticed the
bulge under his right arm and, out of curiosity, brushed against the man
as he entered the lift. Yes, and something big too, a real stopper. The
man gave Bond a bored look, as much as to say, 'Clever? Eh?' and pressed
the top button. The porter's twin, or very nearly his twin--dark,
chunky, brown-eyed, fit--was waiting at the top floor. He took Bond's
suitcase and led the way down a corridor, close-carpeted and with wall
brackets in good taste. He opened a door. It was an extremely
comfortable bedroom with a bathroom leading off. Bond imagined that the
big picture window, now curtained, would have a superb view of the
harbour. The man put down his suitcase and said, 'Monsieur Draco est
immdiatement  votre disposition.'

Bond thought it time to make some show of independence. He said firmly,
'Un moment, je vous en prie,' and went into the bathroom and cleaned
himself up--amused to notice that the soap was that most English of
soaps, Pears Transparent, and that there was a bottle of Mr Trumper's
'Eucris' beside the very masculine brush and comb by Kent. Marc-Ange was
indeed making his English guest feel at home!

Bond took his time, then went out and followed the man to the end door.
The man opened it without knocking and closed it behind Bond. Marc-Ange,
his creased walnut face split by his great golden-toothed smile, got up
from his desk (Bond was getting tired of desks!), trotted across the
broad room, threw his arms round Bond's neck and kissed him squarely on
both cheeks. Bond suppressed his recoil and gave a reassuring pat to
Marc-Ange's broad back. Marc-Ange stood away and laughed. 'All right! I
swear never to do it again. It is once and for ever. Yes? But it had to
come out--from the Latin temperament, isn't it? You forgive me? Good.
Then come and take a drink'--he waved at a loaded sideboard--'and sit
down and tell me what I can do for you. I swear not to talk about Teresa
until you have finished with your business. But tell me'--the brown eyes
pleaded--'it is all right between you? You have not changed your mind?'

Bond smiled. 'Of course not, Marc-Ange. And everything is arranged. We
will be married within the week. At the Consulate in Munich. I have two
weeks' leave. I thought we might spend the honeymoon in Kitzbhel. I
love that place. So does she. You will come to the wedding?'

'Come to the wedding!' Marc-Ange exploded. 'You will have a time keeping
me away from Kitzbhel. Now then'--he waved at the sideboard--'take your
drink while I compose myself. I must stop being happy and be clever
instead. My two best men, my organizers if you like, are waiting. I
wanted to have you for a moment to myself.'

Bond poured himself a stiff Jack Daniel's sourmash bourbon on the rocks
and added some water. He walked over to the desk and took the right-hand
of the three chairs that had been arranged in a semicircle facing the
'Capu'. 'I wanted that too, Marc-Ange. Because there are some things I
must tell you which affect my country. I have been granted leave to tell
them to you, but they must remain, as you put it, behind the Herkos
Odonton--behind the hedge of your teeth. Is that all right?'

Marc-Ange lifted his right hand and crossed his heart, slowly,
deliberately, with his forefinger. His face was now deadly serious,
almost cruelly implacable. He leaned forward and rested his forearms on
the desk. 'Continue.'

Bond told him the whole story, not even omitting his passage with Ruby.
He had developed much love, and total respect, for this man. He couldn't
say why. It was partly animal magnetism and partly that Marc-Ange had so
opened his heart to Bond, so completely trusted him with his own
innermost secrets.

Marc-Ange's face remained impassive throughout. Only his quick, animal
eyes flickered continually across Bond's face. When Bond had finished,
Marc-Ange sat back. He reached for a blue packet of Gauloises, fixed one
in the corner of his mouth and talked through the blue clouds of smoke
that puffed continuously out through his lips, as if somewhere inside
him there was a small steam-engine. 'Yes, it is indeed a dirty business.
It must be finished with, destroyed, and the man too. My dear
James'--the voice was sombre--'I am a criminal, a great criminal. I run
houses, chains of prostitutes, I smuggle, I sell protection, whenever I
can, I steal from the very rich. I break many laws and I have often had
to kill in the process. Perhaps one day, perhaps very soon, I shall
reform. But it is difficult to step down from being Capu of the Union.
Without the protection of my men, my life would not be worth much.
However, we shall see. But this Blofeld, he is too bad, too disgusting.
You have come to ask the Union to make war on him, to destroy him. You
need not answer. I know it is so. This is something that cannot be done
officially. Your Chief is correct. You would get nowhere with the Swiss.
You wish me and my men to do the job.' He smiled suddenly. 'That is the
wedding present you talked of. Yes?'

'That's right, Marc-Ange. But I'll do my bit. I'll be there too. I want
this man for myself.'

Marc-Ange looked at him thoughtfully. 'That I do not like. And you know
why I do not like it.' He said mildly, 'You are a bloody fool, James.
You are already lucky to be alive.' He shrugged. 'But I am wasting my
breath. You started on a long road after this man. And you want to come
to the end of it. Is that right?'

'That's right. I don't want someone else to shoot my fox.'

'OK, OK. We bring in the others, yes? They will not need to know the
reason why. My orders are my orders. But we all need to know _how_ we
are to bring this about. I have some ideas. I think it can be done and
swiftly done. But it must also be well done, cleanly done. There must be
no untidiness about this thing.'

Marc-Ange picked up his telephone and spoke into it. A minute later the
door opened and two men came in and, with hardly a glance at Bond, took
the other two chairs.

Marc-Ange nodded at the one next to Bond, a great ox of a man with the
splayed ears and broken nose of a boxer or wrestler. 'This is
Ch-Ch--Ch-Ch le Persuadeur. And'--Marc-Ange smiled grimly--'he is
very adept at persuading.'

Bond got a glimpse of two hard yellow-brown eyes that looked at him
quickly, reluctantly, and then went back to the Capu, 'Plaisir.'

'And this is Toussaint, otherwise known as "Le Pouff". He is our expert
with le plastique. We shall need plenty of plastique.'

'We shall indeed,' said Bond, 'with pretty quick time-pencils.'

Toussaint leaned forward to show himself. He was thin and grey-skinned,
with an almost fine Phoenician profile pitted with smallpox. Bond
guessed that he was on heroin, but not as a mainliner. He gave Bond a
brief, conspiratorial smile. 'Plaisir.' He sat back.

'And this'--Marc-Ange gestured at Bond--'is my friend. My absolute
friend. He is simply "Le Commandant". And now to business.' He had been
speaking in French, but he now broke into rapid Corsican which, apart
from a few Italian and French roots, was incomprehensible to Bond. At
one period he drew a large-scale map of Switzerland out of a drawer of
his desk, spread it out, searched with his finger, and pointed to a spot
in the centre of the Engadine. The two men craned forward, examined the
map carefully and then sat back. Ch-Ch said something which contained
the word Strasbourg and Marc-Ange nodded enthusiastically. He turned to
Bond and handed him a large sheet of paper and a pencil. 'Be a good chap
and get to work on this, would you? A map of the Gloria buildings, with
approximate sizes and distances from each other. Later we will do a
complete maquette in plasticine so that there is no confusion. Every man
will have his job to do'--he smiled--'like the commandos in the war.
Yes?'

Bond bent to his task while the others talked. The telephone rang.
Marc-Ange picked it up. He jotted down a few words and rang off. He
turned to Bond, his eyes momentarily suspicious. 'It is a telegram for
me from London signed Universal. It says, "The birds have assembled in
the town and all fly tomorrow." What is this, my friend?'

Bond kicked himself for his forgetfulness. 'I'm sorry, Marc-Ange. I
meant to tell you you might get a signal like that. It means that the
girls are in Zrich and are flying to England tomorrow. It is very good
news. It was important to have them out of the way.'

