James Bond: The Authorised Biography

by John Pearson

  On his return, however, Bond didn't get the welcome he deserved, for suddenly the attention of that powerhouse of the secret war beside the Park was focused on one spot – Eastern Europe. During Bond's absence, Hungary had risen in revolt against its Russian masters. Its borders with the West were open. With all her Eastern satellites in disarray, Russia herself was threatened – and the Western Secret Services suddenly seemed to have been offered their greatest pickings since the war ended.

  For several days Bond was confined to routine duty inside the department. Headquarters were on twenty-four-hour standby and Bond joined the overworked band of men and women keeping in contact with events in Eastern Europe. There was a sense of history in the making as the reports came humming down from the communications section up on the thirteenth floor. There would be hurried conferences, queries to follow through, and as the fighting raged in Budapest, Bond found himself snatching a few hours’ sleep on a camp bed in the duty room then slogging on throughout the day without much chance of rest. It was a tiring frustrating time. He disliked the sense of waiting impotently, whilst others did the fighting. He knew that M. was holed up in his office, but hardly saw him now. Just occasionally he had a chance to talk to the Chief of Staff, who looked, if possible, more overworked than ever.

  Hungary had overnight become an open field for all sorts of covert operations from the West. The American C.I.A. had played a big part in the rising, and now was seeking to exploit it. So were the British. They had their agents inside Budapest. Bond knew that they were hard at work recruiting others and trying to enlarge their network for the future. When the Red tanks moved in and it was clear that the revolt would soon be over the real pressure started. But even then it seemed that Bond would be no more than a spectator from the duty room at Regent's Park. He knew that several members of the 00 section had been in Hungary. He envied them, but knew better than to try to find out more about them. Curiosity could be a dangerous habit in the Secret Service.

  Then, without the slightest warning, Bond was summoned for an interview with M. It was the first time he had talked to him for weeks, and M. was showing signs of weariness. His eyes were pouched, the spartan office smelt of late-night conferences and stale tobacco smoke. He leant back in his chair, massaging his neck, then poured himself some coffee from a Thermos jug.

  ‘Well, battle-stations, 007. I hope you're feeling fresher than you look.’

  ‘I was hoping for some action,’ Bond replied.

  ‘That's all you ever think of,’ M. growled irritably, sipping his coffee. ‘Perhaps you're right,’ he added, as he heaved himself up in his chair. ‘Perhaps you're right. Now, as you've probably deduced, I have been holding you here in reserve during the last few days just in case anything went wrong. Unfortunately it has. I need you out in Budapest as fast as possible. Pull up a chair and I'll explain.’

  It seemed that for several days now M. had been concerned about the information coming out of Hungary. There had been unexplained delays and recently the chaos in the country had resulted in a breakdown in communications. Certain facts filtered through, some of them correct, others quite demonstrably false and, as M. said, it was essential now to know ‘the total picture’. 009, a former lecturer from the School of Slavonic Studies, had been in Hungary since long before the rising. Forty-eight hours ago, his transmissions ceased. M. said that this was ‘most disquieting’ (one of M.'s favourite phrases which really mean ‘disastrous’) for, as Bond gathered from M.'s non-committal briefing, 009 had been acting as liaison man between the different resistance groups inside Budapest. He had had the task of organizing for the future, and he alone had been entrusted with the full list of names, contacts and potential agents.

  ‘Quite contrary to all accepted practice to have one man with so many lives at stake,’ said M., ‘but there was no alternative. It was a risk we had to take. It looks as if we may have come unstuck.’

  M. looked at Bond. There was silence in the room. Both of them knew quite well what would happen if 009's information ever reached the enemy. Both of them knew what needed to be done.

  ‘Chief of Staff has all the information that we have on 009, and he has already made arrangements for your journey through Vienna.’ The commanding voice was calm. Only the way he gripped his pipe revealed a little of the tension that he felt.

  ‘I'll do my best to find him,’ Bond replied.

  ‘He doesn't matter any more. It's just the list that counts,’ said M.

