by John Pearson
‘And what happened to the girl? According to Fleming she was pregnant when you went.’
‘Quite right, she was. To do myself justice, I didn't know – nor could I have done much about it if I had. I really was a mental wreck still. But I went back to Japan, you know – two years later – and I found her, through my old friend, Tiger Tanaka of the Japanese Secret Service. She'd moved to Tokyo where she was working for a U.S. advertising agency. She's a determined girl, and the boy was wonderful – very strong and wonderfully good-looking, although it did feel strange to have a Japanese child as my own.’
There was no mistaking the touch of pride in Bond's voice as he spoke about the boy. He even produced a photograph from his wallet. It was odd to think of James Bond suddenly as a father – especially when one looked at this snapshot of a solemn, eight-year-old oriental version of Bond himself. He had enormous almond-shaped eyes and a Japanese snub nose, but the jaw-line and the mouth were Bond's all right and it seemed as if he had the beginning of an authentic comma of black hair falling across his forehead.
‘What's his name?’ I asked.
‘James,’ he replied. ‘His mother named him after me, although of course, he has her surname.’
‘And does he know that you're his father?’
‘Good heavens, yes. When I returned to Tokyo I suggested to his mother that we ought to marry, but she wasn't very keen. In fact, soon after, she married a Japanese in Shell.’ Bond pulled a face. ‘But to give the man his due he's looked after the boy marvellously, and never stopped me seeing him. I've been out to Japan several times and had him back in England too. I even took him up to Glencoe to meet the family – his family. He's a proper Bond. I've got him down for Eton. He's ten now, so he'll be going in a year or two. Let's hope he does a little better than his father.’
‘Will he?’ I asked.
Bond nodded. ‘Oh I think so. He's more serious than I was at that age, and apparently he's rather clever. Perhaps he's more like my brother Henry. That'd be a joke.’
Bond was so obviously keen to talk about his son that it was difficult to get him to complete his story – especially as he clearly didn't care to discuss in detail the episode that followed his time in Japan. This was the period when he was brainwashed by the Russians before being sent back to England with one deadly purpose – to murder M. Beyond a brief remark about ‘using certain drugs and playing on my subconscious resentment of old M.’ Bond wouldn't talk about how this was done. When I tried asking him if they used Freudian techniques to tap his hostility to all father figures he simply said that it was ‘a murky business’, and that the reconditioning treatment from Sir James Molony quite obliterated the memory of what had happened. As for M., he said that the old man was remarkably calm about the bungled assassination bid which James Bond attempted with the Russian cyanide pistol.
‘He was expecting it of course. He'd had sufficient warning, and I imagine he was secretly delighted to have guessed what I was up to and to have beaten me. He'd won again.’ And certainly the missions Bond was given immediately afterwards were something of an anticlimax when compared with his big important operations of the fifties – assignments like the Thunderball affair or the grandiose Goldfinger business. Bond clearly felt the come-down. I felt he blamed M. for it.
There was another trip out to Jamaica to deal with the gangster, Scaramanga. ‘That was second division stuff, although old Ian did his best to make a story of it all in The Man with the Golden Gun.’ There was another minor Jamaican operation too. Fleming called it Octopussy.
Bond was obviously moved as he talked about Ian Fleming during the last months of his life.
‘For some reason we saw a lot of each other now, you know, and it was really quite a funny situation. Neither of us had foreseen what would happen when he started writing about me back in 1952, and since then his books had changed their character completely. The films had started – Dr. No was filmed in 1961 – and now what someone called the ‘Bond boom’ had begun. I've no idea quite how many million copies Ian's books sold. I don't really care. All that I knew was that this James Bond fellow on the screen wasn't really me at all. It was a funny feeling – not very pleasant. But Ian seemed rather proud of what had happened. “You should be grateful to me,” he used to say. “There aren't many people who become myths in their lifetime.” But I replied that this was something I could do without. He said that in the end he could too. I think that both of us grew just a little bored with all the fuss.’
