by John Pearson
There was a hush outside. Kull's congregation waited and the doors drew back. Then somebody cried out. It was a cry of fear. A miracle had happened, for Bond had moved. He had embraced the Goddess Kull and lived. The cry was taken up, and for a moment Bond feared the worshippers would lynch him but the Goddess had her arms around him. She smiled at him. Kull the insatiable had been satisfied. The congregation started to applaud.
At this point there was a great commotion at the rear of the hall. Gutteridge and several policemen from the Jamaican special branch had suddenly arrived – following the small homing ‘bleeper’ Bond had hidden in the heel of his shoe. Despite the sudden change of heart of Kull's worshippers, Bond was relieved to see them. Kull's reign was over.
But this was not the last that Bond saw of the girl. As Gutteridge explained, her legend still lived in the fears of many of the people who had feared her for so long. To show that it was over, Bond spent several days with her, touring the island, and although she was deaf and dumb this hardly seemed to matter. She had loved Bond ever since he saved her from the shark and to this day his memories of the Goddess Kull are over a gentle, silent girl with golden skin and the few days he spent with her beside Montego Bay.
9
Casino
THERE WAS ONE point which I had been avoiding – Bond's relationship with M. The time had come to ask about it. Had M. really been, as Fleming wrote, the one man Bond had ‘loved, honoured and obeyed’?
I chose my moment carefully before I asked him. I wanted no more outbursts like the other day's. But after dinner he was in a mellow mood, and when I broached the subject he started laughing.
‘Let's be quite honest about all this,’ he said. ‘The truth is that old Ian always liked to make me look something of an idiot. As I'll tell you later, there was a reason for this, and a good one. But he also liked to pull my leg and it amused him to describe my dog-like devotion to steely-eyed old M. Of course, he overdoes it dreadfully. Sometimes I think he makes me sound just like some bloody spaniel wagging my tail whenever M. appears.’
‘Didn't you?’
‘Did I hell! As I'm trying to explain to you, it wasn't like that at all. Back in 1951 we were all working very hard indeed and M. just happened to be the man in charge. He also happened to be extremely good at a hideously demanding job.’
‘And did you ever argue with him?’
He paused to light a cigarette. I had noticed that he often did this when he wanted time to think of his reply.
‘Sometimes. Of course I argued. But the trouble with arguing with M. was that he was usually right. Particularly back in the early fifties. You must understand that we were really fighting for our lives and M. was the one man who could save us. Kidding apart, he was incredible. He's never had the credit he deserves; during those few years he brought us from rock bottom to considerable success. He was a very tough effective little man. In my book, nobody can ever equal him.’
Now that James Bond had started talking I realized that we were in for another of his late-night sessions. It was extraordinary how much his talk depended on his mood. Tonight he was obviously relaxed. The morose, heavy look had gone entirely. He leaned back, called to Augustus for his customary bottle of Jack Daniel's bourbon, and cheerfully began explaining the situation M. had had to face in 1951.
This was the year that Bond returned from Jamaica, and as he says, he found himself ‘quite suddenly in the front line of the secret war’. Things were hotting up. Smersh had moved onto the offensive and the British Secret Service was doing its best to meet the challenge. There had been losses, even in the 00 section. In January 1951 008 was found dead in a parked car fifty yards inside the Western zone of Berlin; three weeks later 0011, passing through China on the so-called ‘Blue Route’, failed to make contact in Hong Kong; and in the last few days 003, one of the most experienced agents in the section, had been dragged from a blazing car outside Belgrade. He would live – for a while at least – but his days of usefulness to the Secret Service (or to anybody else) were over.
For M. these losses would have been acceptable had they been matched by firm achievements: these were lacking, and M. was jealously aware of the activities of those hard brains directing Smersh from their drab headquarters on the Sretenka Ulitsa. Smersh was a contraction of two Russian words meaning ‘Death to Spies’; for M. it had been living up to its forbidding name too well for comfort. Hardly any of the West's attempts to penetrate the security of the Soviet had worked.