  All revolutions seem to smell the same and Budapest that fateful autumn had something in the air Bond recognized at once – the unforgettable scent of violence. It was a sour, acrid smell of burning buildings and unburied bodies. It was the reek of cordite and the fumes from the diesel engines of the Russian tanks that lumbered through the streets. By now it was a hopeless smell. Bond realized that he must hurry. There were still pockets of resistance. The students were holding out in the university and in the southern quarter there were mammoth blocks of flats where the resistance started. In parts of the old city too the flags of the liberation were still fluttering, but it was clear that the uprising was now doomed. The Russian tanks controlled the streets. Government troops were slowly recovering the city. Soon the arrests would start, the trials, the reprisals. Soon it would all be over.

  Bond was dressed as a workman – grey shirt and cap, a pair of ancient overalls. During a revolution it is as well to be as inconspicuous as possible. He spoke sufficient Russian to maintain his cover-story as a skilled man from the big Soviet car works on the outskirts of the city. In Vienna he had been provided with his documents and local currency. His only weapon was the Walther PPK in its shoulder holster. He was used to it by now, and was reassured to feel its solid bulk against his armpit.

  During the few hours he had spent in Vienna, he had been given certain leads to 009 – an address in the old city where 009 had often stayed, a girl called Nashda who was said to be his mistress, and a man called Heinkel. Head of Station in Vienna had been slightly vague about the Heinkel man. He was supposedly part German, part Hungarian, and had been working with the liberation movement in the city. He seemed to have some sort of private following and claimed backing from the Americans. Certainly he had money, arms and a transmitter, and 009 had evidently trusted him. It was through Heinkel's set-up that he had made radio contact with the British station in Vienna.

  In Vienna Bond's task had still seemed quite straightforward. (Most assignments seem straightforward during briefing – it's only later that the complications start.) But now that he was in the city, he realized how difficult it was. He had to find a man whose very nature was to be elusive. The city was in chaos. There were no telephones, no transport, and if the Russians caught him … Bond wondered how long his accent and his documents would satisfy those squat, determined figures with their red-starred caps and their machine guns.

  There was a lot of firing that afternoon and Bond decided to hide up till nightfall. There was an unfinished block of flats close to the Deli Station; from there he could see a pall of smoke rising from the far side of the Danube. Once darkness fell it was easier to make his way across the city. The Russians had their searchlights out along the river, but the chief hazard lay in their patrols and checkpoints on the streets. He dodged them without too much trouble.

  The address he sought turned out to be a small apartment in a big old block above the river. The lift was out of action, and there was nobody about. The electricity was off as well and Bond had to grope his way up the steep stairway, striking matches as he went to find the door he wanted. He rang the bell. There was no answer, but when he pushed the door it opened. He struck another match. The hallway was in chaos, with pictures ripped down from the walls, furniture smashed up, and drawers emptied across the floor. There was blood too along the wall. The match went out: Bond drew his gun then struck another. There was a bedroom off the hall, and in the flickering matchlight he could see a large brass bed. Someone was lying on it. Bond recogniz
ed the staring eyes and narrow features over the hideously gashed throat. It was 009. Then the match went out. Bond knew there was no need to strike another.

  What should he do? M. had spoken of a list, but it was unlikely to be in the flat – even if 009 had made it. Whoever killed him had been looking hard for something. But once again Bond had no idea who the murderers could be. Nor, with the Russian soldiers on the streets, would he have much chance now of finding out. It looked as if the mission had aborted. Those weeks of work, the risks, and now the death of 009 had been in vain. All he could hope for was to get out fast – and leave the explanations till he was face to face with M. Others had been at fault. He had done everything he could. He put away his gun and turned to go.

  The flat was in total darkness and he groped his way towards the door. He thought he could remember where it was, but found himself blundering against the furniture. He put out his hand to save himself and touched something soft. It was a woman's breast.