I asked him if he saw the James Bond films.
‘Oh yes. I think that I've seen most of them. At first I was a bit put out to see that Connery fellow supposedly playing me, but I suppose that's normal. I remember Ian asked me to a special showing of the first film – wasn't it Dr. No? – in 1962. He thought it was quite a joke to have me sitting there while all the critics thought he'd simply invented Bond. Instead it was rather – shall we say, disturbing. I felt as if my character, my whole identity, had gradually been usurped by someone else. After a while I really wondered whether I existed at all. Ian gave a party after the film. There was more caviare there than I've ever seen in my life but that was Ian for you. I think he'd won several hundred quid a few days earlier at Le Touquet and spent it all on caviare. I remember standing next to some appalling woman who would insist on saying what an oaf this James Bond fellow was and how he simply wasn't credible. Then Ian came up and insisted on introducing me. I remember she was very cross and seemed to think that we were trying to pull her leg.’
‘And did you make money from the films?’
‘You must be joking. Still, Ian didn't make much either, did he? A few thousand, and he died before the real money started. I was in Germany when he died. I heard it over the car radio. It was a dreadful shock. I'd known him so long. It was almost as if a bit of me had gone.’
‘And then?’
‘If you'll excuse me now,’ he said, ‘we'll have another session later and I'll start filling you in about these later years.’
Bond didn't say where he was going but I presumed that he was off to visit his fiancée.
‘And so you're really getting married, then?’
He smiled quite cheerfully.
‘Yes, certainly. I've finally come round to it. Tomorrow in the city hall. Top hat and tails – the lot.’
I presumed he was joking about the top hat but I wasn't sure.
‘And what about the Secret Service? It's really over? All these calls to you from London. They're not trying to make you change your mind?’
He flared at once.
‘They always act like that. While you're available no one's interested, but when you say you'll go they need you. It's too childish. And anyhow, they've left it just a bit too late this time. I've quite made up my mind.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes, really. It may seem odd, but I've grown tired of being treated in this fashion. Also I want a little peace and normal living. Now that the chance is there I'm taking it.’
When Bond had gone I changed, swam, ordered myself a whisky sour, then had a solitary lunch beside the pool. I had notes to write up, but Bond's restlessness was catching. There is a limit to the time that one can spend on islands. Suddenly Bermuda seemed too hot, too soporific. The hotel, the whole island seemed to have nodded off to sleep, and I thought enviously of all the honeymooners taking their siestas there behind the hotel shutters.
One really couldn't blame James Bond for settling for the soft life at last. He'd earned every bit of luxury he got. I thought of Honeychile. She was a dominating woman, but Bond would cope with her. Certainly she loved him and he seemed fond of her, probably the best way round for both of them. She would have the man she loved, and he would have, not passion, but at least a rich and beautiful adoring wife. There were worse foundations for a marriage. There was still time for him to have the children he had always wanted – half brothers and sisters for the almond-eyed young James Suzuki. And possibly he'd even buy hi
s house in Kent, with its view of the English Channel and the coast of France.
These sentimental maunderings of mine were interrupted by the bull-frog presence of Augustus.
‘Sah. Would you be knowing where the Commander's gone to?’
I shook my head.
‘Who's wanting him?’
‘Sir William Stephenson. He's on the phone and asking for him. P'rhaps you'd kindly speak to Sir William personally?’
Sir William sounded impatient. ‘Any idea where James has got to?’ I replied that I hadn't seen him since before lunch but that I imagined he was now with Honeychile.
He muttered something beneath his breath and there was a pause as if he were speaking to someone else in the room.
‘You couldn't come up for a moment? Some friends of his have just arrived from London. I'd be most grateful if you could help them find him. It's slightly urgent.’
I took the private lift up to the big glass penthouse on the roof. It was the first time I'd been back there since the evening I arrived. Sir William greeted me. He had three guests with him. One was a short, elderly man with bushy eyebrows and dark piercing eyes; one had a scarred, amusing-looking face; and the third was boyish-looking with wild grey hair.