'Ah, good! Very good indeed! That is fine news. And you were quite right
not to have the telegram addressed to you. You are not supposed to be
here or to know me at all. It is better so.' He fired some more Corsican
at the two men. They nodded their understanding.

After that, the meeting soon broke up. Marc-Ange examined Bond's
handiwork and passed it over to Toussaint. The man glanced at the sketch
and folded it as if it were a valuable share-certificate. With short
bows in Bond's direction, the two men left the room.

Marc-Ange sat back with a sigh of satisfaction. 'It goes well,' he said.
'The whole team will receive good danger money. And they love a good
rough fight. And they are pleased that I am coming to lead them.' He
laughed slyly. 'They are less certain of you, my dear James. They say
you will get in the way. I had to tell them that you could outshoot and
outfight the lot of them. When I say something like that, they have to
believe me. I have never let them down yet. I hope I am right?'

'Please don't try me,' said Bond. 'I've never taken on a Corsican and I
don't want to start now.'

Marc-Ange was delighted. 'You might win with guns. But not in close
combat. They are pigs, my men. Great pigs. The greatest. I am taking
five of the best. With you and me that is seven. How many did you say
there are on the mountain?'

'About eight. And the big one.'

'Ah yes, the big one,' said Marc-Ange reflectively. 'That is one that
must not get away.' He got up. 'And now, my friend, I have ordered
dinner, a good dinner, to be served us up here. And then we will go to
bed stinking of garlic and, perhaps, just a little bit drunk. Yes?'

From his heart Bond said, 'I can't think of anything better.'




CHAPTER 24. BLOOD-LIFT


The next day, after lunch, Bond made his way by plane and train to the
Hotel Maison Rouge at Strasbourg, his breath bearing him close company
like some noisome, captive pet.

He was totally exhilarated by his hours with Marc-Ange in Marseilles and
by the prospects before him--the job that was to be done and, at the end
of it, Tracy.

The morning had been an endless series of conferences round the model of
Piz Gloria and its buildings that had been put up in the night. New
faces came, received their orders in a torrent of dialect, and
disappeared--rough, murderous faces, bandits' faces, but all bearing one
common expression, devotion to their Capu. Bond was vastly impressed by
the authority and incisiveness of Marc-Ange as he dealt with each
problem, each contingency, from the obtaining of a helicopter, down to
the pensions that would be paid to the families of the dead. Marc-Ange
hadn't liked the helicopter business. He had explained to Bond, 'You
see, my friend, there is only one source for this machine, the OAS, the
French secret army of the right wing. It happens that they are under an
obligation to me, a heavy one, and that is the way I would have it. I do
not like being mixed up in politics. I like the country where I operate
to be orderly, peaceful. I do not like revolutions. They make chaos
everywhere. Today, I never know when an operation of my own is not going
to be interfered with by some damned emergency concerning Algerian
terrorists, the rounding up of some nest of these blasted OAS. And road
blocks! House to house searches! They are the bane of my existence. My
men can hardly move without falling over a nest of flics or SDT
spies--that, as I'm sure you know, is the latest of the French Secret
Services. They are getting as bad as the Russians with their constant
changes of initials. It is the Section Dfense Territoire. It comes
under the Ministry of the Interior and I am finding it most troublesome
and difficult to penetrate. Not like the good old Deuxime. It makes
life for the peace-loving very difficult. But I naturally have my men in
the OAS and I happen to know that the OAS has a military helicopter,
stolen from the French Army, hidden away at a chteau on the Rhine not
far from Strasbourg. The chteau belongs to some crazy fascist count. He
is one of those Frenchmen who cannot live without conspiring against
something. So now he has put all his money and property behind this
General Salan. His chteau is remote. He poses as an inventor. His farm
people are not surprised that there is some kind of flying machine kept
in an isolated barn with mechanics to tend it--OAS mechanics, bien
entendu. And now, early this morning, I have spoken on my radio to the
right man and I have the machine on loan for twenty-four hours with the
best pilot in their secret air force. He is already on his way to the
place to make his preparations, fuel, and so on. But it is unfortunate.
Before, these people were in my debt. Now I am in theirs.' He shrugged.
'What matter? I will soon have them under my thumb again. Half the
police and Customs officers in France are Corsicans. It is an important
laissez-passer for the Union Corse. You understand?'

                        *          *          *

At the Maison Rouge, a fine room had been booked for Bond. He was
greeted with exaggerated courtesy tinged with reserve. Where didn't the
freemasonry of the Union operate? Bond, obedient to the traditions of
the town, made a simple dinner off the finest foie gras, pink and
succulent, and half a bottle of champagne, and retired gratefully to
bed. He spent the next morning in his room, changed into his ski
clothes, and sent out for a pair of snow-goggles and thin leather
gloves, sufficient to give some protection to his hands but
close-fitting enough for the handling of his gun. He took the magazine
out of his gun, pumped out the single round in the chamber and practised
shooting himself in the wardrobe mirror with the gloves on until he was
satisfied. Then he reloaded and got the fitting of the stitched pigskin
holster comfortable inside the waist-band of his trousers. He had his
bill sent up and paid it, and ordered his suitcase to be forwarded on to
Tracy at the Vier Jahreszeiten. Then he sent for the day's papers and
sat in front of the window, watching the traffic in the street and
forgetting what he read.

When, at exactly midday, the telephone rang, he went straight down and
out to the grey Peugeot 403 he had been told to expect. The driver was
Ch-Ch. He acknowledged Bond's greeting curtly and, in silence, they
drove for an hour across the uninteresting countryside, finally turning
left off a secondary road into a muddy lane that meandered through thick
forest. In due course there was the ill-kept stone wall of a large
property and then a vast broken-down iron gateway leading into a park.
On the unweeded drive-way were the recent tracks of vehicles. They
followed these past the dilapidated faade of a once-imposing chteau,
on through the forest to where the trees gave way to fields. On the edge
of the trees was a large barn in good repair. They stopped outside and
Ch-Ch sounded three shorts on his horn. A small door in the wide
double doors of the barn opened and Marc-Ange came out. He greeted Bond
cheerfully. 'Come along in, my friend. You are just in time for some
good Strasbourg sausage and a passable Riquewihr. Rather thin and
bitter. I would have christened it "Chteau Pis-de-Chat", but it serves
to quench the thirst.'

Inside it was almost like a film set. Lights blazed down on the ungainly
shape of the Army helicopter and from somewhere came the cough of a
small generator. The place seemed to be full of people. Bond recognized
the faces of the Union men. The others were, he assumed, the local
mechanics. Two men on ladders were busily engaged painting red crosses
on white backgrounds on the black-painted fuselage of the machine, and
the paint of the recognition letters, FL-BGS, presumably civilian and
false, still glittered wetly. Bond was introduced to the pilot, a
bright-eyed, fair-haired young man in overalls called Georges. 'You will
be sitting beside him,' explained Marc-Ange. 'He is a good navigator,
but he doesn't know the last stretch up the valley and he has never
heard of Piz Gloria. You had better go over the maps with him after some
food. The general route is Basle-Zrich.' He laughed cheerfully. He said
in French, 'We are going to have some interesting conversation with the
Swiss Air Defences, isn't it, Georges?'

Georges didn't smile. He said briefly, 'I think we can fool them,' and
went about his business.

Bond accepted a foot of garlic sausage, a hunk of bread, and a bottle of
the 'Pis-de-Chat', and sat on an up-turned packing-case while Marc-Ange
went back to supervising the loading of the 'stores'--Schmeisser
sub-machine guns and six-inch square packets in red oilcloth.

