James Bond: The Authorised Biography

by John Pearson

‘I'll say. Descaux's an alias of course. Real name is Grautz – German father, Belgian mother. During the war he worked with the Vichy secret police, and for the Gestapo. There's still a lot against him on the file – torture of suspects, murder of hostages, alleged involvement in the mass executions at Nantes in 1943.’

  Bond looked grim. ‘And this man El Bezir?’

  ‘A nationalist, an intellectual, but something of a moderate.’

  ‘Any connection with the bank raid?’

  ‘Absolutely none. We've got two men inside who've just confessed. We've even got the money.’

  Bond felt that he was beginning to understand.

  ‘What about this man Descaux?’ said Fauchet. ‘We'd better pull him in before there's trouble.’

  ‘No,’ said James Bond. ‘Leave him to me.’

  Bond knew the cheap hotel where Descaux was staying. There was a garage at the rear. He had no difficulty entering, and in the old Citroën van he found the gelignite, the timing apparatus Descaux had boasted of. It was a primitive affair, but certainly sufficient to destroy a building. Bond was examining it when Descaux entered, with a gun.

  Bond could have shot him first. He didn't, because he had other plans and there were things he needed to find out. Descaux disarmed him, tied him up – the knots were very tight – and then, methodically and lovingly, beat him up. Again Bond could have stopped him, but again he didn't. There was no other way of getting him to talk. Then, finally, when Bond's face was pulped and his body limp from kicking, Descaux stopped – the orgy over.

  ‘That was on orders from your boss,’ he said.

  Bond mumbled some reply.

  ‘He really hates you. Still, you've yourself to blame, you stupid bastard. Playing around with his wife like that. You should have known better with a man like Maddox.’

  Bond stiffened. Up to that moment he had never guessed the truth. Now that he did, everything was clear. Maddox had simply used the El Bezir affair to get even with him. The fact that the Algerian was innocent didn't matter. Maddox wanted Bond destroyed – and didn't mind how.

  ‘He's got it all worked out,’ said Descaux gloatingly. ‘You're going to take the rap for tonight's little caper. When our black friends are blasted to their Maker the evidence will point to you. He's a clever little man, your Mr Maddox. He's seen that I'm completely in the clear, but as for you the evidence would guillotine the President of France.’

  Descaux opened the garage doors and climbed aboard the Citroën. Bond heard him backing out, then listened for the bang. He had already fixed the timing apparatus on the bomb and it exploded, as he knew it would, three minutes later. Descaux was killed, a lot of glass was shattered, and it took several hours to fill in the crater in the road. No one else was hurt.

  But as for Bond the bitterness went deep. Fauchet looked after him, and helped clear up the case. Bond made sure that nothing backfired on Maddox. Bitter though he was, he couldn't have that on his conscience. Instead he cabled his resignation to Paris and asked a friend to close his flat and ship the Bentley back to Aunt Charmian. A few days later, when his face was healed, he left for Kenya. He was through with Europe.

  For several months he stayed in Kenya. During this time he worked for an American who made wild-life films for television. Bond enjoyed it, but there was trouble with a woman. Nairobi was a small place. Bond moved again – first to Mombasa, and then, when the money started to run out, on to the Seychelles. Living was cheaper there. Girls were easy. Nothing worried him. He stayed here several months, bumming a living as he could. It was restful to have reached rock bottom and to be free of loyalties and duties. No one could use him or betray him. Bond was content.

  It is hard to know how long he might have stayed here. Places like the Seychelles, dead-end paradises, seem to be full of potential James Bonds. For a while he helped a man prospect for treasure, then he worked for an American millionaire who was searching for rare fish. Fleming retold this episode, changing the time and names and certain key facts, in a short story which he called The Hildebrand Rarity.

  It was a gruesome business. The millionaire was killed – to this day full responsibility for his death remains uncertain – and, for some while, Bond lived with his widow. She was rich. She loved him. And as Bond says, ‘I was past caring what I was by then. If I was a gigolo, at least I was paying for my keep.’