Sir William introduced me. ‘Sir James Molony – head shrinker-in-chief to the Secret Service. I think you've heard of him. And this is Bill, Bill Tanner, M.'s hard-worked, long-suffering Chief of Staff. And finally, Professor Godwin, of the Department of Genetics from the University of Adelaide. They've all come out from London especially to find James Bond. Where is he?’ I told them he was probably aboard the yacht and offered to help them find it.
We took Sir William's big gold Cadillac, and drove towards the port where I knew the Honeychile was moored.
‘Well, how is he?’ Tanner asked.
‘Marvellous. In great shape.’
‘So your idea about the holiday has worked, Sir James. Bermuda suits him.’
We chatted then about the book. Tanner appeared surprised that Bond had talked so freely.
‘Simply the last few years to finish now,’ I said. ‘The period between the Colonel Sun affair and his arrival here. But he's promised to give me that material after the marriage.’
‘Marriage?’ said Tanner. ‘Who's getting married?’
I told him.
‘Christ,’ he said.
I had wondered if the Honeychile had put to sea, but luckily it was still moored beside the quay. There was no sign of life aboard her, but as we trooped up the gang-plank, we were immediately met by the bland, all-purpose sea-dog, Captain Cullum. He was not over-welcoming.
‘The Commander? He and madam are resting. They left me strict instructions they were not to be disturbed.’
I told him that three important friends of the Commander had just flown in specially from London and were most anxious to see him – at once. The captain began to argue and suggest that we came back later. In reply, Bill Tanner suddenly began thumping on the deck and bellowing,
‘007. On deck at once please. Your Queen and Country need you.’
‘Sir. If you please,’ said Captain Cullum.
‘That's all right, captain,’ replied Tanner, grinning. ‘We're old friends.’
A window from the saloon opened. Bond's tousled head peered out.
‘What the hell … ? Good God – Bill – what are you doing here, making such a filthy racket? And you Sir James. Wait while I get some clothes on.’
Five minutes later we were all sitting cheerfully on the stern. Bond appeared delighted. Captain Cullum was pouring us champagne. There was, as yet, no sign of the mistress of the ship.
We were an odd quintet. Professor Godwin remained silent. So did I. But the other three immediately began chatting and exchanging gossip from Headquarters.
‘M. sends his regards.’
‘He does, does he?’ said Bond.
‘And Moneypenny sends a loving kiss.’
‘Pity you couldn't bring her with you. She could have been our matron of honour.’
‘She'd have been pleased,’ said Tanner. ‘You know she always fancied you herself.’
‘And how did you come?’ Bond asked.
‘By Vulcan bomber – a specially diverted flight. It was laid on specially by Transport Command.’
‘That was a bit excessive wasn't it? Just to be here to see me getting married?’
There was a pause, and Tanner suddenly looked awkwardly towards his feet.
‘That isn't why we're here, James. I'm sorry, but we need you, pronto. It’s most important.’
There was an uncomfortable silence. Professor Godwin started to light his pipe.
‘But that's quite impossible,’ said Bond. His voice was like a whiplash. ‘Impossible. I've had this out with London and they know quite well that I've resigned. Nothing will make me change my mind. I've had enough.’
‘Enough of what?’ said Tanner softly.
‘Enough of this sort of thing. Enough of the whole bloody racket. I want to live.’
The argument would have gone on, but at that moment Honeychile appeared. She wore a blue silk caftan and was looking cool and tall and very beautiful. Love in the afternoon appeared to suit her. I admired her for the way she took this sudden gathering of her fiancé’s friends so calmly in her stride. She chatted, smiled and charmed them. It was as if she'd known them all her life. Nothing more was said about the mission, but as we were leaving, Tanner said that Sir William was expecting us that evening. There was a lot still to discuss.
‘You bet there is,’ said Bond. ‘Honey and I will be delighted to attend.’
