by John Pearson
‘Sweet dreams, Mr Bond. Your taste in exotic bedfellows is legendary and I am only sorry we are unable to provide you with something more stimulating. But at least we can guarantee you won't be bored. Goodnight Mr Bond, and goodbye.’
A guttural, self-satisfied laugh echoed round the steel cages. Footsteps receded down the corridor. A door clanged shut. Bond strained his ears but could hear nothing.
The straw beneath his feet was moist and spongy and the stench in the cage was overpowering. The stink of accumulated dung fought with the nauseating sweetness of rotting food, but above them both Bond detected the rank and unmistakeable odour that only a terrified animal can exude.
He stood rock still waiting for his eyes to get used to the darkness. Looking up he saw that this part of the cage was open to the sky: low, dense cloud obliterated what light the moon might have shed, but he could make out the bars of the cage and a concrete walk beyond.
Suddenly he heard the straw rustle and a black shape bounded forward and crashed heavily against the bars. The creature shrieked and leapt back into the darkness, and immediately hurled itself again at the bars and shook them violently. Gradually it subsided and after throwing straw in the air and covering its head completely, it returned to its corner.
Bond did not need a zoologist to tell him his cell-mate was a gorilla.
He attempted to assess the situation. So far the animal had ignored his presence, but clearly it was only a matter of time until it turned on him. Something in the back of his mind told him that gorillas were exclusively vegetarian, but in the circumstances it did not seem reassuring. He was naked and unarmed, and his adversary was twice as powerful as any man he had ever encountered.
Shambling across the straw the gorilla crouched again near the bars. For a moment it was still and Bond could see exactly how enormous it was. Beneath its huge, overhanging shelf of a brow two glittering eyes glared balefully into the darkness. Thoughtfully, it clasped a bar in each huge hand and gave them an experimental shake. Nothing moved. It screamed with anger and, moving far faster than Bond had anticipated, raced round the cage scarcely touching the walls or floor but appearing to ricochet off each surface like a huge, shaggy missile.
It settled in its corner and Bond heard it breathing angrily and grumbling to itself. Seconds later it re-emerged into the light. Then Bond saw something white behind it. It was the body of a girl. And as he stared, he saw her hand make a barely perceptible gesture: a thumbs-up signal.
Bond felt a solution was within his grasp. If the girl was alive there was hope for him, for both of them. Probably none of the animals had been fed for days: they were desperately hungry, and bewildered by fear. Just like him, all they craved was freedom.
Bond took a step towards her, but the gorilla saw him and barked with rage and terror. It jumped up and down, leapt from side to side, and beat its chest. In a paroxysm of fury it lashed out at the bars. A small piece of cement fell and rattled on the concrete walk outside. Bond felt he had no choice but to attack, and with both hands clasped rigidly together he chopped down on the ape's neck.
It was a mistake. Hard though the edges of his hands were thanks to his karate training he felt them bruise badly against the solid collar of muscle and hair that protected the ape. Its long arm slashed out and caught him off balance. He fell to the floor, but was instantly on his feet again and ready to ward off the attack which he had foolishly provoked.
To his amazement, the gorilla, instead of savaging him, hurled itself once again at the bars. This time a small avalanche of cement tumbled down and one of the bars visibly buckled.
Bond suddenly knew that his only chance of survival lay in terrifying the animal still further. He filled his lungs and released what he trusted was a blood-curdling imitation of a gorilla's cry. At the same time he pounded the steel door with both his fists.
The animal reacted as he hoped. It screamed back at him but seized the damaged bar and shook it with all the power in its 450-pound body.
Bond screamed, shouted and bellowed until his throat was raw. He thumped and kicked the door until his feet and hands were bruised. He yelled at the girl to join in. She shouted and thumped too. The gorilla seemed in the grip of hysteria. It shook the bars and shrieked with them.
At last, with a crash of concrete, the loose bar fell away, and, as it struck the ground, the gorilla vanished into the darkness.