The British network inside Russia was something of a joke, whilst the two major secret war campaigns launched by the West in the last few months – against Albania and the Ukraine – had foundered ignominiously. M. was under pressure. He was directly accountable to the Prime Minister and, as one recent writer put it, that wily politician ‘was not disposed to be too impressed by the denizens of the secret-service world.’ Not surprisingly, the lines on M.'s weather-beaten face were rapidly becoming something of a battlechart of the secret war. Fortunately he knew better than to lose heart at incidental setbacks. He knew that whilst in ordinary war it is the last battle that counts, in the secret war there could never be a final battle, only the ceaseless ebb and flow of murder and betrayal. M. had no illusions about the trade he followed. But it was a necessary trade. As long as he was in command, he would make certain it continued.
Bond was the sort of man he needed. M. realized this for certain after the Jamaica business, just as James Bond accepted that his life from now on lay with ‘Universal Export’. For the Secret Service gave him an all-demanding cause to which to dedicate his life. It gave him a pattern and a purpose. Without them he would founder.
He also knew the way he needed his assignments. They were his chance to prove himself; without them Bond would have been stifled by the order and emptiness of his ‘normal’ life. Danger was as necessary to him as ever. It was the one form of escapism that could make life tolerable, and in the spring of 1951, the gods, and M., were smiling on James Bond. He was kept busy. Life was very good.
Within a few days of his return from Jamaica, he was off again.
‘Another holiday?’ Miss Trueblood asked as Bond walked back from his brief interview with M. She could tell from the expression on his face that he had work to do. He asked her to arrange his airline tickets.
‘Which country this time?’
‘Greece,’ he replied. ‘M. thinks I need a holiday.’
She groaned and said it was a good thing she wasn't envious by nature. Bond gallantly suggested she came with him; for just a moment it seemed as if that cool suburban blonde was tempted.
‘A thousand pities you're engaged,’ Bond said hurriedly.
The cover M. suggested was one that Bond enjoyed – that of a wealthy young enthusiast for underwater swimming anxious to combine a short holiday in southern Greece with some underwater archaeology. Q Branch had a rush job to equip him properly, but they worked fast, and Bond spent the afternoon checking the equipment he would take: a Cressi Pinocchio diving mask, a Heinke-Lung, a Leica underwater camera. It all fitted into a large blue holdall for the journey, but Bond also had a suitcase specially prepared by Q branch. It was a type that he had seen before.
‘It'll fool the average customs man,’ the quartermaster assured him, ‘and anyhow, in Greece they're not too fussy with foreign tourists. You'll be all right.’
‘What if someone drops it?’
‘Safe as houses,’ said the quartermaster.
Finally Bond collected the latest large-scale Admiralty charts of the southern coast of Greece, along with an imposing wad of travellers’ cheques and currency.
‘You've forgotten the Ambre Solaire,’ said Bond.
‘I thought you'd like to buy your own,’ replied the quartermaster.
*
Bond left next morning on the midday flight to Athens, taking some trouble to maintain the image of the easy-going pleasure-seeker. He wore an open-necked blue shirt, a lightweight linen jacket and read Erni
e Bradford's Guide to the Greek Islands. In Athens he was already booked into the luxurious Mont-Parnes Hotel, and a car from the hotel was there to meet him. He made sure his luggage was in order before being driven off. The hotel overlooked the city; once he had checked in he relaxed, swam in the pool, and then enjoyed his first Martini of the day. It was nearly five before he changed and took the hotel bus down to the city.
He had been given an address – the Anglo-American bookstore in Amerikis Street. He found it without difficulty and asked for an assistant called Andreas. Bond introduced himself, and Andreas, a small courtly man with a magnificent moustache and Brooklyn accent, was very helpful, recommending several books on classical Greek art and southern Greece. Bond asked if they could be delivered to the Mont-Parnes. Andreas said certainly, and promised to bring them up in person that very evening.