Tanner's invitation was for nine-thirty and I felt that it had been general enough to include me. Certainly I wasn't missing this part of the battle if I could help it, and turned up in Sir William's penthouse after dinner. The enormous glass rectangle of a room looked magnificent. The lights were low, the shutters were drawn back and we seemed suspended high above the ocean. Far to the right the lights were glittering along the coast. The lighthouse flashed. Lights twinkled from the fishing boats far out at sea.
Everyone was there including the impeccable Augustus who was handing round the drinks and serving coffee.
‘And so,’ I heard Bond saying from the far side of the room, ‘suppose you tell us just what all this is about.’
‘Can't we talk privately?’ Tanner replied.
‘No. Let's hear it straight away. I want Honey to be in on this. It concerns her as much as me.’
Tanner spoke very calmly then – one could detect the ordered mind, the logical delivery of the well-trained military intelligence. I suspect that there was an echo of one of M.'s briefings. I almost expected him to call Bond 007. In fact he didn't.
‘Basically, James, it's a bit of unfinished business we need you to attend to.’
‘Unfinished,’ said Bond quickly. ‘I don't get you. There's nothing open on the files.’
‘It's not a file, James. It's an old friend of yours. Irma Bunt.’
‘She's dead,’ said Bond impatiently.
Tanner shook his head.
“Fraid not. Naturally we all accepted your report after the Japanese assignment when Blofeld's castle went up in flames. She was certainly inside the castle with friend Blofeld. But even then we had our suspicions. Tanaka told us that his people found a male skeleton corresponding to Blofeld's, but there was no sign of the woman's.’
‘It might have been completely burned up in the flames.’
‘Might have been, but wasn't, I'm afraid. We've been getting odd reports about her during the past year. Recently they've all been from Australia. It seems that she's been carrying on Blofeld's biological studies – but turning from plants to animals. The last definite report we had of her was from a place called Crumper's Dick.’
‘Impossible,’ said Bond. ‘There's no such place.’
‘I see that you don't know Australia. Anything's possible out there. This is a bit of it that most Australians would
never know about – a trading station on the edge of the Stoney Desert, north of the salt-lake of Lake Eyre.’
‘And just supposing, for the sake of argument, that Fraulein Bunt is still alive, what in God's name is she up to in a place like Crumper's Dick?’
This,’ replied Tanner. As he spoke he produced a photograph of an animal. It had small eyes, attenuated rat's face and fangs that hung below the jaw. The body was hairless, and it had powerful back legs.”
‘What is it?’ asked Sir William.
‘Never seen anything like it,’ said Bond.
‘Not surprising,’ replied Tanner. ‘Until a year or two ago it had not existed. It's been artificially produced. Originally it was some sort of desert rat. The professor will explain, but apparently it's possible to produce mutant forms of animals by radioactive treatment of the genes. It's also possible to increase power and stature by certain drugs called steroids. This is what Irma Bunt has been concerned with in her laboratory at Crumper's Dick.’
‘How big is it?’ asked Bond.
‘The latest reports say that it is around the size of a Yorkshire terrier. Isn't that right professor?’ Professor Godwin nodded.
‘But it's ten times as powerful. Biologists have always been surprised by the ferocity of these desert rats. Originally they come from the Sahara, and it seemed as if nature was doing us a good turn by keeping down their size and making sure that they remain in burrows in the desert. It appears that Fraulein Bunt has totally reversed nature. She's obviously a genius, but a diabolical one. The desert rats that she has produced are no longer subterranean – nor are they frightened nor are they confined to deserts. As a zoologist, I would describe them as the most dangerous animal on earth today.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Honeychile.
‘I mean this,’ he said, and opening a briefcase he produced a batch of photographs. Some showed the partially devoured carcasses of sheep. There was the body of a horse, with the hindquarters stripped down to the skeleton. Finally there was a picture of what had been a man. It was not a pleasant sight.
