Bond 11 - On Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Ian Fleming

  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 connection with Peckham ...’

  ‘I have no connection 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 connection? 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.’

  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 connection 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 so
mething about it earlier. Now then, in June last, the tenth, we got this confidential letter from a firm of respectable Zürich 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.