In due course, Marc-Ange lined up his team, including Bond, and carried
out a quick inspection of side-arms, which, in the case of the Union
men, included well-used flick-knives. The men, as well as Marc-Ange,
were clothed in brand-new ski clothes of grey cloth. Marc-Ange handed to
all of them armlets in black cloth bearing the neatly stitched words
'Bundesalpenpolizei'. When Marc-Ange gave Bond his, he commented, 'There
is no such force as the "Federal Police of the Alps". But I doubt if our
SPECTRE friends will know that. At least the armbands will make an
important first impression.'

Marc-Ange looked at his watch. He turned and called out in French, 'Two
forty-five. All ready? Then let us roll!'

The farm tractor attached to the wheel-base of the helicopter started
up, the gates of the barn were thrown wide, and the great metal insect
moved slowly out on to the grassland under the pale winter sun. The
tractor was uncoupled and the pilot, followed by Bond, climbed up the
little aluminium ladder and then into the raised cockpit and strapped
themselves in. The others followed into the ten-seat cabin, the ladder
was pulled up, and the door banged and locked. On the ground, the
mechanics lifted their thumbs and the pilot bent to his controls. He
pressed the starter and, after a first indecisive cough, the engine
fired healthily and the great blades began to turn. The pilot glanced
back at the whirring tail-rotor. He waited while the needle on the rotor
speed-indicator crept up to 200, then he released the wheel-brakes and
pulled up slowly on the pitch-lever. The helicopter trembled, unwilling
to leave the earth, but then came a slight jerk and they were up and
climbing rapidly above the trees. The pilot retracted his wheels above
the inflated snow-floats, gave the machine left rudder, pushed forward
the joystick, and they were off.

Almost at once they were over the Rhine and Basle lay ahead under a
thick canopy of chimney-smoke. They reached two thousand feet and the
pilot held it, skirting the town to the north. Now there came a crackle
of static over Bond's ear-phones and Swiss Air Control, in thick
Schwyzerdtch, asked them politely to identify themselves. The pilot
made no reply and the question was repeated with more urgency. The pilot
said in French, 'I don't understand you.' There was a pause, then a
French voice again queried them. The pilot said, 'Repeat yourself more
clearly.' The voice did so. The pilot said, 'Helicopter of the Red Cross
flying blood plasma to Italy.' The radio went dead. Bond could imagine
the scene in the control room somewhere down below--the arguing voices,
the doubtful faces. Another voice, with more authority to it, spoke in
French. 'What is your destination?' 'Wait,' said the pilot. 'I have it
here. A moment please.' After minutes he said, 'Swiss Air Control?'
'Yes, yes.' 'FL-BGS reporting. My destination is Ospedale Santa Monica
at Bellinzona.' The radio again went dead, only to come to life five
minutes later. 'FL-BGS, FL-BGS.' 'Yes,' said the pilot. 'We have no
record of your identification symbol. Please explain.' 'Your
registration manual must be out of date. The aircraft was commissioned
only one month ago.' Another long pause. Now Zrich lay ahead and the
silver boomerang of the Zrichersee. Now Zrich Airport came on the air.
They must have been listening to Swiss Air Control. 'FL-BGS, FL-BGS.'
'Yes, yes. What is it now?' 'You have infringed the Civil Airlines
Channel. Land and report to Flying Control. I repeat. Land and report.'
The pilot became indignant. 'What do you mean "land and report"? Have
you no comprehension of human suffering? This is a mercy flight carrying
blood plasma of a rare category. It is to save the life of an
illustrious Italian scientist at Bellinzona. Have you no hearts down
there? You tell me to "land and report" when a life is at stake? Do you
wish to be responsible for murder?' This Gallic outburst gave them peace
until they had passed the Zrichersee. Bond chuckled. He gave a
thumbs-up sign to the pilot. But then Federal Air Control at Berne came
on the air and a deep, resonant voice said, 'FL-BGS, FL-BGS. Who gave
you clearance? I repeat. Who gave you clearance for your flight?' 'You
did.' Bond smiled into his mouthpiece. The Big Lie! There was nothing
like it. Now the Alps were ahead of them--those blasted Alps, looking
beautiful and dangerous in the evening sun. Soon they would be in the
shelter of the valleys, off the radar screens. But records had been
hastily checked in Berne and the sombre voice came over to them again.
The voice must have realized that the long debate would have been heard
at every airport and by most pilots flying over Switzerland that
evening. It was extremely polite, but firm. 'FL-BGS, we have no record
at Federal Air Control of your proposed flight. I regret but you are
transgressing Swiss air-space. Unless you can give further authority for
your flight, kindly return to Zrich and report to Flying Control.'

The helicopter rocked. There was a flash of silver and a Dassault Mirage
with Swiss markings flashed by not a hundred yards away, turned, leaving
a trail of black vapour from the slow-burning of its fuel at this low
altitude, and headed straight back at them, swerving off to port only at
the last moment. The helicopter gave another lurch. The pilot spoke
angrily into his mouthpiece. 'Federal Air Control. This is FL-BGS. For
further information contact International Red Cross at Geneva. I am just
a pilot. I am not a "rond de cuir", a chairborne flyer. If you have lost
the papers, that is not my fault. I repeat, check with Geneva. And, in
the meantime, kindly call off the whole of the Swiss Air Force which is
at present trying to make my passengers air-sick.' The voice came back,
but now more faintly, because of the mountains. 'Who are your
passengers?' The pilot played his trump card. 'Representatives of the
world's press. They have been listening to all this nonsense coming from
the home of the famous International Red Cross. I wish you happy reading
of your newspapers at breakfast-time tomorrow, gentlemen. And now, a
little peace, yes? And please record in your log-books that I am not,
repeat, not, the Soviet Air Force invading Switzerland.'

There was silence. The Dassault Mirage had disappeared. They were
climbing up the valley and were already past Davos. The gold-tipped
needles of the glittering mountains seemed to be closing in on them from
right and left. Ahead were the great peaks. Bond looked at his watch.
Barely another ten minutes to go.

He turned and glanced down the hatch. The faces of Marc-Ange and of the
others looked up at him, tense and livid under the setting sun that
poured in through the windows, their eyes glinting redly.

Bond held up his thumb encouragingly. He spread out his ten fingers in
their thin leather gloves.

Marc-Ange nodded. There was a shifting of the bodies in their seats.
Bond turned back and gazed ahead, looking for the soaring peak that he
loathed and feared.




CHAPTER 25. HELL'S DELIGHT, ETC.


Yes! there was the bloody place! Now only the peak was golden.
The plateau and the buildings were in indigo shadow, soon to be lit by
the full moon.

Bond pointed. The helicopter wasn't liking the altitude. At 10,000 feet
its rotors were finding it hard to get a grip of the thin air and the
pilot was struggling to keep it at maximum revs. As he turned to port,
in towards the face of the mountain, his radio crackled sharply and a
harsh voice said, in German and then in French, 'Landing forbidden. This
is private property. I repeat, landing forbidden!' The pilot reached up
to the cockpit roof and switched off the radio. He had studied his
landing-point on the plateau on the mock-up. He got to it, hovered, and
gently came down. The helicopter bounced once on its rubber floats and
settled. Already there was a group of men waiting for them. Eight men.
Bond recognized some of them. They all had their hands in their pockets
or in their wind-jackets. The engine coughed to a stop and the rotors
swung round briefly in neutral and halted. Bond heard the bang of the
door being opened behind him and the rattle of the men piling down the
ladder. The two groups lined up facing each other. Marc-Ange said, with
authority, 'This is the Federal Police Alpine Patrol. There was trouble
up here on Christmas Eve. We have come to investigate.'