Bond slumped onto the floor. Seconds passed before either of them would move, and then, without a word, they squeezed out of the cage.
The zoo was deserted except for a single man guarding the ambulances. Bond dealt with him, took his gun, and, more importantly, his clothes. Finally they were away.
It was not until they were racing through the outskirts of the city that Bond had a chance to ask who she was.
‘Who are you?’ she countered.
‘My name is James Bond,’ he replied. ‘A man called Heinkel put me there. And who on earth are you?’
Even as Bond pronounced his name he heard the woman gasp.
‘Bond,’ she said, ‘James Bond? Why did you come so late? We needed you.’
‘Who are you then?’ said Bond.
‘My name is Nashda. I was with 009 when Heinkel killed him. I've been here ever since.
‘Heinkel has no idea I'm alive – he thought the gorilla had killed me. I've been in that stinking cage for two days, just lying there playing dead. I am sure he thought the thing would dispose of you in the same way. In fact, he was as frightened of you and me as we were of him. All he wanted to do was get out of his cage.’
It was a nightmare drive. As they raced through the outskirts of the city, dodging the refugees, the burning tanks and the Russian road blocks, they gradually pieced together what had happened. In the beginning 009 had worked with Heinkel and had trusted him – then, as the rising started to go wrong, he had found out the truth. Heinkel was an adventurer – and a criminal: his followers were members of his gang. For some time now they had pretended to be Hungarian patriots. This got them backing and protection from the C.I.A., but they had merely used the confusion within Budapest as cover for a series of armed robberies. They had been looting unopposed – jewelry, banks. Whilst men were dying in their hundreds Heinkel was enriching himself, and his most ruthless move of all was to use three ambulances he had commandeered. As Bond had seen, he had even dressed up members of his gang as orderlies and nurses, and tomorrow morning they would be driving off to Austria with their loot.
‘What about 009?’ asked Bond. ‘Why did they kill him?’
‘Because he threatened to expose them – and because …’ the woman paused.
‘Yes?’ said Bond.
‘Because they wanted certain information.’
‘And did they get it?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘It's safe – with me.’
By late that afternoon they made the Austrian frontier, and by evening they were in Vienna. Their first stop was the office of the British Head of Station A in an impressive office block in Dresdnerstrasse. Suddenly the horror of the last few days was over. And for the first time, Bond could concentrate upon the girl. She was Hungarian and young and very pretty with short fair hair and a big generous mouth. From long experience Bond knew how pleasurable she would be to kiss. One of her eyes – they were green and thickly lashed – was larger than the other: this too for Bond was an almost automatic source of attraction. He had to tell himself that she was simply not available. She had been 009's woman. He was dead. It would be unthinkable to begin desiring her in such circumstances. Besides, they both had work to do. Rather than write the list of agents where it could be discovered by an enemy, 009 had made the girl learn it by heart before he died. Bond was impressed by her extraordinary memory.
‘It's simply concentration, Mr Bond,’ she said, smiling demurely. ‘There's really nothing like it.’
Bond, who wasn't certain if she was making fun of him frowned and told her that his name was James.
; ‘I know,’ she said.
Bond spent some time discussing their arrangements with the Station head. He was a tall, pernickety ex-Foreign Office man. He had already been in touch with London and M.'s orders were that the list was far too valuable to risk transmitting to London – even in cypher and employing the theoretically secure wave-band used by the station. The girl must be brought immediately to London, and to ensure that there was no chance of slip-up, Bond was to bring her personally.
‘M.'s orders are that you're not to let her from your sight for a moment,’ said the Head of Station.
‘That sounds romantic,’ said the girl.
Bond was expecting to fly back with her that evening, but it proved impossible to get a flight. The station clerk booked them both first class aboard the Arlberg Express for Paris.
‘Dear Mr Bond,’ the girl said when he told her. ‘That means that we'll have to share a sleeper – if you're to follow orders.’
