The James Bond MEGAPACK®

by Ian Fleming

  Her second decision made, she opened the communicating door and walked into the office of Sir Hugo Drax.

  When she came back into her room half an hour later she found Bond sitting back in her chair with Whitaker’s Almanack open on the desk in front of him. She pursed her lips as Bond got up and wished her a cheerful good morning. She nodded briefly and walked round her desk and sat down. She moved the Whitaker’s carefully aside and put her letters and notebook in its place.

  “You might have a spare chair for visitors,” said Bond with a grin which she defined as impertinent, “and something better to read than reference books.”

  She ignored him. “Sir Hugo wants you,” said. “I was just going to see if you had got up yet.”

  “Liar,” said Bond. “You heard me go by at half-past seven. I saw you peering out between the curtains.”

  “I did nothing of the sort,” she said indignantly. “Why should I be interested in a car going by?”

  “I told you you heard the car,” said Bond. He pressed home his advantage. “And by the way,” he said, “you shouldn’t scratch your head with the blunt end of the pencil when you’re taking dictation. None of the best private secretaries do.”

  Bond glanced significantly at a point against the jamb of the communicating door. He shrugged his shoulders.

  Gala’s defences dropped. Damn the man, she thought. She gave him a reluctant smile. “Oh, well,” she said. “Come on. I can’t spend all the morning playing guessing games. He wants both of us and he doesn’t like being kept waiting.” She rose and walked over to the communicating door and opened it. Bond followed her through and shut the door behind him.

  Drax was standing looking at the illuminated wall map. He turned as they came in. “Ah, there you are,” he said with a sharp glance at Bond. “Thought you might have left us. Guards reported you out at seven-thirty this morning.”

  “I had to make a telephone call,” said Bond. “I hope I didn’t disturb anyone.”

  “There’s a telephone in my study,” Drax said curtly. “Tallon found it good enough.”

  “Ah, poor Tallon,” said Bond non-committally. There was a hectoring note in Drax’s voice that he particularly disliked and that made him instinctively want to deflate the man. On this occasion he was successful.

  Drax shot him a hard glance which he covered up with a short barking laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. “Do as you please,” he said. “You’ve got your job to do. So long as you don’t upset the routines down here. You must remember,” he added more reasonably, “all my men are nervous as kittens just now and I can’t have them upset by mysterious goings-on. I hope you’re not wanting to ask them a lot of questions today. I’d rather they didn’t have anything more to worry about. They haven’t recovered from Monday yet. Miss Brand here can tell you all about them, and I believe all their files are in Tallon’s room. Have you had a look at them yet?”

  “No key to the filing cabinet,” said Bond truthfully.

  “Sorry, my fault,” said Drax. He went to the desk and opened a drawer from which he took a small bunch of keys and handed them to Bond. “Should have given you these last night. The Inspector chap on the case asked me to hand them over to you. Sorry.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Bond. He paused, “By the way, how long have you had Krebs?” He asked the question on an impulse. There was a moment’s quiet in the room.

  “Krebs?” repeated Drax thoughtfully. He walked over to his desk and sat down. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a packet of his cork-tipped cigarettes. His blunt fingers scrabbled with its cellophane wrapping. He extracted a cigarette and stuffed it into his mouth under the fringe of his reddish moustache and lit it.

  Bond was surprised. “I didn’t realize one could smoke down here,” he said, taking out his own case.

  Drax’s cigarette, a tiny white faggot in the middle of the big red face, waggled up and down as he answered without taking it out of his mouth. “Quite all right in here,” he said. “These rooms are air-tight. Doors lined with rubber. Separate ventilation. Have to keep the workshops and generators separate from the shaft and anyway,” his lips grinned round the cigarette, “I have to be able to smoke.”

  Drax took the cigarette out of his mouth and looked at it. He seemed to make up his mind. “You were asking about Krebs,” he said. “Well,” he looked meaningly up at Bond, “just between ourselves I don’t entirely trust the fellow.” He held up an admonitory hand. “Nothing definite, of course, or I’d have had him put away, but I’ve found him snooping about the house and once I caught him in my study going through my private papers. He had a perfectly good explanation and I let him off with a warning. But quite honestly I have my suspicions of the man. Of course, he can’t do any harm. He’s part of the household staff and none of them are allowed in here but,” he looked candidly into Bond’s eyes, “I would have said you ought to concentrate on him. Bright of you to have bowled him out so quickly,” he added with respect. “What put you on to him?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” said Bond. “He’s got a shifty look. But what you say’s interesting and I’ll certainly keep an eye on him.”