Fritz, the 'head waiter', said angrily, 'The local police have already
been here. They have made their report. All is in order. Please leave at
once. What is the Federal Police Alpine Patrol? I have never heard of
it.'

The pilot nudged Bond and pointed over to the left, to the building that
housed the Count and the laboratories. A man, clumsy in bob-sleigh
helmet and padding, was running down the path towards the cable station.
He would be out of sight of the men on the ground. Bond said 'Blast!'
and scrambled out of his seat and into the cabin. He leaned out of the
door and shouted, 'The Big One. He's getting away!'

As Bond jumped, one of the SPECTRE men shouted, 'Der Englnder, Der
Spion!' And then, as Bond started running away to the right, weaving
and dodging, all hell broke loose. There came the boom of heavy
automatics as the SPECTRE team got off their first rounds, and bullets,
tracer, flashed past Bond with the noise of humming-birds' wings.
Then came the answering roar of the Schmeissers and Bond was left alone.

Now he was round the corner of the club, and, a hundred yards down the
slope, the man in the crash helmet had torn open the door of the
'garage' for the bob-sleighs in the foundations of the cable station. He
emerged carrying a one-man skeleton bob. Holding it in front of him as a
shield, he fired a burst from a heavy automatic at Bond and again the
humming-birds whirred past. Bond knelt and, steadying his gun with two
hands, fired three rounds with his Walther, but the man was now running
the few yards to the glistening ice-mouth of the Gloria Express bob-run.
Bond got a glimpse of the profile under the moon. Yes, it was Blofeld
all right! Even as Bond ran on down the slope, the man had flung himself
down on his skeleton and had disappeared as if swallowed up by the
glistening landscape. Bond got to the 'garage'. Damn, they were all
six-men or two-men models! No, there was one skeleton at the back! Bond
hauled it out. No time to see if the runners were straight, the
steering-arm shifting easily! He ran to the start and hurled himself
under the protecting chain in a mad forward dive that landed him half on
and half off his skeleton. He straightened himself and shifted his body
well forward on the flimsy little aluminium platform and gripped the
steering-arm, keeping his elbows well in to his sides. He was already
going like hell down the dark-blue gutter! He tried braking with the
toes of both his boots. Damned little difference! What came first on the
blasted run? There was this lateral straight across the shoulder of the
mountain, then a big banked curve. He was into it now! Bond kept his
right shoulder down and inched right on the steering-arm. Even so, he
went perilously near the top edge of the bank before he dived down into
the dark gully again. What came next on that metal map? Why in hell
hadn't he studied it more carefully? He got his answer! It looked like a
straight, but the shadows camouflaged a sharp dip. Bond left the ground
and flew. The crash of his landing almost knocked the wind out of his
body. He frantically dug his toes into the ice, managed to get down from
perhaps fifty m.p.h. to forty. Well, well! So that was 'Dead Man's
Leap.' What in hell was the next bit of murder? 'Whizz-Bang Straight'!
And by God it was!--200 yards when he must have been doing around
seventy. He remembered that on the finishing straight of the Cresta the
stars got up to over eighty. No doubt something like that was still to
come! But now, flashing towards him, in silver and black, came an
S-bend--'Battling S'. The toes of Bond's boots slid maddeningly on the
black ice. Under his nose he could see the parallel tracks of Blofeld's
runners and, between them, the grooves of his toe-spikes. The old fox!
As soon as he heard the helicopter, he must have got himself fixed for
his only escape route. But at this speed Bond must surely be catching up
with him! For God's sake look out! Here comes the S! There was nothing
he could do about it. He swayed his body as best he could, felt the
searing crash of one elbow against one wall, was hurled across into the
opposite one, and was then spewed out into the straight again. God
Almighty, but it hurt! He could feel the cold wind on both elbows. The
cloth had gone! Then so had the skin! Bond clenched his teeth. And he
was only half-way down, if that! But then, ahead, flashing through a
patch of moonlight, was the other body, Blofeld! Bond took a chance,
heaved himself up on one hand and reached down for his gun. The wind
tried to tear him off the bob, but he had the gun. He opened his mouth
wide and gripped the gun between his teeth, flexed the ice-caked leather
on his right hand. Then he got the gun in his right hand, lifted his
toes off the ice, and went like hell. But now the man had disappeared
into the shadows and a giant bank reared up ahead. This would be 'Hell's
Delight'! Oh well, if he could make this, there would be another
straight and he could begin shooting. Bond dug his toes in, got a
glimpse of an ice-wall ahead and to the left, and in a flash was
climbing it, straight up! God, in a split second he would be over the
edge! Bond hammered in his right boot and lurched his body to the right,
tearing at the steering-arm. Reluctantly the sliver of aluminium
answered and Bond, inches from the top of the wall, found himself
swooping down into blackness and then out again on to a moonlit
straight. Only fifty yards ahead was the flying figure, with chips of
ice fountaining up from the braking spikes on his boots. Bond held his
breath and got off two shots. He thought they were good ones, but now
the man had gone into shadow again. But Bond was gaining, gaining. His
lips drew back from his teeth in an almost animal snarl. You bastard!
You're a dead duck! You can't stop or fire back. I'm coming after you
like lightning! Soon I shall only be ten, five yards behind you. Then
you'll have had it!

But the shadows concealed another hazard, long transverse waves in the
ice--'The Boneshaker'! Bond crashed from one to the next, felt his boots
being almost torn from his feet as he tried to brake, nearly lost his
gun, felt his stomach flatten against his spine with each shattering
impact, felt his rib cage almost cracking. But then it was over and Bond
sucked in air through his clenched teeth. Now for a length of straight!
But what was that ahead on the track? It was something black, something
the size of a big lemon that was bouncing along gaily like a child's
rubber ball. Had Blofeld, now only about thirty yards ahead, dropped
something, a bit of his equipment? _Had he?_ The realization came to
Bond in a surge of terror that almost made him vomit. He ground his toes
into the ice. No effect! He was gaining on the gaily bouncing thing.
Flashing down on it. On the grenade!

Bond, sick in the stomach, lifted his toes and let himself go. What
setting had Blofeld put on it? How long had he held it with the pin out?
The only hope was to pray to God and race it!

The next thing Bond knew was that the whole track had blown-up in his
face and that he and his skeleton bob were flying through the air. He
landed in soft snow, with the skeleton on top of him and passed out like
a light.

Later, Bond was to estimate that he lay there only a matter of minutes.
It was a tremendous explosion from the mountain above him that brought
him staggering to his feet, up to his belly in snow. He looked vaguely
up to where it had come from. It must have been the club building going
up, because now there was the glare of flames and a tower of smoke that
rose towards the moon. There came the echoing crack of another explosion
and Blofeld's block disintegrated, great chunks of it crashing down the
mountain side, turning themselves into giant snowballs that bounded off
down towards the tree-line. By God, they'll start another avalanche!
thought Bond vaguely. Then he realized that it didn't matter this time,
he was away to the right, almost underneath the cable railway. And now
the station went up and Bond stared fascinated as the great wires, their
tension released, came hissing and snaking down the mountain towards
him. There was nothing he could do about it but stand and watch. If they
cut him down, they cut him down. But they lashed past in the snow,
wrapped themselves briefly round the tall pylon above the tree-line,
tore it away in a metallic crackling, and disappeared over the edge of
the shoulder.

