The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  ‘You express yourself most vividly.’ Bond turned his head. The great brown and orange football of a head was bent slightly forward. The round moon-face was bland, indifferent. Casually, one hand reached out to the control panel and pressed down a switch. There came a slow metallic growl from the end of the table on which Bond lay. It curved quickly up to a harsh whine and then to a shrill high whistle that was barely audible. Bond turned his head wearily away. How soon could he manage to die? Was there any way he could hasten death? A friend of his had survived the Gestapo. He had described to Bond how he had tried to commit suicide by holding his breath. By superhuman will-power, after a few minutes without breathing, unconsciousness had come. But, with the blackout of the senses, will and intention had also left the body. At once reason was forgotten. The body’s instinct to live manned the pumps and got breath back into the body again. But Bond could try it. There was nothing else to help him through the pain barrier before the blessing of death. For death was the only exit. He knew he could never squeal to Goldfinger and live with himself again — even in the unlikely event that Goldfinger could be bought off with the truth. No, he must stick to his thin story and hope that the others who would now follow him on Goldfinger’s trail would have better luck. Who would M choose? Probably 008, the second killer in the small section of three. He was a good man, more careful than Bond. M would know that Goldfinger had killed Bond and he would give 008 licence to kill in return. 258 in Geneva would put him on to the scent that would end with Bond’s inquiry about the Entreprises Auric. Yes, fate would catch up with Goldfinger if Bond could only keep his mouth shut. If he gave the least clue away, Goldfinger would escape. That was unthinkable.

  ‘Now then, Mr Bond.’ Goldfinger’s voice was brisk. ‘Enough of these amiabilities. Sing, as my Chicago friends put it, and you will die quickly and painlessly. The girl also. Sing not, and your death will be one long scream. The girl I shall then give to Oddjob, as I did that cat, for supper. Which is it to be?’

  Bond said, ‘Don’t be a fool, Goldfinger. I told my friends at Universal where I was going and why. The girl’s parents know that she went with me. I made inquiries about this factory of yours before we came here. We shall be traced here very easily. Universal is powerful. You will have the police after you within days of our disappearance. I will make a deal with you. Let us go and nothing more will be heard of the matter. I will vouch for the girl. You are making a stupid mistake. We are two perfectly innocent people.’

  Goldfinger said in a bored voice, ‘I’m afraid you don’t understand, Mr Bond. Whatever you have managed to find out about me, which I suspect is very little, can only be a grain of the truth. I am engaged upon gigantic enterprises. To take the gamble of letting either of you leave here alive would be quite ludicrous. It is out of the question. As for my being bothered by the police, I shall be delighted to receive them if they come. Those of my Koreans who can speak won’t do so — nor will the mouths of my electric furnaces which will have vaporized you both and all your belongings at two thousand degrees Centigrade. No, Mr Bond, make your choice. Perhaps I can encourage you’ — there came the noise of a lever moving across iron teeth. ‘The saw is now approaching your body at about one inch every minute. Meanwhile,’ he glanced at Oddjob and held up one finger, ‘a little massage from Oddjob. To begin with, only grade one. Grades two and three are still more persuasive.’

  Bond closed his eyes. The sickly zoo-smell of Oddjob enveloped him. Big, rasping fingers set to work on him carefully, delicately. A pressure here, combined with a pressure there, a sudden squeeze, a pause, and then a quick, sharp blow. Always the hard hands were surgically accurate. Bond ground his teeth until he thought they would break. The sweat of pain began to form pools in the sockets of his closed eyes. The shrill whine of the saw was getting louder. It reminded Bond of the sawdust-scented sounds of long ago summer evenings at home in England. Home? This was his home, this cocoon of danger he had chosen to live in. And here he would be buried ‘in some corner of a foreign blast furnace that is for ever two thousand degrees Centigrade.’ God rest ye merry gentlemen of the Secret Service! What should he give himself as an epitaph? What should be his ‘famous last words’? That you have no choice about your birth, but you can choose the way you die? Yes, it would look well on a tombstone — not Savoir vivre but Savoir mourir.