The Arlberg Express left Vienna at 8.45 next morning. Bond was still wary of the girl. She was a little too intelligent and beautiful for comfort. But they got on together. By the time they reached the station he had finally persuaded her to call him ‘James’.
‘What did you do about that devil, Heinkel?’ she asked.
‘Not much I could do,’ he replied. ‘Except to get Head of Station to send round a general warning to the Austrians. They'll stop him at the frontier if he tries to get through.’
The train was crowded, but the excitement of the long train journey affected Bond as usual. They spent the day enjoying one another's company. After the hell of the last few days, it was wonderful to be alive and to enjoy the scenery of Austria. In the evening they dined – expensively. (Bond decided that the British Government owed a girl like this a good dinner in the first-class eating waggon. It was delicious. So was the champagne.) And after the champagne, the coffee, the Courvoisier, there was the long nostalgic journey through the night. Poor 009 was quietly forgotten, as Bond proved (to his silent satisfaction) that he had been right about her mouth. As they fell asleep to the busy rhythm of the wheels Bond told his conscience that he was following M.'s orders to the letter.
It was still dark outside when he awoke. The train was inside Germany and in their small compartment there was a faint light from the ceiling. The girl was sleeping quietly beside him. But Bond knew that something definite had woken him. His gun was in its holster. He drew it softly, eased back the safety catch and waited. And then he saw the handle moving on the door. Someone was trying to get in.
For Bond it was almost a matter of routine to make sure his bedroom door was locked when on assignment. Before he went to sleep he had placed wooden wedges under it. The handle turned again, and someone in the corridor outside began to push. The door stayed shut. Then the handle was rattled angrily.
‘Passport control – open up please,’ said a voice. Bond recognized it – from the zoo in Budapest.
The girl was now awake. Bond signalled to her silently to dress, and at the same time started pulling on his trousers and his shoes.
‘We've had our passports checked,’ he shouted.
‘This is a special check,’ the voice shouted back. ‘Open up please, right away. Police.’
By now Bond and the girl were fully dressed.
The handle rattled once again, and Bond felt someone pushing at the door. It opened half an inch.
‘All right then, Mr Bond,’ said Heinkel. ‘No tricks now if you please. I want the girl. She's valuable, so open up.’
‘And if I don't?’ said Bond.
‘Mr Bond, you are being very irritating and my patience is exhausted.’
The voice was satin smooth but ugly with menace.
‘You and the girl are supposed to be dead. I left the Budapest zoo last night happy with the thought that you were both dead. I dined out on your death, Mr Bond. I ate well, I slept well. I returned to my temporary base at the zoo only to discover that you had been impertinent enough to stay alive, and that furthermore you had allowed a very valuable specimen to escape, to say nothing of the valuable specimen you have in the carriage with you. Fortunately, through my contacts in your Vienna office I had little difficulty in tracing you. But now no more of your tricks, Mr Bond. I am beginning to find them irksome. I have five men out here; all of them are armed. We have gone to considerable trouble to join you on this train. Kindly don't spoil our journey. Now, open the door!’
Bond knew that Heinkel wasn't bluffing, and so he withdrew the wedges and pulled back the door. Heinkel was outside, smoking a cigar. In his right hand he negligently held the small sub-machine gun he had in Budapest. Bond handed him his gun.
‘How very touching,’ Heinkel said when he saw the girl. ‘Comforting a dead comrade's girl-friend, Mr Bond? This way, if you please.’
Heinkel had a compartment further down the train, and Bond and the girl were pushed along the swaying corridor.
‘No hurry, Mr Bond,’ said Heinkel softly. ‘You know your Service's security in Vienna could be so much better. We understand from our contact there that the young lady has the information we require, but we can take our time to get it. It's two more hours to the border. I'm sure that we can make her talk by then.’