Bond laughed weakly with pleasure and began feeling himself for damage.
His torn elbows he already knew about, but his forehead hurt like hell.
He felt it gingerly, then scooped up a handful of snow and held it
against the wound. The blood showed black in the moonlight. He ached all
over, but there didn't seem to be anything broken. He bent dazedly to
the twisted remains of the skeleton. The steering-arm had gone, had
probably saved his head, and both runners were bent. There were a lot of
rattles from the rivets, but perhaps the damned thing would run. It had
bloody well got to! There was no other way for Bond to get down the
mountain! His gun? Gone to hell, of course. Wearily Bond heaved himself
over the wall of the track and slid carefully down, clutching the
remains of his skeleton. As soon as he got to the bottom of the gutter,
everything began to slip downwards, but he managed to haul himself on to
the bob and get shakily going. In fact, the bent runners were a blessing
and the bob scraped slowly down, leaving great furrows in the ice. There
were more turns, more hazards, but, at a bare ten miles an hour, they
were child's play and soon Bond was through the tree-line and into
'Paradise Alley', the finishing straight, where he slowly came to a
halt. He left the skeleton where it stopped and scrambled over the low
ice-wall. Here the snow was beaten hard by spectators' feet and he
stumbled slowly along, nursing his aches, and occasionally dabbing at
his head with handfuls of snow. What would he find at the bottom, by the
cable station? If it was Blofeld, Bond would be a dead duck! But there
were no lights on in the station into which the cables now trailed
limply along the ground. By God, that had been an expensive bang! But
what of Marc-Ange and his merry men, and the helicopter?

As if to answer him, he heard the clatter of its engine high up in the
mountains and in a moment the ungainly black shape crossed the moon and
disappeared down the valley. Bond smiled to himself. They were going to
have a tough time arguing themselves across Swiss air-space this time!
But Marc-Ange had thought out an alternative route over Germany. That
would also not be fun. They would have to argue the toss with NATO?
Well, if a Marseillais couldn't blarney his way across two hundred
miles, nobody could!

And now, up the road from Samaden that Bond knew so well, came the iron
hee-haw warning of the local fire-engine. The blinking red light on its
cabin roof was perhaps a mile away. Bond, carefully approaching the
corner of the darkened cable station, prepared his story. He crept up to
the wall of the building and looked round. Nobody! No trace except fresh
tyre-marks outside the entrance door. Blofeld must have telephoned his
man down here before he started and used him and his car for the
getaway. Which way had he gone? Bond walked out on to the road. The
tracks turned left. Blofeld would be at the Bernina Pass or over it by
now, on his way down into Italy and away. It might still have been
possible to have him held at the frontier by alerting the fire-brigade,
whose lights now held Bond in their beam. No! That would be idiotic. How
had Bond got this knowledge unless he himself had been up at Piz Gloria
that night? No, he must just play the part of the stupidest tourist in
the Engadine!

The shining red vehicle pulled up in front of the cable station and the
warning klaxons ran down with an iron groan. Men jumped to the ground.
Some went into the station while others stood gazing up at the Piz
Gloria, where a dull red glow still showed. A man in a peaked cap,
presumably the captain of the team, came up to Bond and saluted. He
fired off a torrent of Schwyzerdtch. Bond shook his head. The man tried
French. Bond again showed incomprehension. Another man with fragmentary
English was called over. 'What is it that is happening?' he asked.

Bond shook his head dazedly. 'I don't know. I was walking down from
Pontresina to Samaden. I came on a day excursion from Zrich and missed
my bus. I was going to take a train from Samaden. Then I saw these
explosions up the mountain--he waved vaguely--'and I walked up there
past the station to see better, and the next thing I knew was a bang on
the head and being dragged along the path.' He indicated his bleeding
head and the raw elbows that protruded from his torn sleeves. 'It must
have been the broken cable. It must have hit me and dragged me with it.
Have you got a Red Cross outfit with you?'

'Yes, yes.' The man called over to the group, and one of his colleagues
wearing a Red Cross brassard on his arm fetched his black box from the
vehicle and came over. He clucked his tongue over Bond's injuries and,
while his interrogator told Bond's story to the Captain, bade Bond
follow him into the toilette in the station. There, by the light of a
torch, he washed Bond's wounds, applied quantities of iodine that stung
like hell, and then strapped wide strips of Elastoplast over the damage.
Bond looked at his face in the mirror. He laughed. Hell of a bridegroom
he was going to make! The Red Cross man cluck-clucked in sympathy,
produced a flask of brandy out of his box, and offered it to Bond. Bond
gratefully took a long swig. The interpreter came in. 'There is nothing
we can do here. It will need a helicopter from the mountain rescue team.
We must go back to Samaden and report. You wish to come?'

'I certainly do,' said Bond enthusiastically, and, with many
politenesses and no question of why he should attempt the icy walk to
Samaden in the dark instead of taking a taxi, he was borne comfortably
to Samaden and dropped off, with the warmest gestures of goodwill and
sympathy, at the railway station.

                        *          *          *

By a rattling Personenzug to Coire and then by express to Zrich, Bond
got to the door of the flat of Head of Station Z in the Bahnhofstrasse
at two in the morning. He had had some sleep in the train but he was
almost out on his feet, and his whole body felt as if it had been beaten
with wooden truncheons. He leaned wearily against the bell ticketed
'Muir' until a tousled man in pyjamas came and opened the door and held
it on the chain. 'Um Gottes Willen! Was ist denn los?' he inquired
angrily. The English accent came through. Bond said, 'It's me that's
"los". It's 007 again, I'm afraid.'

'Good God, man, come in, come in!' Muir opened the door and looked
quickly up and down the empty street. 'Anyone after you?'

'Shouldn't think so,' said Bond thickly, coming gratefully into the
warmth of the entrance hall. Head of Z closed the door and locked it. He
turned and looked at Bond. 'Christ, old boy, what in hell's been
happening to you? You look as if you'd been through a mangle. Here, come
in and have a drink,' He led the way into a comfortable sitting-room. He
gestured at the sideboard. 'Help yourself. I'll just tell Phyllis not to
worry--unless you'd like her to have a look at the damage. She's quite a
hand at that sort of thing.'

'No, it's all right, thanks. A drink'll fix me. Nice and warm in here. I
never want to see a patch of snow again as long as I live.'

Muir went out and Bond heard a quick confabulation across the passage.
Muir came back. 'Phyllis is fixing the spare room. She'll put some fresh
dressings and stuff out in the bathroom. Now then'--he poured himself a
thin whisky and soda to keep Bond company and sat down opposite
him--'tell me what you can.'

Bond said, 'I'm terribly sorry, but I can't tell you much. The same
business as the other day. Next chapter. I promise you'd do better to
know nothing about it. I wouldn't have come here only I've got to get a
signal off to M, personal, triple X cipher to be deciphered by recipient
only. Would you be a good chap and put it on the printer?'

'Of course.' Muir looked at his watch. 'Two-thirty a.m. Hell of a time
to wake the old man up. But that's your business. Here, come into the
cockpit, so to speak.' He walked across to the book-lined wall, took out
a book and fiddled. There was a click and a small door swung open. 'Mind
your head,' said Muir. 'Old disused lavatory. Just the right size. Gets
a bit stuffy when there's a lot of traffic coming or going, but that
can't be helped. We can afford to leave the door open.' He bent down to
a safe on the floor, worked the combination, and brought out what looked
like a portable typewriter. He set it on the shelf next to the bulky
teleprinter, sat down, and clacked off the prefix and routing
instructions, winding a small handle at the side of the machine at the
end of each word. 'OK. Fire away!'