  ‘Mr Bond.’ Goldfinger’s voice held an ounce of urgency. ‘Is this really necessary? Just tell me the truth. Who are you? Who sent you here? What do you know? Then it will be so easy. You shall both have a pill. There will be no pain. It will be like taking a sleeping draught. Otherwise it will be so messy — so messy and distressing. And are you being fair to the girl? Is this the behaviour of an English gentleman?’

  Oddjob’s torment had stopped. Bond turned his head slowly towards the voice and opened his eyes. He said, ‘Goldfinger, there is nothing more to tell because there is nothing. If you will not accept my first bargain I will make you another. The girl and I will work for you. How about that? We are capable people. You could put us to good use.’

  ‘And get a knife, two knives in my back? Thank you no, Mr Bond.’

  Bond decided it was time to stop talking. It was time to start winding up the mainspring of will-power that must not run down again until he was dead. Bond said politely, ‘Then you can go and —— yourself.’ He expelled all the breath from his lungs and closed his eyes.

  ‘Even I am not capable of that, Mr Bond,’ said Goldfinger with good humour. ‘And now, since you have chosen the stony path instead of the smooth, I must extract what interest I can from your predicament by making the path as stony as possible. Oddjob, grade two.’

  The lever on the table moved across iron teeth. Now Bond could feel the wind of the saw between his knees. The hands came back.

  Bond counted the slowly pounding pulse that utterly possessed his body. It was like the huge panting power plant in the other part of the factory but, in his case, it was slowly decelerating. If only it would slow down quicker. What was this ridiculous will to live that refused to listen to the brain? Who was making the engine run on although the tank was dry of fuel? But he must empty his mind of thought, as well as his body of oxygen. He must become a vacuum, a deep hole of unconsciousness.

  Still the light burned red through his eyelids. Still he could feel the bursting pressure in his temples. Still the slow drum of life beat in his ears.

  A scream tried to force its way through the clamped teeth.

  Die damn you die die damn you die damn you die damn you die damn you die...

  Chapter 16

  The Last and the Biggest

  The wings of a dove, the heavenly choir, Hark the Herald Angels Sing — what else ought he to remember about Paradise? It was all so exactly like what he had been told in the nursery — this sensation of flying, the darkness, the drone of a million harps. He really must try and remember the dope about the place. Let’s see now, one got to the Pearly Gates...

  A deep fatherly voice said, almost in his ear, ‘This is your captain speaking.’ (Well, well. Who was this. Saint Peter?) We are coming in to land now. Will you please fasten your seat belts and extinguish your cigarettes. Thank you.’

  There must be a whole lot of them, going up together. Would Tilly be on the same trip? Bond squirmed with embarrassment. How would he introduce her to the others, to Vesper for instance? And when it came to the point, which would he like the best? But perhaps it would be a big place with countries and towns. There was probably no more reason why he should run into one of his former girl friends here than there had been on earth. But still there were a lot of people he’d better avoid until he got settled in and found out the form. Perhaps, with so much love about, these things wouldn’t matter. Perhaps one just loved all the girls one met. Hm. Tricky business!

  With these unworthy thoughts in his mind, Bond relapsed into unconsciousness.

  The next thing he knew was a gentle sensation of swaying. He opened his eyes. The sun blind
ed them. He closed them again. A voice above and behind his head said, ‘Watch it, bud. That ramp’s steeper than it looks.’ Almost immediately there was a heavy jolt. A surly voice in front said, ‘Cheesus, you’re telling me. Why in hell can’t they put down rubber.’

  Bond thought angrily, that’s a fine way to talk up here. Just because I’m new and they think no one’s listening.

  There was the bang of a swing door. Something hit Bond sharply on a protruding elbow. He shouted ‘Hey!’ and tried to reach his elbow and rub it, but his hands wouldn’t move.

  ‘Whaddya know. Hey, Sam, better call the doc. This one’s come round.’

  ‘Sure! Here, put him alongside the other.’ Bond felt himself being lowered. It was cooler now. He opened his eyes. A big round Brooklyn face was bent over his. The eyes met his and smiled. The metal supports of the stretcher touched the ground. The man said, ‘How ya feelin,’ mister?’

  ‘Where am I?’ Now there was panic in Bond’s voice. He tried to rise but couldn’t. He felt the sweat break out on his body. God! Was this still part of the old life? At the thought of it, a wave of grief poured through his body. Tears burned his eyes and trickled down his cheeks.