From the racket of the wheels, Bond knew the train was going fast. Heinkel was just behind him in the narrow corridor. Nashda was following. As usual at the point of crisis Bond's mind was suddenly quite clear, and, almost effortlessly, he found himself working out the odds. If he obeyed Heinkel, he knew that neither he nor Nashda had a chance. Once Heinkel and his gang had tortured her, they wouldn't want witnesses. Bond and the girl were doomed.
But there was just one chance. The hazards were enormous, but it was better than torture and certain death. As they passed the train door at the end of the compartment Bond seemed to stumble. As he turned, his shoulder cannoned into Heinkel's stomach, and at the same time he reached out and grabbed the handle of the door. It moved. The door swung open, and for one frightful moment Bond and Heinkel were hanging over the abyss. Luckily Bond kept his balance. Heinkel didn't. Bond heaved, and, like an overloaded mail sack, Heinkel's great body was sent thudding out.
Bond grabbed the girl. He was still unarmed, but with Heinkel gone the other gunmen paused. But Bond knew that any moment one of them would fire. He had to take a chance. As far as he could tell the train was on the top of an embankment.
‘Now,’ he shouted to the girl. And clutching her, he jumped. At that moment he remembered night-time parachute descents over the pitch-black countryside of wartime France. Instinctively he hunched his shoulders, tucked in his head and raised his knees. And luckily the earth was soft. They landed heavily, then rolled, tumbling together to the bottom of the embankment. The first thing Bond remembers is of the girl bending over him and tearfully asking him if he were dead.
The spot where they had landed was ten miles from Innsbruck. Somehow they limped into a village. By the time they reached it, it was nearly morning. Bond's back was hurting badly, and it took most of that day to sort things out. At first the police wanted to arrest them. Heinkel's body had been found a few miles back. It had hit a bridge. Bond identified it from its size and from the leather jacket. And finally, after a call to Head of Station in Vienna, Bond and the girl were driven into Innsbruck, then flown home. Just for once, Bond was grateful for a plane.
14
The Truth about M.
I FELT SORRY for Bond by now. Headquarters had obviously been treating him abominably. He had been here six weeks and he was patently quite fit for duty. He was also desperately anxious for a word from someone in Headquarters. To my certain knowledge he had tried ringing through to M. five times at least during the last two days, and once he had even packed and booked himself aboard a scheduled plane to London. Cynically, I thought at first that he was simply running out on Honeychile, but now I realized it wasn't that. He longed to work. The Secret Service was his life and he felt a compulsive loyalty to all his colleagues
in Headquarters. It clearly troubled him to think that they had quietly forgotten him.
He had to break off his account of the Heinkel business to take a cable. It was the answer he was waiting for. He read it, pulled a face, and threw the telegram across to me. It was an uptight little message, making me feel the Secret Service still had a lot to learn on personal relations.
‘Imperative you stay and await orders stop desist attempts at telephonic contact.’
It was signed, M.
Bond shrugged his shoulders.
‘Typical,’ he said. ‘M. is impossible these days. He seems to think he can go on for ever – just like old Herbert Hoover in the F.B.I. I was hoping to get through to Bill Tanner. Clearly I'm not permitted to.’
There was a tinge of bitterness now as he spoke and I was surprised to hear him finally talk like this of M. Until now he had always carefully defended him. Now the pretence was over.
‘I didn't realize that M. was quite that bad,’ I said.
‘Few people do,’ said Bond and smiled. ‘He's a smart old monster – wonderful at public relations and great skill at making himself indispensable to a succession of Prime Ministers, but really the old boy's become a menace. Mark you, as I said, he used to be extremely good. He was a splendid leader and had great flair once, but I noticed him beginning to lose touch around the time of the Hungarian affair. It all began to get too much for him. I even saved him once you know. It's a strange story.’
Bond leaned back, lit a cigarette, and stretched himself luxuriously. He grinned as if the memory still amused him.
‘No, it was very rum,’ he said. ‘If you read carefully between the lines of the Fleming books in places you get a hint of what was happening. That incidentally was why M. and Fleming had their final bust-up, but that's another story.’