  Then, once again, chance intervened; Ian Fleming arrived in the Seychelles. He was travelling for the Sunday Times and writing about the buried treasure of an eighteenth-century pirate. He said he was appalled to see how Bond was living. No one should waste their talents and their life like this. They talked a lot together and Fleming said that during the time that Bond had been away, there had been changes in the Secret Service. Why not come back?

  Suddenly Bond found that he was missing London, missing the old life, and the excitement he had known. It was too tempting to resist. When Fleming travelled back to London, Bond came with him.

  8

  007 is Born

  BOND HAD ENJOYED talking about the Seychelles. Now that he had dealt with the scandal of the Washington affair he could apparently relax and during these few days we had slipped into one of his inevitable routines. We would meet every evening after dinner. Sometimes he brought Honey with him, sometimes not. (To my surprise, the two of them appeared to be becoming quite a cosy couple. I wondered if Bond realized.) And then, without much prompting, he would begin to talk. He liked to have his bottle of Wild Turkey bourbon, and his cigarettes (I was relieved to see that he was off the de-nicotined Virginians and back on the Morlands Specials – one more good sign). He was becoming more precise and less self-conscious, particularly now that he began explaining how he made his prodigal's return to the Secret Service. It was an ironic story and he told it well.

  I had not realized the role that Ian Fleming played in this. I knew, of course, that long after he left Naval Intelligence for journalism, Fleming had maintained his contacts with the secret-service world. What I didn't know was their extent, and how he acted as an unofficial talent scout for the department. I can see now that this would have been a role that suited him. He knew the top brass of the Secret Service personally, M. included, and the range of his acquaintanceship was quite phenomenal. He was a dedicated human catalyst, a great one for knowing exactly the right man for any job. This was one reason for his effortless success as a journalist – I can remember how he always knew the one key person for a story when he was writing his weekly column on the Sunday Times. He obviously used his talents in the same way for the Secret Service – particularly with Bond, although it must have taken all his skill and tact to organize.

  One of the most exclusive dining clubs in London is the so-called Twinsnakes Club. Fleming has mentioned it, much to the chagrin of some of its more straightlaced members. It meets once a year, generally at the Connaught Hotel, and consists of the most distinguished members, past and present, of the British Secret Service. They dine extremely well and, when the port is circulating, one of their members reads a paper. The standard is traditionally high. In the past their numbers have included Buchan and Charles Morgan, as well as the heads of the profession. The famous story of The Man Who Never Was originated with a paper which was read here. This year it was Fleming's turn. He chose for his subject, ‘The ideal agent – a study in character’.

  Fleming described a man called X. He was in his early thirties – good-looking, something of a womanizer, adept at games, tough, dedicated, socially acceptable. He had sufficient glamour to take him anywhere, and was the perfect man of the world. As Fleming said, ‘The grey-faced, anonymous operators that are now in fashion have their limitations. How can they hope to penetrate the topmost echelons of politics and commerce and society where the decisions matter?’

  But at the same time, X was enough of an outsider to maintain complete integrity. He was what Fleming called ‘his own man’ – slightly cynical, entirely without social or political ambitions, and, of course,
unmarried. ‘A red-blooded, resolutely heterosexual bachelor,’ was how Fleming put it.

  In the discussion there was general agreement with Fleming's thesis – most of the argument was whether a man like X could possibly exist. M. in particular seemed convinced that he could not. Fleming heard him out, and then said quietly, ‘Oh but he does. You've even met him. His name is Bond.’

  Even then Fleming must have done a lot of delicate persuading behind the scenes, for M. had not forgotten Washington. But two days later M.'s secretary, the cool Miss Moneypenny, rang Bond to say that M. would like to lunch with him at Blades. Slightly puzzled, Bond accepted, and, soon after, Fleming rang. He admitted having fixed the lunch, but said that he thought Bond should ‘make his number with the old fire-eater’.

  ‘I've had a word with him, and I think I've cleared up that misunderstanding over Washington. You have to make allowances you know. M.'s a Victorian. He was married – they were quite devoted – and ever since she died he's been faithful to her memory. Rather touching, but it means he's sometimes sensitive about sex and marriage.’