On leaving the bookstore, Bond took his time and wandered through the city. There was no great risk, but he had to know if anyone was tailing him. No one was. There was a golden sunset and the evening's first sea breezes were giving the stifled city a chance to breathe. The Acropolis was silhouetted against the sunset like some plastic tourist symbol; outside the caf in Giorgiades Square where he stopped for a drink there were oleanders growing out of cut-down U.S. petrol cans. Bond felt that in different circumstances he might like Athens – but he doubted it.
That evening, Andreas, like all Greeks everywhere, was late. Bond had already dined when he arrived with his neatly parcelled pile of books. Bond thanked him, offered him a drink, and they sat together on the hotel's splendid terrace drinking retsina and watching the lights of Athens shimmer up the valley. Andreas was a determined talker who enjoyed the chance of showing off his very personal command of English. It wasn't every day he was invited for a drink at a luxury hotel, and he was out to make the most of it. Finally Bond steered the conversation round to southern Greece and Andreas mentioned a small port. He described it lovingly – the market-place, the eighth-century Byzantine church, the beauty of the local girls. Andreas hinted that he was something of a connoisseur of indigenous Greek sex.
‘And the ship?’ Bond asked. He had a limited capacity for general conversation and was anxious for a full night's sleep. Andreas seemed disappointed at the directness of his question.
‘Oh, she arrived last night, at precisely the hour I told London that she would. She is called Sappho, after our famous poetess. You know the poems of Sappho, Mr Bond?’
‘Not intimately.’
‘A pity. She was, of course, what you would call a Lesbian. Perhaps that puts you off?’
‘It does. This ship – how big is she?’
‘6,000 tons deadweight. A common looking coaster, I'm afraid. Registered in Alexandria. The captain is a Syrian called Demetrios. A good Greek name, Demetrios.’
‘How long before she leaves?’
‘Two days earliest – more likely three. They have to load her carefully. With that sort of cargo it is not wise to hurry. Too much hurry – Boum – food for the fishes, Mr Bond.’
‘And the police? What are they doing while all this goes on?’
Andreas took a long draught of retsina – then sucked at his moustache.
‘Officially, they must arrest the ship and then impound the cargo. That is our good Greek government policy. That's what our prime minister would tell your Foreign Office in London. But, between you and me, they act like your Lord Nelson. They put the glass eye to the telescope.’
Finally, Bond did get his sleep, and next morning he rose early, breakfasted, and packed. The ferry Andreas had recommended left at nine; but, being a Greek ferry, it was nearer ten before it hooted bravely, struggled out from the Piraeus and headed south. Bond was managing to hide considerable impatience behind a thin façade of cheerful tourism. The sun was hard and very hot. Islands floated past upon an amethyst horizon – Aegina, Poros, Hydra, then in the afternoon, Velopoula. Bond sipped ouzo, nibbled stuffed vine-leaves and felt mildly sick. The boat reached its destination in the evening.
It was not hard for Bond to find the Sappho. This was a small town and the docks were not extensive. The ship was exactly as Andreas described her, ungainly and rather rusty, flying an Egyptian flag. Nor had Bond much more difficulty making out her cargo. There were some packing cases stacked along the quay – crated machine guns always have a certain look.
Bond booked at the hotel Andreas had recommended. It was a cheerful place with several goats tethered in the courtyard, a one-eyed barman and a terrace set with ancient trellised vines. It overlooked the sea. With nightfall oil-lamps were lit and fireflies darted through the air. Bond ordered dinner, gingerly, and told the barman he was staying several days to try the underwater fishing.
‘We got a lot like you,’ the man replied, scratching his eye-patch, ‘but most of them come later in the season. We do have one man here though now, a real expert. You must meet him.’ He shouted something in Greek. A small boy answered from the office.
‘No,’ said the barman. ‘You're out of luck. But when he comes I introduce you.’