Bond leaned up against the wall. He had toyed with various formulas on
his journey down to Samaden. It had to be something that would get
through accurately to M and yet keep Muir in the dark, keep his hands
clean. Bond said, 'All right. Make it this, would you? REDOUBT
PROPERLY FIXED STOP DETAILS LACKING AS EYE WENT SOLO AFTER THE OWNER
WHO GREATLY REGRET GOT AWAY AND PROBABLY ITALICIZED BY NOW STOP
FORWARDING FULL REPORT FROM STATION M THEN GRATEFULLY ACCEPTING TEN
DAYS LEAVE SIGNED 007.'

Muir repeated the signal and then began putting it, in the five-figure
groups that had come off the Triple X machine, on to the teleprinter.

Bond watched the message go, the end of another chapter of his duties,
as Marc-Ange had put it, 'On Her Majesty's Secret Service'. What would
Her Majesty think of this string of crimes committed in her name? God,
it was stuffy in the little room! Bond felt the cold sweat break out on
his forehead. He put his hand up to his face, muttered something
indistinctly about 'that bloody mountain' and gracefully crumpled to the
floor.




CHAPTER 26. HAPPINESS WITHOUT A SHADOW?


Tracy gazed at him wide-eyed when she met him outside Passport Control
at Munich Airport, but she waited until they were inside the little
Lancia before she burst into tears. 'What have they been doing to you?'
she said through her sobs. 'What have they been doing to you now?'

Bond took her in his arms, 'It's all right, Tracy. I promise you. These
are only cuts and bruises, like a bad ski-fall. Now don't be a goose.
They could happen to anyone.' He smoothed back her hair and took out his
handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

She took the handkerchief from him and laughed through her tears. 'Now
you've ruined my eye-black. And I put it on so carefully for you.' She
took out her pocket mirror and carefully wiped away the smudges. She
said, 'It's so silly. But I knew you were up to no good. As soon as you
said you were going off for a few days to clean up something instead of
coming to me, I knew you were going to get into more trouble. And now
Marc-Ange has telephoned and asked me if I've seen you. He was very
mysterious and sounded worried. And when I said I hadn't he just rang
off. And now there's this story in the papers about Piz Gloria. And you
were so guarded on the telephone this morning. And from Zrich. I knew
it all tied up.' She put back her mirror and pressed the self-starter.
'All right. I won't ask questions. And I'm sorry I cried.' She added
fiercely, 'But you _are_ such an idiot! You don't seem to think it
matters to _anyone_. The way you go on playing Red Indians. It's so--so
selfish.'

Bond reached out and pressed her hand on the wheel. He hated 'scenes'.
But it was true what she said. He hadn't thought of her, only of the
job. It never crossed his mind that anybody really cared about him. A
shake of the head from his friends when he went, a few careful lines in
the obituary columns of _The Times_, a momentary pang in a few girls'
hearts. But now, in three days' time, he would no longer be alone. He
would be a half of two people. There wouldn't only be May and Mary
Goodnight who would tut-tut over him when he came back from some job as
a hospital case. Now, if he got himself killed, there would be Tracy who
would at any rate partially die with him.

The little car wove expertly through the traffic. Bond said, 'I'm sorry,
Tracy. It was something that had to be done. You know how it is. I just
couldn't back out of it. I really wouldn't have been happy here, like I
am now, if I'd shirked it. You do see that, don't you?'

She reached out and touched his cheek. 'I wouldn't love you if you
weren't a pirate. I expect it's in the blood. I'll get used to it. Don't
change. I don't want to draw your teeth like women do with their men. I
want to live with _you_, not with somebody else. But don't mind if I
howl like a dog every now and then. Or rather like a bitch. It's only
love.' She gave him a fleeting smile. '_Die Welt_, with the story in it,
is behind the seat on the floor.'

Bond laughed at her mind-reading. 'Damn you, Tracy.' He reached for the
paper. He had been aching to see what it said, how much had come out.

There it was, down the central gutter between the first lead,
inevitably on Berlin, and the second, equally inevitably, on the
miracle of the latest German export figures. All it said, 'from our
correspondent', date-lined St Moritz, was 'MYSTERIOUS EXPLOSIONS ON
PIZ GLORIA. Cable Railway to Millionaires' Resort Destroyed'. And then
a few lines repeating the content of the headings and saying that the
police would investigate by helicopter at first light in the morning.
The next headline caught Bond's eye: 'IN ENGLAND, POLIO SCARE'. And
then, date-lined the day before from London, a brief Reuter dispatch:
'The nine girls held at various British airports on suspicion of
having had contact with a possible polio carrier at Zrich Airport,
also an English girl, are still being held in quarantine. A Ministry
of Health representative said that this was purely a routine
precaution. A tenth girl, the origin of the scare, a Miss Violet
O'Neill, is under observation at Shannon Hospital. She is a native
of Eire.'

Bond smiled to himself. When they were pushed, the British could do this
sort of thing supremely well. How much co-ordination had this brief
report required? To begin with, M. Then the CID, MI5, Ag. and Fish., HM
Customs, Passport Control, the Ministry of Health, and the Government of
Eire. All had contributed, and with tremendous speed and efficiency. And
the end product, put out to the world, had been through the Press
Association to Reuter. Bond tossed the paper over his shoulder and
watched the Kaiser Yellow buildings of what had once been one of the
most beautiful towns in Europe, now slowly being rebuilt in the same old
Kaiser Yellow, file by in their post-war drabness. So the case was
closed, the assignment over!

But still The Big One had got away!

They got to the hotel at about three o'clock. There was a message for
Tracy to call Marc-Ange at the Maison Rouge at Strasbourg. They went up
to her room and got through. Tracy said, 'Here he is, Papa, and almost
in one piece.' She handed the receiver to Bond.

Marc-Ange said, 'Did you get him?'

'No, damn it. He's in Italy now. At least I think he is. That was the
way he went. How did you get on? It looked fine from down below.'

'Satisfactory. All accounted for.'

'Gone?'

'Yes. Gone for good. There was no trace of your man from Zrich. I lost
two. Our friend had left a surprise in his filing cabinet. That
accounted for Ch-Ch. Another one wasn't quick enough. That is all. The
trip back was entertaining. I will give you the details tomorrow. I
shall travel tonight in my sleeping-car. You know?'

'Yes. By the way, what about the girl friend, Irma?'

'There was no sign of her. Just as well. It would have been difficult to
send her away like the others.'

'Yes. Well, thanks, Marc-Ange. And the news from England is also good.
See you tomorrow.'

Bond put down the receiver. Tracy had discreetly retired to the bathroom
and locked the door. She now called, 'Can I come out?'

'Two minutes, darling.' Bond got on to Station M. His call was expected.
He arranged to visit the Head of Station, a man he knew slightly called
Lieutenant-Commander Savage, in an hour's time. He released Tracy and
they made plans for the evening, then he went along to his room.

His suitcase had been unpacked and there was a bowl of crocuses beside
his bed. Bond smiled, picked up the bowl, and placed it firmly on the
window-sill. Then he had a quick shower, complicated by having to keep
his dressings dry, changed out of his stinking ski clothes into the
warmer of the two dark-blue suits he had brought with him, sat down at
the writing-desk, and jotted down the headings of what he would have to
put on the teleprinter to M. Then he put on his dark-blue raincoat and
went down into the street and along to the Odeons Platz.

(If he had not been thinking of other things, he might have noticed the
woman on the other side of the street, a squat, toad-like figure in a
frowsty dark-green Loden cloak, who gave a start of surprise when she
saw him sauntering along, hustled across the street through the traffic,
and got on his tail. She was expert at what she was doing, and, when he
went into the newish apartment house on the Odeons Platz, she didn't go
near the door to verify the address, but waited on the far side of the
square until he came out. Then she tailed him back to the Vier
Jahreszeiten, took a taxi back to her flat, and put in a long-distance
call to the Metropole Hotel on Lake Como.)

