Bond 11 - On Her Majesty's Secret Service

by Ian Fleming

  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 tooth-brush 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.

  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 C.M.G, 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 V.I.P. treatment?’

  ‘M. You’re to check with H.Q. 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 O.K. 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 D.O.’ – 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 Zürich Central Airport at 1330 by Swissair to make first contact in connection 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 K.G.B. 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.