by Ian Fleming
The ADC at his side was less comfortable. He was nervous at RUMID being pinned down in this way, and without a full departmental briefing. He scoured his brain clear and sharpened his ears to catch every word.
‘In this matter,’ said General Vozdvishensky carefully, ‘one must not confuse the man with his office. Every country has good spies and it is not always the biggest countries that have the most or the best. But Secret Services are expensive, and small countries cannot afford the co-ordinated effort which produces good intelligence—the forgery departments, the radio network, the record department, the digestive apparatus that evaluates and compares the reports of the agents. There are individual agents serving Norway, Holland, Belgium and even Portugal who could be a great nuisance to us if these countries knew the value of their reports or made good use of them. But they do not. Instead of passing their information on to the larger powers, they prefer to sit on it and feel important. So we need not worry with these smaller countries,’ he paused, ‘until we come to Sweden. There they have been spying on us for centuries. They have always had better information on the Baltic than even Finland or Germany. They are dangerous. I would like to put a stop to their activities.’
General G. interrupted. ‘Comrade, they are always having spy scandals in Sweden. One more scandal would not make the world look up. Please continue.’
‘Italy can be dismissed,’ went on General Vozdvishensky, without appearing to notice the interruption. ‘They are clever and active, but they do us no harm. They are only interested in their own backyard, the Mediterranean. The same can be said of Spain, except that their counter-intelligence is a great hindrance to the Party. We have lost many good men to these Fascists. But to mount an operation against them would probably cost us more men. And little would be achieved. They are not yet ripe for revolution. In France, while we have penetrated most of their Services, the Deuxiéme Bureau is still clever and dangerous. There is a man called Mathis at the head of it. A Mendés-France appointment. He would be a tempting target and it would be easy to operate in France.’
‘France is looking after herself,’ commented General G.
‘England is another matter altogether. I think we all have respect for her Intelligence Service,’ General Vozdvishensky looked round the table. There were grudging nods from everyone present, including General G. ‘Their Security Service is excellent. England, being an island, has great security advantages and their so-called MI5 employs men with good education and good brains. Their Secret Service is still better. They have notable successes. In certain types of operation, we are constantly finding that they have been there before us. Their agents are good. They pay them little money—only a thousand or two thousand roubles a month—but they serve with devotion. Yet these agents have no special privileges in England, no relief from taxation and no special shops such as we have, from which they can buy cheap goods. Their social standing abroad is not high, and their wives have to pass as the wives of secretaries. They are rarely awarded a decoration until they retire. And yet these men and women continue to do this dangerous work. It is curious. It is perhaps the Public School and University tradition. The love of adventure. But still it is odd that they play this game so well, for they are not natural conspirators.’ General Vozdvishensky felt that his remarks might be taken as too laudatory. He hastily qualified them. ‘Of course, most of their strength lies in the myth—in the myth of Scotland Yard, of Sherlock Holmes, of the Secret Service. We certainly have nothing to fear from these gentlemen. But this myth is a hindrance which it would be good to set aside.’
‘And the Americans?’ General G. wanted to put a stop to Vozdvishensky’s attempts to qualify his praise of British Intelligence. One day that bit about the Public School and University tradition would sound well in court. Next, hoped General G., he will be saying that the Pentagon is stronger than the Kremlin.
‘The Americans have the biggest and richest service among our enemies. Technically, in such matters as radio and weapons and equipment, they are the best. But they have no understanding for the work. They get enthusiastic about some Balkan spy who says he has a secret army in the Ukraine. They load him with money with which to buy boots for this army. Of course he goes at once to Paris and spends the money on women. Americans try to do everything with money. Good spies will not work for money alone—only bad ones, of which the Americans have several divisions.’
‘They have successes, Comrade,’ said General G. silkily. ‘Perhaps you underestimate them.’
General Vozdvishensky shrugged. ‘They must have successes, Comrade General. You cannot sow a million seeds without reaping one potato. Personally I do not think the Americans need engage the attention of this conference.’ The head of RUMID sat back in his chair and stolidly took out his cigarette case.
‘A very interesting exposition,’ said General G. coldly. ‘Comrade General Slavin?’
General Slavin of the GRU had no intention of committing himself on behalf of the General Staff of the Army. ‘I have listened with interest to the words of Comrade General Vozdvishensky. I have nothing to add.’
Colonel of State Security Nikitin of MGB felt it would do no great harm to show up the GRU as being too stupid to have any ideas at all, and at the same time to make a modest recommendation that would probably tally with the inner thoughts of those present—and that was certainly on the tip of General G.’s tongue. Colonel Nikitin also knew that, given the proposition that had been posed by the Praesidium, the Soviet Secret Service would back him up.
‘I recommend the English Secret Service as the object of terrorist action,’ he said decisively. ‘The devil knows my department hardly finds them a worthy adversary, but they are the best of an indifferent lot.’
General G. was annoyed by the authority in the man’s voice, and by having his thunder stolen, for he also had intended to sum up in favour of an operation against the British. He tapped his lighter softly on the desk to reimpose his chairmanship. ‘Is it agreed then, Comrades? An act of terrorism against the British Secret Service?’