Bond went up to his room. On the writing-desk an impressive array of
dressings and medicaments had been laid out. He got on to Tracy and
said, 'What the hell is this? Have you got a pass-key or something?'

She laughed. 'The maid on this floor has become a friend. She
understands people who are in love. Which is more than you do. What do
you mean by moving those flowers?'

'They're lovely. I thought they looked prettier by the window and they
will get some sun there. Now I'll make a deal. If you'll come along and
change my dressings, I'll take you down and buy you a drink. Just one.
And three for me. That's the right ratio between men and women. All
right?'

'Wilco.' Her receiver went down.

It hurt like hell and Bond couldn't prevent the tears of pain from
squeezing out of his eyes. She kissed them away. She looked pale at what
she had seen. 'You're sure you oughtn't to see a doctor?'

'I'm just seeing one. You did it beautifully. What worries me is how
we're going to make love. In the proper fashion, elbows are rather
important for the man.'

'Then we'll do it in an improper fashion. But not tonight, or tomorrow.
Only when we're married. Till then I am going to pretend I'm a virgin.'
She looked at him seriously. 'I wish I was, James. I am in a way, you
know. People can make love without loving.'

'Drinks,' said Bond firmly. 'We've got all the time in the world to talk
about love.'

'You _are_ a pig,' she said indignantly. 'We've got so much to talk
about and all you think about is drink.'

Bond laughed. He put an arm gingerly round her neck and kissed her long
and passionately. He broke away. 'There, that's just the beginning of my
conversation. We'll go on with the duller bits in the bar. Then we'll
have a wonderful dinner in Walterspiel's and talk about rings and
whether we'll sleep in twin beds or one, and whether I've got enough
sheets and pillows for two, and other exciting things to do with being
married.'

And it was in that way that the evening passed and Bond's head reeled
with all the practical feminine problems she raised, in high
seriousness, but he was surprised to find that all this nest-building
gave him a curious pleasure, a feeling that he had at last come to rest
and that life would now be fuller, have more meaning, for having someone
to share it with. Togetherness! What a curiously valid clich it was!

                        *          *          *

The next day was occupied with hilarious meals with Marc-Ange, whose
giant trailer had come during the night to take up most of the parking
space behind the hotel, and with searching the antique shops for an
engagement and a wedding ring. The latter was easy, the traditional
plain gold band, but Tracy couldn't make up her mind about the
engagement ring and finally dispatched Bond to find something he liked
himself while she had her last fitting for her 'going-away' dress. Bond
hired a taxi, and he and the taxi-man, who had been a Luftwaffe pilot
during the war and was proud of it, tore round the town together until,
at an antique shop near the Nymphenburg Palace, Bond found what he
wanted--a baroque ring in white gold with two diamond hands clasped. It
was graceful and simple and the taxi-man was also in favour, so the deal
was done and the two men went off to celebrate at the Franziskaner
Keller, where they ate mounds of Weisswurst and drank four steins of
beer each and swore they wouldn't ever fight each other again. Then,
happy with his last bachelor party, Bond returned tipsily to the hotel,
avoided being embraced by the taxi-man, and went straight up to Tracy's
room and put the ring on her finger.

She burst into tears, sobbing that it was the most beautiful ring in the
world, but when he took her in his arms she began to giggle. 'Oh, James,
you are bad. You stink like a pig of beer and sausages. Where _have_ you
been?'

When Bond told her, she laughed at the picture he painted of his last
fling and then paraded happily up and down the room, making
exaggeratedly gracious gestures with her hand to show off the ring and
for the diamonds to catch the light. Then the telephone rang and it was
Marc-Ange saying that he wanted to talk to Bond in the bar, and would
Tracy kindly keep out of the way for half an hour?

Bond went down and, after careful consideration, decided that schnapps
would go with his beer and ordered a double Steinhger, Marc-Ange's face
was serious. 'Now listen, James. We have not had a proper talk. It is
very wrong. I am about to become your father-in-law and I insist. Many
months ago, I made you a serious offer. You declined it. But now you
have accepted it. What is the name of your bank?'

Bond said angrily, 'Shut up, Marc-Ange. If you think I'll accept a
million pounds from you or from anyone else you're mistaken. I don't
want my life to be ruined. Too much money is the worst curse you can lay
on anyone's head. I have enough. Tracy has enough. It will be fun saving
up to buy something we want but can't quite afford. That is the only
kind of money to have--not quite enough.'

Marc-Ange said furiously, 'You have been drinking. You are drunk. You
don't understand what you are saying. What I am giving you is only a
fifth of my fortune. You understand? It means nothing to me. Tracy is
used to having whatever she wants. I wish it to remain so. She is my
only child. You cannot possibly keep her on a Civil Servant's pay. You
have got to accept!'

'If you give me any money, I swear I will pass it on to charity. You
want to give your money away to a dogs' home? All right. Go ahead!'

'But James'--Marc-Ange was now pleading--'what will you accept from me?
Then a trust fund for any children you may have. Yes?'

'Even worse. If we have children, I will not have this noose hung round
their heads. I didn't have any money and I haven't needed it. I've loved
winning money gambling because that is found money, money that comes out
of the air like a great surprise. If I'd inherited money, I'd have gone
the way of all those playboy friends of Tracy's you complained about so
much. No, Marc-Ange.' Bond drained his Steinhger decisively. 'It's no
good.'

Marc-Ange looked as if he would burst into tears. Bond relented. He
said, 'It's very kind of you, Marc-Ange, and I appreciate it from the
heart. I'll tell you what. If I swear to come to you if either of us
ever needs help, will that do? There may be illnesses and things.
Perhaps it would be nice if we had a cottage in the country somewhere.
We may need help if we have children. Now. How about that? Is it a
bargain?'

Marc-Ange turned doubtful, dogs' eyes on Bond. 'You promise? You would
not cheat me of helping you, adding to your happiness when you allow me
to?'

Bond reached over and took Marc-Ange's right hand and pressed it. 'My
word on it. Now come on, pull yourself together. Here comes Tracy.
She'll think we've been having a fight.'

'So we have,' said Marc-Ange gloomily. 'And it is the first fight I have
ever lost.'




CHAPTER 27. ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD


'I do.'

James Bond said the words at ten-thirty in the morning of a
crystal-clear New Year's Day in the British Consul General's
drawing-room.

And he meant them.

The Consul General had proved himself, as British Consuls so often do,
to be a man of efficiency and a man with a heart. It was a holiday for
him and, as he confessed, he should have been recovering from a New
Year's Eve hangover. And he had shaved many days off the formal period
of notice, but that, he explained, he had occasionally, and improperly,
risked in his career if there were exceptional circumstances such as the
imminent death of either party. 'You both look healthy enough,' he had
said when they first visited him together, 'but that's a nasty cut on
your head, Commander Bond, and the Countess is perhaps looking a little
pale. And I have taken the precaution of obtaining special dispensation
from the Foreign Secretary, which I may say, to my surprise, was
immediately forthcoming. So let's make it New Year's Day. And come to my
home. My wife is hopelessly sentimental about these occasional jobs I
have to do, and I know she'd love to meet you both.'

The papers were signed, and Head of Station M, who had agreed to act as
Bond's best man and who was secretly longing to write a sensational note
to the head of his London Section about all this, produced a handful of
confetti and threw most of it over Marc-Ange, who had turned up in a
'cylindre' and a full suit of very French tails with, surprisingly, two
rows of medals of which the last, to Bond's astonishment, was the King's
Medal for foreign resistance-fighters.