  ‘You're telling me,’ said Bond.

  ‘But he's a fascinating character. Extremely complex. Works like mad, of course, and a real hard nut. And yet a marvellous man to work for once you know him. Those who do won't hear a word against him.’

  ‘I'll believe you,’ Bond replied.

  ‘Oh, and a few words of warning. This time, when you meet him, don't admit to knowing any languages too well. M. has two phobias in life – men with beards and people who are fluent in foreign languages. On no account call him “Sir”.’

  ‘I wouldn't dream of it,’ said Bond.

  ‘And let him choose the wine.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Bond.

  *

  It was uncanny to be back at Blades. Since that evening when he lost £80 to Bunny Kendrick, Bond had allowed his membership to lapse. But Prizeman, the hall porter, remembered him, welcoming him back as if it had all been yesterday.

  ‘Commander Bond. Nice to see you. Sir Miles is expecting you in the dining room.’

  Whatever qualms Bond had at meeting M. again were lulled by the prospect of that splendid room. Here Robert Adam had approached perfection – his architecture still embodied an ideal of eighteenth-century calm and certainty. Against such a background the grimy subterfuges of the secret-service world appeared unthinkable. It was even hard for Bond to think of this solid gentlemanly figure in the dark blue suit as the antagonist of cruel and dedicated men in Moscow and Peking waging a war that never ceased.

  M. was genial. The eyes were twinkling now. Reluctantly, Bond had to admit that he had a certain charm; he talked about his recent salmon fishing on the Test.

  ‘A Scot like you must know more about salmon than I do,’ said M.

  ‘Haven't fished for years,’ said Bond.

  ‘Oh no, of course. Golf's your game.’

  Bond nodded. Somebody, probably the Chief of Staff, had been giving M. a swift run-down on his hobbies – Bond wondered how much else he knew. They chatted briefly about golf, although M.'s ignorance about the game was evident. Bond thought that, after all, he had a kindly face: if there was such a thing as a typical old-fashioned sailor's face, M. had it.

  M. scanned the menu (without spectacles), and ordered soup and steak-and-kidney pie. After the talk of fishing on the Test, Bond was ready for the Club smoked salmon, but at the last moment something told him that it wouldn't be appreciated. He had the same as M.

  ‘And how about a little wine? I'm sure you have some preference.’

  But Bond said, no, he'd rather have Sir Miles's choice. M., positively beaming now, ordered the wine waiter to bring out a carafe of his favourite Algerian, ‘the old Infuriator of the Fleet, you know’ (Bond wondered briefly who else at Blades could possibly have drunk it).

  When it arrived M. brushed aside the wine waiter's suggestion that he ought to taste it. Instead, he filled their glasses, and then drank with gusto.

  ‘I think,’ said M., ‘it's time that you rejoined us.’

  It all seemed very casual, rather as if M. were asking him to renew his membership of Blades.

  M. clearly relished steak-and-kidney pie. Bond admired his digestion and the no-nonsense way he piled his plate. Most men of his age, he thought, would have been worrying about an ulcer or their arteries.

  ‘Fleming's not been giving you any idea what we have in mind for you?’ said M.

  Bond felt the steely eyes were watching carefully. He shook his head.

  ‘As you have probably gathered, things have changed a lot since you've been away. The so-called “Secret War” we're fighting has been hotting up, in all directions. The opposition keep us on our toes, and we have had to regroup accordingly.’

  Bond nodded. There was a silence broken only by the champing of M.'s jaws.

  ‘It's an unpleasant fact of life that in our business we sometimes have to kill our enemies. The opposition makes no bones about it. I take it that you've heard of Smersh?’

  ‘Smiert Spionam’, said Bond.