There were careful, slow nods all round the table.
‘I agree. And now for the target within that organization. I remember Comrade General Vozdvishensky saying something about a myth upon which much of the alleged strength of this Secret Service depends. How can we help to destroy the myth and thus strike at the very motive force of this organization? Where does this myth reside? We cannot destroy all its personnel at one blow. Does it reside in the Head? Who is the Head of the British Secret Service?’
Colonel Nikitin’s aide whispered in his ear. Colonel Nikitin decided that this was a question he could and perhaps should answer.
‘He is an Admiral. He is known by the letter M. We have a zapiska on him, but it contains little. He does not drink very much. He is too old for women. The public does not know of his existence. It would be difficult to create a scandal round his death. And he would not be easy to kill. He rarely goes abroad. To shoot him in a London street would not be very refined.’
‘There is much in what you say, Comrade,’ said General G. ‘But we are here to find a target who will fulfil our requirements. Have they no one who is a hero to the organization? Someone who is admired and whose ignominious destruction would cause dismay? Myths are built on heroic deeds and heroic people. Have they no such men?’
There was silence round the table while everyone searched his memory. So many names to remember, so many dossiers, so many operations going on every day all over the world. Who was there in the British Secret Service? Who was that man who...?
It was Colonel Nikitin of the MGB who broke the embarrassed silence.
He said hesitantly, ‘There is a man called Bond.’
Chapter 6
Death Warrant
‘Y*b**nna mat!’ The gross obscenity was a favourite with General G. His hand slapped down on the desk. ‘Comrade, there certainly is “a man called Bond” as you put it.’ His voice was sarcastic. ‘James Bond. [He pro
nounced it “Shems.”] And nobody, myself included, could think of this spy’s name! We are indeed forgetful. No wonder the Intelligence apparat is under criticism.’
General Vozdvishensky felt he should defend himself and his department. ‘There are countless enemies of the Soviet Union, Comrade General,’ he protested, ‘If I want their names, I send to the Central Index for them. Certainly I know the name of this Bond. He has been a great trouble to us at different times. But today my mind is full of other names—names of people who are causing us trouble today, this week. I am interested in football, but I cannot remember the name of every foreigner who has scored a goal against the Dynamos.’
‘You are pleased to joke, Comrade,’ said General G. to underline this out-of-place comment. ‘This is a serious matter. I for one admit my fault in not remembering the name of this notorious agent. Comrade Colonel Nikitin will no doubt refresh our memories further, but I recall that this Bond has at least twice frustrated the operations of Smersh. That is,’ he added, ‘before I assumed control of the department. There was this affair in France, at that Casino town. The man Le Chiffre. An excellent leader of the Party in France. He foolishly got into some money troubles. But he would have got out of them if this Bond had not interfered. I recall that the Department had to act quickly and liquidate the Frenchman. The executioner should have dealt with the Englishman at the same time, but he did not. Then there was this Negro of ours in Harlem. A great man—one of the greatest foreign agents we have ever employed, and with a vast network behind him. There was some business about a treasure in the Caribbean. I forget the details. This Englishman was sent out by the Secret Service and smashed the whole organization and killed our man. It was a great reverse. Once again my predecessor should have proceeded ruthlessly against this English spy.’
Colonel Nikitin broke in. ‘We had a similar experience in the case of the German, Drax, and the rocket. You will recall the matter, Comrade General. A most important konspiratsia. The General Staff were deeply involved. It was a matter of High Policy which could have borne decisive fruit. But again it was this Bond who frustrated the operation. The German was killed. There were grave consequences for the State. There followed a period of serious embarrassment which was only solved with difficulty.’
General Slavin of GRU felt that he should say something. The rocket had been an Army operation and its failure had been laid at the door of GRU. Nikitin knew this perfectly well. As usual MGB was trying to make trouble for GRU—raking up old history in this manner. ‘We asked for this man to be dealt with by your department, Comrade Colonel,’ he said icily. ‘I cannot recall that any action followed our request. If it had, we should not now be having to bother with him.’
Colonel Nikitin’s temples throbbed with rage. He controlled himself. ‘With due respect, Comrade General,’ he said in a loud, sarcastic voice, ‘the request of GRU was not confirmed by Higher Authority. Further embarrassment with England was not desired. Perhaps that detail has slipped your memory. In any case, if such a request had reached MGB, it would have been referred to Smersh for action.’
‘My department received no such request,’ said General G. sharply. ‘Or the execution of this man would have rapidly followed. However, this is no time for historical researches. The rocket affair was three years ago. Perhaps the MGB could tell us of the more recent activities of this man.’
Colonel Nikitin whispered hurriedly with his aide. He turned back to the table. ‘We have very little further information, Comrade General,’ he said defensively. ‘We believe that he was involved in some diamond smuggling affair. That was last year. Between Africa and America. The case did not concern us. Since then we have no further news of him. Perhaps there is more recent information on his file.’