'I will tell you all about it one day, my dear James,' he had said in
answer to Bond's admiring inquiry. 'It was tremendous fun. I had myself
what the Americans call "a ball". And'--his voice sank to a whisper and
he put one finger along his brown, sensitive nose--'I confess that I
profited by the occasion to lay my hands on the secret funds of a
certain section of the Abwehr. But Herkos Odonton, my dear James! Herkos
Odonton! Medals are so often just the badges of good luck. If I am a
hero, it is for things for which no medals are awarded. And'--he drew
lines with his fingers across his chest--'there is hardly room on the
breast of this "frac", which, by the way, is by courtesy of the
excellent Galeries Barbs in Marseilles, for all that I am due under
that heading.'

The farewells were said and Bond submitted himself, he swore for the
last time, to Marc-Ange's embraces, and they went down the steps to the
waiting Lancia. Someone, Bond suspected the Consul's wife, had tied
white ribbons from the corners of the wind-screen to the grill of the
radiator, and there was a small group of bystanders, passers-by, who had
stopped, as they do all over the world, to see who it was, what they
looked like.

The Consul General shook Bond by the hand. 'I'm afraid we haven't
managed to keep this as private as you'd have liked. A woman reporter
came on from the _Mnchener Illustrierte_ this morning. Wouldn't say who
she was. Gossip-writer, I suppose. I had to give her the bare facts. She
particularly wanted to know the time of the ceremony, if you can call it
that, so that they could send a camera-man along. At least you've been
spared that. All still tight, I suppose. Well, so long and the best of
luck.'

Tracy, who had elected to 'go away' in a dark-grey Tyroler outfit with
the traditional dark-green trimmings and stag's-horn buttons, threw her
saucy mountaineer's hat with its gay chamois' beard cockade into the
back seat, climbed in, and pressed the starter. The engine purred and
then roared softly as she went through the gears down the empty street.
They both waved one hand out of a window and Bond, looking back, saw
Marc-Ange's 'cylindre' whirling up into the air. There was a small
flutter of answering hands from the pavement and then they were round
the corner and away.

When they found the Autobahn exit for Salzburg and Kufstein, Bond said,
'Be an angel and pull in to the side, Tracy. I've got two things to do.'

She pulled in on to the grass verge. The brown grass of winter showed
through the thin snow. Bond reached for her and took her in his arms. He
kissed her tenderly. 'That's the first thing, and I just wanted to say
that I'll look after you, Tracy. Will you mind being looked after?'

She held him away from her and looked at him. She smiled. Her eyes were
introspective. 'That's what it means being Mr and Mrs, doesn't it? They
don't say Mrs and Mr. But _you_ need looking after too. Let's just look
after each other.'

'All right. But I'd rather have my job than yours. Now. I simply must
get out and take down those ribbons. I can't stand looking like a
coronation. D'you mind?'

She laughed. 'You like being anonymous. I want everyone to cheer as we
go by. I know you're going to have this car sprayed grey or black as
soon as you get a chance. That's all right. But nothing's going to stop
me wearing you like a flag from now on. Will you sometimes feel like
wearing me like a flag?'

'On all holidays and feast days.' Bond got out and removed the ribbons.
He looked up at the cloudless sky. The sun felt warm on his face. He
said, 'Do you think we'd be too cold if we took the roof down?'

'No, let's. We can only see half the world with it up. And it's a lovely
drive from here to Kitzbhel. We can always put it up again if we want
to.'

Bond unscrewed the two butterfly nuts and folded the canvas top back
behind the seats. He had a look up and down the Autobahn. These was
plenty of traffic. At the big Shell station on the roundabout they had
just passed, his eye was caught by a bright-red open Maserati being
tanked up. Fast job. And a typical sporty couple, a man and a woman in
the driving-seat--white dust-coats and linen helmets buttoned under the
chin. Big dark-green talc goggles that obscured most of the rest of the
faces. Usual German speedsters' uniform. Too far away to see if they
were good-looking enough for the car, but the silhouette of the woman
wasn't promising. Bond got in beside Tracy and they set off again down
the beautifully landscaped road.

They didn't talk much. Tracy kept at about eighty and there was
wind-roar. That was the trouble about open cars. Bond glanced at his
watch. 11.45. They would get to Kufstein at about one. There was a
splendid Gasthaus up the winding streets towards the great castle. Here
was a tiny lane of pleasure, full of the heart-plucking whine of zither
music and the gentle melancholy of Tyrolean yodellers. It was here that
the German tourist traditionally stopped after his day's outing into
cheap Austria, just outside the German frontier, for a last giant meal
of Austrian food and wine. Bond put his mouth up close to Tracy's ear
and told her about it and about the other attraction at Kufstein--the
most imaginative war memorial, for the 1914-18 war, ever devised.
Punctually at midday every day, the windows of the castle are thrown
open and a voluntary is played on the great organ inside. It can be
heard for kilometres down the valley between the giant mountain ranges
for which Kufstein provides the gateway. 'But we shall miss it. It's
coming up for twelve now.'

'Never mind,' said Tracy, 'I'll make do with the zithers while you
guzzle your beer and schnapps.' She turned in to the right-hand fork
leading to the underpass for Kufstein, and they were at once through
Rosenheim and the great white peaks were immediately ahead.

The traffic was much sparser now and there were kilometres where theirs
was the only car on the road that arrowed away between white meadows and
larch copses, towards the glittering barrier where blood had been shed
between warring armies for centuries. Bond glanced behind him. Miles
away down the great highway was a speck of red. The Maserati? They
certainly hadn't got much competitive spirit if they couldn't catch the
Lancia at eighty! No good having a car like that if you didn't drive it
so as to lose all other traffic in your mirror. Perhaps he was doing
them an injustice. Perhaps they too only wanted to motor quietly along
and enjoy the day.

Ten minutes later, Tracy said, 'There's a red car coming up fast behind.
Do you want me to lose him?'

'No,' said Bond. 'Let him go. We've got all the time in the world.'

Now he could hear the rasping whine of the eight cylinders. He leaned
over to the left and jerked a laconic thumb forwards, waving the
Maserati past.

The whine changed to a shattering roar. The wind-screen of the Lancia
disappeared as if hit by a monster fist. Bond caught a glimpse of a
taut, snarling mouth under a syphilitic nose, the flash-eliminator of
some automatic gun being withdrawn, and then the red car was past and
the Lancia was going like hell off the verge across a stretch of snow
and smashing a path through a young copse. Then Bond's head crashed into
the wind-screen frame and he was out.

When he came to, a man in the khaki uniform of the Autobahn Patrol was
shaking him. The young face was stark with horror. 'Was ist denn
geschehen? Was ist denn geschehen?'

Bond turned towards Tracy. She was lying forward with her face buried in
the ruins of the steering-wheel. Her pink handkerchief had come off and
the bell of golden hair hung down and hid her face. Bond put his arm
round her shoulders, across which the dark patches had begun to flower.

He pressed her against him. He looked up at the young man and smiled his
reassurance.

'It's all right,' he said in a clear voice as if explaining something to
a child. 'It's quite all right. She's having a rest. We'll be going on
soon. There's no hurry. You see--' Bond's head sank down against hers
and he whispered into her hair--'you see, we've got all the time in the
world.'

The young patrolman took a last scared look at the motionless couple,
hurried over to his motor cycle, picked up the hand-microphone, and
began talking urgently to the rescue headquarters.






[End of On Her Majesty's Secret Service, by Ian Fleming]