  M. glanced up quickly.

  ‘Quite,’ he said. ‘Well as we know, for two years now they've run their training school outside a place called Irkutsk. They have a special course in what they are pleased to call “liquidation”. They also have a section specially devised to cope with all assignments which have a so-called “assassination element”. You'll have to read the dossiers on it back at Headquarters, but the point is that this is a threat which we must face. We can't be squeamish. A few months ago I formed a section of our own to deal with it. It's called the double-O section. I think it might suit you.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Bond, ‘that you want me to be part of our own murder squad?’

  ‘Nothing of the sort,’ said M. gruffly. ‘That may be the way they do things over there. We don't, thank God. But we must be prepared. This is a crisis, and we're fighting for survival. We need men like you.’

  Bond had promised to let Fleming know how the lunch went. Accordingly he went along to his office in Grays Inn Road to tell him.

  Fleming's office was a funny place, more like a down-at-heel country solicitor's than an important London journalist's – partitioned off with reeded glass, an anteroom outside with Fleming's black felt hat, briefcase, and a copy of the New York Review of Books on the small table.

  Bond told him of the 00 section.

  Fleming nodded. ‘Yes, I know about it. Great news.’

  ‘But I can't take it.’

  ‘Can't take it?’

  ‘I've had enough of killing.’

  ‘But, my dear chap. This is ridiculous. You're being offered an lite position in the top rank of the Secret Service – something most agents would give their back teeth for. How can you think to turn it down?’

  ‘I've told you.’

  ‘And so you're willing to go on with the sort of wasted life you were living in the Seychelles? Bumming along, living from hand to mouth unless you find a fat rich widow you can marry. James, I hate to see you living in this way, it's no life for you. This is one thing you do superlatively well. You must continue. If you don't you're sunk.’

  And so Bond finally rejoined the Secret Service. Thanks to M.'s interest he was earmarked from the start for service in the 00 section, but it was soon made clear to him that he had to earn this status. His record was impressive but he had to prove that he was still up to scratch. He also had to train in the most gruelling school for secret agents in the world. He had a lot to learn if he would catch up on the years that he had been away. But it was reassuring to be back. Once he had made the decision to return, he soon forgot his doubts, and, for the first time since the war, he had a sense of purpose and a job that he believed in. He also felt relieved at being back inside what Fleming called, ‘the warm womb of the Secret Service’. Loner though he was, Bond needed the security of an organization and a settled context for his life.

  He had three months of hectic training – thre
e months in which he worked harder than ever in his life before. First came the tests of his physique and basic skill in combat. Most of these took place in the extensive cellars under the ‘Universal Export’ building by the park beneath the remorseless eyes of the world's top experts in human stress and self-defence. At first he was stiff and felt his lack of training, but he knew his body could absorb the work, and within days he was feeling fitter than he ever had. The doctors testing him passed him as ‘fit for all assignments’. Then came the urgent days on the ranges checking him out for weaponry – small arms, machine-guns, rockets and the diverse tools of his appalling trade. He spent three afternoons with Richmall the armourer choosing the private weapon he would carry. The .32 Beretta was his own choice; its compactness, neatness and rates of fire appealed to him in preference to more cumbersome automatics. As Richmall said, ‘The main thing is to have a weapon you're at home with.’ Bond agreed.

  Bond's mind was tested, and then trained as well. The preliminary tests were frightening and meant to be: periods of solitude to check his breaking point, sessions of interrogation by the hardest experts in the game, and, finally, the so-called ‘torture chamber’ where for three days and nights a succession of cold, faceless men set out to break him. The purpose was to discover his ‘pain threshold’ and then fix his ‘co-efficient of resistance’. Both were extraordinarily high.

  After the first month, the emphasis was changed, and Bond spent several weeks at a house near Basingstoke learning the basic new technology of the secret war. There was a whole new expertise to master: cyphers and cypher machines, systems of drop-outs and controls, planning and methodology. The gadgetry of espionage was now formidable with electronics and computers on the scene.

  During these weeks, Bond must have owed a lot to his inheritance from Andrew Bond. His mechanical aptitude was high; so was his mental stamina and concentration. He had the sort of brain that could absorb practical detail swiftly and, once again, his grades were excellent.