General G. nodded. He picked up the receiver of the telephone nearest to him. This was the so-called Kommandant Telefon of the MGB. All lines were direct and there was no central switchboard. He dialled a number. ‘Central Index? Here General Grubozaboyschikov. The zapiska of “Bond”—English spy. Emergency.’ He listened for the immediate ‘At once, Comrade General,’ and put back the receiver. He looked down the table with authority. ‘Comrades, from many points of view this spy sounds an appropriate target. He appears to be a dangerous enemy of the State. His liquidation will be of benefit to all departments of our Intelligence apparat. Is that so?’
The conference grunted.
‘Also his loss will be felt by the Secret Service. But will it do more? Will it seriously wound them? Will it help to destroy this myth about which we have been speaking? Is this man a hero to his organization and his country?’
General Vozdvishensky decided that this question was intended for him. He spoke up. ‘The English are not interested in heroes unless they are footballers or cricketers or jockeys. If a man climbs a mountain or runs very fast he also is a hero to some people, but not to the masses. The Queen of England is also a hero, and Churchill. But the English are not greatly interested in military heroes. This man Bond is unknown to the public. If he was known, he would still not be a hero. In England, neither open war nor secret war is a heroic matter. They do not like to think about war, and after a war the names of their war heroes are forgotten as quickly as possible. Within the Secret Service, this man may be a local hero or he may not. It will depend on his appearance and personal characteristics. Of these I know nothing. He may be fat and greasy and unpleasant. No one makes a hero out of such a man, however successful he is.’
Nikitin broke in. ‘English spies we have captured speak highly of this man. He is certainly much admired in his Service. He is said to be a lone wolf, but a good-looking one.’
The internal office telephone purred softly. General G. lifted the receiver, listened briefly and said, ‘Bring it in.’ There was a knock on the door. The ADC came in carrying a bulky file in cardboard covers. He crossed the room and placed the file on the desk in front of the General and walked out, closing the door softly behind him.
The file had a shiny black cover. A thick white stripe ran diagonally across it from top right-hand corner to bottom left. In the top left-hand space there were the letters ‘S.S.’ in white, and under them ‘sovershenno sekretno,’ the equivalent of ‘Top Secret.’ Across the centre was neatly painted in white letters ‘james bond,’ and underneath ‘Angliski Spion.’
General G. opened the file and took out a large envelope containing photographs which he emptied on to the glass surface of the desk. He picked them up one by one. He looked closely at them, sometimes through a magnifying glass which he took out of a drawer, and passed them across the desk to Nikitin who glanced at them and handed them on.
The first was dated 1946. It showed a dark young man sitting at a table outside a sunlit café. There was a tall glass beside him on the table and a soda-water siphon. The right forearm rested on the table and there was a cigarette between the fingers of the right hand that hung negligently down from the edge of the table. The legs were crossed in that attitude that only an Englishman adopts—with the right ankle resting on the left knee and the left hand grasping the ankle. It was a careless pose. The man didn’t know that he was being photographed from a point about twenty feet away.
The next was dated 1950. It was a face and shoulders, blurred, but of the same man. It was a close-up and Bond was looking with careful, narrowed eyes at something, probably the photographer’s face, just above the lens. A miniature buttonhole camera, guessed General G.
The third was from 1951. Taken from the left flank, quite close, it showed the same man in a dark suit, without a hat, walking down a wide empty street. He was passing a shuttered shop whose sign said ‘Charcuterie.’ He looked as if he was going somewhere urgently. The clean-cut profile was pointing straight ahead and the crook of the right elbow suggested that his right hand was in the pocket of his coat. General G. reflected that it was probably taken from a car. He thought that the decisive look of the man, and the purposeful slant of his striding figure, looked dangerous,
as if he was making quickly for something bad that was happening further down the street.
The fourth and last photograph was marked Passe. 1953. The corner of the Royal Seal and the letters ‘... reign office’ in the segment of a circle showed in the bottom right-hand corner. The photograph, which had been blown up to cabinet size, must have been made at a frontier, or by the concierge of an hotel when Bond had surrendered his passport. General G. carefully went over the face with his magnifying glass.
It was a dark, clean-cut face, with a three-inch scar showing whitely down the sun-burned skin of the right cheek. The eyes were wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. The hair was black, parted on the left, and carelessly brushed so that a thick black comma fell down over the right eyebrow. The longish straight nose ran down to a short upper lip below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth. The line of the jaw was straight and firm. A section of dark suit, white shirt and black knitted tie completed the picture.
General G. held the photograph out at arm’s length. Decision, authority, ruthlessness—these qualities he could see. He didn’t care what else went on inside the man. He passed the photograph down the table and turned to the file, glancing rapidly down each page and flipping brusquely on to the next.
The photographs came back to him. He kept his place with a finger and looked briefly up. ‘He looks a nasty customer,’ he said grimly. ‘His story confirms it. I will read out some extracts. Then we must decide. It is getting late.’ He turned back to the first page and began to rattle off the points that struck him.