  ‘Don't move,’ said a voice. ‘Just raise your hands.’ He did, then in the darkness felt himself being frisked for weapons. Somebody found the shoulder holster and removed the gun. Then a flashlight was shone straight into his face.

  ‘Let's go,’ the voice behind it said. ‘We're late.’

  There were two of them – the woman he had blundered into and a man who held the flashlamp. He also had a gun which was pressed uncomfortably against Bond's kidneys. Bond saw that both of them were dressed in white, like medical orderlies, and just along the street there was a small white ambulance.

  ‘Get in,’ said the man. The woman held the gun now. Bond complied.

  ‘Where are we going?’ he inquired.

  ‘To see a man called Heinkel,’ she replied. ‘He's expecting you.’

  The driver evidently knew the city and although the ambulance was stopped several times by troops, it was immediately waved on. It travelled fast, its siren wailing through the deserted streets. Bond looked towards the woman. She had a round, white, pudding face and spectacles with stainless-steel rims. She wore a nurse's head-dress with a big red cross and held the gun inside her nurse's apron. Something in her expression told Bond that she would like to use it.

  As far as he could judge the ambulance was travelling down a long boulevard. Then they slowed down, and swung in through some high gates. They seemed to be inside a park. There were more gates, trees, a long wall and finally the ambulance drew up outside a squat grey building. There was a strange stench in the air, and suddenly the silence of the night was shattered by a high-pitched scream. It continued, like a soul in torment, then just as it died out, the scream turned into laughter, a hideous, hysterical sound. Bond drew back. The woman laughed and pushed him forward with her gun.

  ‘Come on. Get out. You're worrying the inmates.’

  ‘Inmates?’ said Bond.

  ‘Sure. The hyaenas. Haven't you seen a zoo before?’

  The building was the monkey-house of Budapest's world-famous zoo. Owing to the rising there were no keepers, but there were lights on in the office. Bond was led in. Behind the desk sat a huge man in a shiny leather hunting jacket, smoking a cigar. He had a sub-machine gun on the desk in front of him, and nodded curtly as Bond entered.

  ‘No luck,’ the woman said. ‘We searched the place again from top to bottom, but there was no trace of it. This character turned up, though, as you said he might. He's English, by the sound of it. Shall I dispose of him?’

  The woman's grey, round face was quite impassive, but Bond could detect an eager glint behind the spectacles.

  ‘Good heavens, Rosalie, my dear. What manners! Dispose of Mr Bond? Whatever will he think if you talk like that. Please leave us, Rosalie. We have important matters to discuss.’

  The big man's voice was soft, reminding Bond of Peter Lorre in The Maltese Falcon.

  ‘Immediately, Rosalie, my dear.’

  The woman jumped, then scuttled off. The big man scratched himself and yawned.

  ‘Forgive all this,’ he said, ‘but these are most unpleasant times. Sit down. A drink? My name is Heinkel. I and my men have been here since the rising started. We found the zoo deserted when the Russians came. It's a good place to hide. So you came looking for poor 009? Vienna told me to be on the lookout for you when I spoke to them this afternoon. You were extremely lucky to get through.’

  A big hand backed with thick black hair pushed a bottle of Dimple Haig across the desk. Bond poured himself a generous measure and drank it neat. After the hunger of the day it tasted good.

  ‘Who murdered 009?’ he asked.

  The big man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? A lot of people have been killed here in the last few days. He's in good company. What I would like to know is why you're here. Vienna didn't tell me that.’

  ‘They felt that 009 needed assistance. It seems that they felt right.’

  ‘Only assistance, Mr Bond? Are you certain there was nothing else?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like, shall we say, a list? Just for the sake of argument shall we suppose that the deceased 009 recorded certain names before he died?’

  The big hand on the desk moved towards the gun. As Bond looked at Heinkel, he thought how appropriate his hideout was. Those simian features and the bloodshot eyes could have been staring at him through the bars. Even the soft voice and the expensive jacket couldn't disguise the ape-like essence of the man – nor the unspoken threat that he was making.

  ‘Mr Bond,’ said Heinkel softly, ‘I require that list.’