That evening Bond ate one of the six best meals of his life – kedonia (small clams) then octopus with wine and onion sauce and spring lamb simmered with herbs. He drank the ice-cold local white wine. It was very good. He had nearly finished and was sitting, smoking a cigarette and watching the lights from the night fishermen winking across the bay, when a large man in a red-and-black check shirt sat down at his table. He had dark eyes, a swarthy face, a small grey wart beside the nose, and something that instantly appealed to Bond – a sense of life, of openness and warmth such as one rarely meets. He spoke English of a sort and for an hour or so he and Bond talked – about the fishing on that splendid coast, the hazards of the rocks and tides and the excitements of the underwater world. He was a great enthusiast and he was full of stories – of the deep wrecks which he had plundered, of coral beds where rare fish swam, and of the riches which he hoped to find. They drank a bottle of the local wine together; it was years since Bond had formed such an instant friendship with anyone. As the man got up to go, he shook hands with Bond, and promised to take him swimming early next day. He explained he was a sailor and that his ship would soon be sailing.
‘I'm often here these days, and they all know me. My name's Demetrios.’
Somehow Bond managed to avoid him all next day although the barman told him later that he had been asking for him. And somehow the little town had changed from the night before. Suddenly Bond found it dirty and oppressive. He couldn't wait to leave, but there was work to do, with the Sappho still in harbour. The barman told Bond she would be sailing on next morning's tide.
Bond had his instructions; they were not too difficult to follow. For the remainder of the day he rested, then got ready his equipment. Q department had done a clever job on the suitcase. With the linings of the top and bottom of the case removed, it was a simple task to screw together the two halves of the limpet mine. Bond set the timing apparatus as instructed – on a twenty-four-hour fuse. At dusk he set off from well along the coast, swimming out strongly on the evening tide. The sea was warm and faintly phosphorescent. He had the mine strapped firmly to his belly and he swam deeply, surfacing from time to time to take his bearings. The starlight seemed to filter through the waves, fish glided past and he swam on determinedly towards his quarry. He wondered if Demetrios were yet aboard.
When Bond turned in towards the harbour only the keenest lookout would have seen the thin line of bubbles that he left behind him. The Sappho had no lookout; Bond decided it would be most effective to fix the mine amidships. It was easier than he expected. The strong magnet on the mine dragged it towards the hull; as it thudded home Bond remembered the same sensation from his training sessions on the lake in Canada during the war; he was sorry that this was no training session.
Bond was back in the hotel before midnight. He asked the barman about Demetrios.
‘Ah, the captain is back aboard his boat. He is sailing early, but
he asked me to tell you he will meet you here a week from now when he returns. He promises to take you swimming.’
Bond thanked him, had a drink and went to bed. Next morning he rose early, caught the ferry he had come on, and was back in Athens in time to catch the night plane on to London. When he arrived it was gone two o'clock. He took a taxi from the airport to his flat and was so tired that he slept solidly till nearly ten. At the office people seemed surprised to see him back so soon.
‘Successful holiday?’ Miss Trueblood asked with just a touch of malice in her voice.
‘Hope so,’ Bond replied. ‘Pity you weren't there, nice people Greeks. There was a man called Demetrios. You'd have liked him – rather your type.’
‘And what's that, pray?’ she asked.
For a while Bond told her about him – his looks, his sense of life, his love of the sea.
‘Will you be seeing him again?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No, I don't think so.’
For the remainder of that day, Bond had long sessions with the men from S Branch. There was a great deal to discuss and it was gone seven before he got away. He walked down Baker Street to take the underground; by the station he paused to buy an evening paper. He saw that it was carrying the first reports of the sinking of a suspected gunrunner 200 miles north-west of Limassol. According to one source the ship, the Sappho, had been carrying arms and ammunition for the EOKA terrorists in Cyprus. The cause of the sinking was so far a mystery and there were no reports of survivors. Bond got on the escalator, then took his train to Leicester Square.
*
After the Greek affair Bond had been hoping for a real holiday, a rare opportunity to relax. Aunt Charmian had been unwell, and he had been planning to take her off for a few days in the South of France.