  ‘Hey, hey! Take it easy, mister. You’re okay. This is Idlewild, New York. You’re in America now. No more troubles, see.’ The man straightened up. He thought Bond was a refugee from somewhere. ‘Sam, get movin.’ This guy’s in shock.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ The two voices receded, mumbling anxiously.

  Bond found he could move his head. He looked round. He was in a white-painted ward — presumably something to do with the health department of the airport. There was a row of tidy beds. Sun poured down from high windows, but it was cool, air-conditioned. He was on a stretcher on the floor. There was another one next to it. He strained his head sideways. It was Tilly. She was unconscious. Her pale face, framed in the black hair, pointed at the ceiling.

  The door at the end of the ward sighed open. A doctor in a white coat stood and held it. Goldfinger, looking brisk, cheerful, walked swiftly down between the beds. He was followed by Oddjob. Bond wearily closed his eyes. Christ! So that was the score.

  Feet gathered round his stretcher. Goldfinger said breezily, ‘Well, they certainly look in good shape, eh, Doctor? That’s one of the blessings of having enough money. When one’s friends or one’s staff are ill one can get them the very best medical attention. Nervous breakdowns, both of them. And in the same week! Would you believe it? But I blame myself for working them both too hard. Now it’s my duty to get them back on their feet again. Dr Foch — he’s the best man in Geneva, by the way — was quite definite. He said, “They need rest, Mr Goldfinger. Rest, rest and again rest.” He gave them sedatives and now they’re on their way to the Harkness Pavilion at the Presbyterian.’ Goldfinger chuckled fatly. ‘Sow and you shall reap, eh, Doctor? When I gave the Harkness a million dollars’ worth of X-ray equipment, I certainly never expected anything back. But now? I only had to put through a call and they’ve got two fine rooms waiting for them. Now then—’ there was a rustle of notes— ‘thank you for all your help with Immigration. Fortunately they both had valid visas and I think Immigration was satisfied that Mr Auric Goldfinger was a sufficient guarantee that neither of them wants to overthrow the United States Government by force, what?’

  ‘Yes indeed, and thank you Mr Goldfinger. Anything I can do... I understand you have a private ambulance waiting outside.’

  Bond opened his eyes and looked at where the doctor’s voice came from. He saw a pleasant, serious young man with rimless glasses and a crew-cut. Bond said quietly and with desperate sincerity, ‘Doctor, there is absolutely nothing wrong with me or this girl. We have been drugged and brought here against our will. Neither of us works or has ever worked for Goldfinger. I am warning you that we have been kidnapped. I demand to see the Chief of Immigration. I have friends in Washington and New York. They will vouch for me. I beg of you to believe me.’ Bond held the man’s eyes in his, willing him to believe.

  The doctor looked worried. He turned to Goldfinger. Goldfinger shook his head — discreetly so that Bond would not be insulted. A surreptitious hand went up and tapped the side of his head away from Bond. Goldfinger raised helpless eyebrows. ‘You see what I mean, Doctor? It’s been like this for days. Total nervous prostration combined with persecution mania. Dr Foch said they often go together. It may need weeks at the Harkness. But I’m going to pull him round if it’s the last thing I do. It’s the shock of these unfamiliar surroundings. Perhaps a shot of intraval sodium...’

  The doctor bent to his black bag. ‘I guess you’re right, Mr Goldfinger. So long as Harkness is looking after the case.’ There came the tinkle of instruments.

  Goldfinger said, ‘It’s terribly sad to see a man break down so utterly, a man who has been one of my best assistants.’ He bent a sweet, fatherly smile on Bond. There was a catch in his voice. ‘You’ll be all right, James. Just relax and have a nice sleep. I was afraid the flight might be too much for you. Just relax and leave everything to me.’

  Bond felt the swab on his arm. He heaved. Against his will, a shower of curses poured from his lips. Then he felt the needle and opened his mouth and screamed and screamed while the doctor knelt beside him and delicately, patiently, wiped away the sweat from his forehead.

