The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  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 friend from the Deuxième, 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 200,000 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 Sécurité 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 connection 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 Sécurité and come up with the exact address of Blofeld. But their ‘friends’ in Zurich 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 N.A.T.O. 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 S.I.S. could come up with further information or evidence about this man, they must assume that the S.I.S. 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 Sécurité 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 höflichst 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.’