  ‘What are you up to, Heinkel?’ Bond replied. ‘Just whose side are you on?’

  Heinkel laughed then – not an attractive sound.

  ‘My own, my friend. It's the most profitable I find. I work for anyone who pays me. During these last few days the money has been good. It will be even better if I can somehow find that last will and testament of 009. Who would pay most for it – your British Secret Service, or the Russians?’

  ‘That's a dangerous game you're playing,’ Bond replied. ‘But even if there were a list, how could I have it? As you know, 009 was dead when I arrived.’

  ‘Ah yes. He was most certainly dead. We know that. But you had your orders where to come, and you knew where to look. That list please, Mr Bond. Immediately.’

  The hand was on the trigger and Bond recognized the dull flat tone of Heinkel's voice. Heinkel was a killer. Bond tried to bluff.

  ‘Suppose,’ he said, ‘suppose I had this list you speak of. How much would be in it all for me?’

  ‘No deals, Mr Bond. Either you give it freely or we use force. If we use force it won't be pleasant. Remember what happened to your friend 009.’

  Bond had been coolly working out the line of fire from the sub-machine gun. This was a situation he had often had to face in training. There was a man called Roscoe who was on the staff at Regent's Park. The Service's Armourer had recruited him from a circus. His speciality was dodging bullets and he instructed the 00 section in this invaluable trade. The secret of it lay in speed and creating some diversion. Bond had become quite good at it, but he had never had to use his skill against a man like Heinkel.

  Luckily his brain was very clear. Once again he found that danger was a stimulant, and when he moved he moved with the co-ordination of an athlete. His right swung out and sent the whisky bottle shattering against the wall. At the same time he threw his body sideways so that he fell protected by the desk. When Heinkel started firing the bullets were a foot above him.

  It was a brave attempt but it was useless. Before Bond reached Heinkel, the woman and two men with automatics had rushed in, and from the floor Bond found himself facing the black muzzles of their guns.

  ‘D'you want him killed, Heinkel?’ shrieked the woman.

  ‘Not yet, Rosalie. He deserves something better than a bullet. And he could still be useful. On your feet, Mr Bond. And do be careful. I rarely miss a second time.’

  Slowly Bond lifted himself up. Heinkel prodded at his stomach w
ith the sub-machine gun.

  ‘Now Rosalie. Please search this gentleman – thoroughly.’

  It was an obscene performance, but there was nothing Bond could do as the clammy fingers started to undress him. The woman's small red tongue was visible. The eyes were glittering through their spectacles.

  ‘Take your time, Rosalie,’ said Heinkel, as she started to explore him. Bond closed his mind to what was happening.

  Finally Heinkel ordered her to stop.

  ‘That's enough, Rosalie. It isn't there.’

  Bond felt more naked than ever in his life before.

  ‘Now Mr Bond,’ said Heinkel. ‘I'm feeling generous, but don't abuse my generosity. I'll give you one more chance. We're leaving in the morning. There's nothing else for us in Budapest and we must be getting back for our hero's welcome from the Americans. You have until then to remember where you have hidden that list we want. If your memory improves, you can have your freedom. If not, you stay here till the Russians find you – and I'll make certain that they know exactly who you are.’

  He rose to his feet, and paused to light a fresh cigar. One of the men twisted Bond's arm behind his back as if in warning.

  ‘Oh, and incidentally, Mr Bond. You'll be having company. Be careful how you treat your room-mate. He's bigger than you.’

  Bond was dragged out into the main corridor of the monkey house. None of the cages had been cleaned for days – the stench was overpowering – and as Bond passed, small bright nocturnal eyes watched this strange naked ape walking along the wrong side of the bars. Some of them shrieked at him. There were the small grey monkeys, huddled like birds along their perches, gentle orangutangs, neurotic rhebuses, and iron-faced mandrils with their bold backsides. Bond passed them all, and at the far end of the corridor he saw a small steel door. One of his captors slid it open and pushed Bond inside.