  Now it was a grey painted box of a room. There were no windows. Light came from a single bowl lamp inset in the centre of the ceiling. Round the lamp were concentric slits in the plaster and there was the neutral smell and faint hum of air-conditioning. Bond found he could sit up. He did so. He felt drowsy but well. He suddenly realized that he was ravenously hungry and thirsty. When had he last had a meal? Two, three days ago? He put his feet down on the floor. He was naked. He examined his body. Oddjob had been careful. There was no sign of damage save for the group of needle-marks on his right forearm. He got up, conquering dizziness, and took a few steps in the room. He had been lying on a ship’s type bunk with drawers under it. The only other furniture in the room was a plain deal table and an upright wooden chair. Everything was clean, functional, Spartan. Bond knelt to the drawers under the bunk and opened them. They contained all the contents of his suitcase except his watch and the gun. Even the rather heavy shoes he had been wearing on his expedition to Entreprises Auric were there. He twisted one of the heels and pulled. The broad double-sided knife slid smoothly out of its scabbard in the sole. With the fingers wrapped round the locked heel it made a workmanlike stabbing dagger. Bond verified that the other shoe held its knife and clicked the heels back into position. He pulled out some clothes and put them on. He found his cigarette case and lighter and lit a cigarette. There were two doors of which one had a handle. He opened this one. It led into a small, well-appointed bathroom and lavatory. His washing and shaving things were neatly laid out. There were a girl’s things beside them. Bond softly opened the other door into the bathroom. It was a similar room to his own. Tilly Masterton’s black hair showed on the pillow of the bunk. Bond tiptoed over and looked down. She was sleeping peacefully, a half-smile on the beautiful mouth. Bond went back into the bathroom, softly closed the door and went to the mirror over the basin and looked at himself. The black stubble looked more like three days than two. He set to work to clean himself up.

  Half an hour later, Bond was sitting on the edge of his bunk thinking, when the door without a handle opened abruptly. Oddjob stood in the entrance. He looked incuriously at Bond. His eyes flickered carefully round the room. Bond said sharply, ‘Oddjob, I want a lot of food, quickly. And a bottle of bourbon, soda and ice. Also a carton of Chesterfields, king-size, and either my own watch or another one as good as mine. Quick march! Chop-chop! And tell Goldfinger I want to see him, but not until I’ve had something to eat. Come on! Jump to it! Don’t stand there looking inscrutable. I’m hungry.’

  Oddjob looked redly at Bond as if wondering which piece to break. He opened his mouth, uttered a noise between an angry bark and a belch, spat drily on th
e floor at his feet and stepped back, whirling the door shut. When the slam should have come, the door decelerated abruptly and closed with a soft, decisive, double click.

  The encounter put Bond in good humour. For some reason Goldfinger had decided against killing them. He wanted them alive. Soon Bond would know why he wanted them alive but, so long as he did, Bond intended to stay alive on his own terms. Those terms included putting Oddjob and any other Korean firmly in his place, which, in Bond’s estimation, was rather lower than apes in the mammalian hierarchy.

  By the time an excellent meal together with everything else, including his watch, Bond had asked for, had been brought by one of the Korean servants, Bond had learned nothing more about his circumstances except that his room was close to water and not far from a railway bridge. Assuming his room was in New York, it was either on the Hudson or the East River. The railway was electric and sounded like a subway, but Bond’s New York geography was not good enough to place it. His watch had stopped. When he asked the time he got no answer.

  Bond had eaten all the food on the tray and was smoking and sipping a solid bourbon and soda when the door opened. Goldfinger came in alone. He was wearing a regulation businessman’s clothes and looked relaxed and cheerful. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back to it. He looked searchingly at Bond. Bond smoked and looked politely back.

  Goldfinger said, ‘Good morning, Mr Bond. I see you are yourself again. I hope you prefer being here to being dead. So as to save you the trouble of asking a lot of conventional questions, I will tell you where you are and what has happened to you. I will then put to you a proposition to which I require an unequivocal reply. You are a more reasonable man than most, so I need only give you one brief warning. Do not attempt any dramatics. Do not attack me with a knife or a fork or that bottle. If you do, I shall shoot you with this.’ A small-calibre pistol grew like a black thumb out of Goldfinger’s right fist. He put the hand with the gun back in his pocket. ‘I very seldom use these things. When I have had to, I have never needed more than one .25-calibre bullet to kill. I shoot at the right eye, Mr Bond. And I never miss.’