  He turned to Gala Brand who had remained silent ever since they had entered the room.

  “And what do you think of Krebs, Miss Brand?” he asked politely.

  The girl spoke to Drax. “I don’t know much about these things, Sir Hugo,” she said with a modesty and a touch of impulsiveness which Bond admired. “But I don’t trust the man at all. I hadn’t meant to tell you, but he’s been poking around my room, opening letters and so forth. I know he has.”

  Drax was shocked. “Has he indeed?” he said. He bashed his cigarette out in the ashtray and killed the glowing fragments one by one. “So much for Krebs,” he said, without looking up.

  Chapter XV

  Rough Justice

  There was a moment’s silence in the room during which Bond reflected how odd it was that suspicions should have fallen so suddenly and so unanimously on one man. And did that automatically clear all the others? Might not Krebs be the inside man of a gang? Or was he working on his own and, if so, with what object? And what did his snooping have to do with the death of Tallon and Bartsch?

  Drax broke the silence. “Well, that seems to settle it,” he said, looking to Bond for confirmation. Bond gave a non-committal nod. “Just have to leave him to you. At all events, we must see he is kept well away from the site. As a matter of fact I shall be taking him to London tomorrow. Last-minute details to be settled with the Ministry and Walter can’t be spared. Krebs is the only man I’ve got who can do the work of an ADC. That’ll keep him out of trouble. We’ll all have to keep an eye on him until then. Unless of course you want to put him under lock and key straight away. I’d prefer not,” he said candidly. “Don’t want to upset the team any more.”

  “It shouldn’t be necessary,” said Bond. “Has he got any particular friends among the other men?”

  “Never seen him speak to any of them except Walter and the household,” said Drax. “Daresay he considers himself a cut above the others. Personally, I don’t believe there’s much harm in the chap or I wouldn’t have kept him. He’s left alone in that house all day long and I expect he’s one of those people who like playing the detective and prying into other people’s affairs. What do you say? Perhaps we could leave it like that?”

  Bond nodded, keeping his thoughts to himself.

  “Well, then,” said Drax, obviously glad to leave a distasteful subject and get back to business, “we’ve got other things to talk about. Two more days to go and I’d better tell you the programme.” He got up from his chair and paced heavily up and down the room behind his desk. “Today is Wednesday,” he said. “At one o’clock the site will be closed for fuelling. This will be supervised by Dr Walter and myself and two men from the Ministry. Just in case anything goes wrong a television camera will record everything we do. Then, if there is an explosion, our successors will know better
next time,” he barked a short laugh. “Weather permitting, the roof will be opened tonight to allow the fumes to clear. My men will stand guard in watches at ten-yard intervals a hundred yards from the site. There will be three armed men on the beach opposite the exhaust hole in the cliff. Tomorrow morning the site will be opened again until midday for a final check and from that moment, except for the gyro settings, the Moonraker will be ready to go. The guards will be permanently on duty round the site. On Friday morning I shall personally supervise the gyro settings. The men from the Ministry will take over the firing point and the RAF will man the radar. The BBC will set up their vans behind the firing point and will begin their running commentary at eleven-forty-five. At midday exactly I shall press the plunger, a radio beam will break an electric circuit and,” he smiled broadly, “we shall see what we shall see.” He paused, fingering his chin. “Now what else? Well now. Shipping will be cleared from the target area from midnight on Thursday. The Navy will provide a patrol of the boundaries of the area all through the morning. There will be a BBC commentator in one of the Ships. The Ministry of Supply experts will be in a salvage ship with deep-sea television and after the rocket has landed they will try to bring up the remains. You may be interested to know,” continued Drax, rubbing his hands with almost childish pleasure, “that a messenger from the Prime Minister has brought me the very welcome news that not only will there be a special Cabinet Meeting to listen to the broadcast, but the Palace will also be listening in to the launching.”

  “Splendid,” said Bond, pleased for the man’s sake.

  “Thank you,” said Drax. “Now I want to be quite certain that you are satisfied with my security arrangements on the site itself. I don’t think we need worry about what goes on outside. The RAF and the police seem to be doing a very thorough job.”

  “Everything seems to have been taken care of,” said Bond. “There doesn’t seem to be very much for me to do in the time that’s left.”

  “Nothing that I can think of,” agreed Drax, “except our friend Krebs. This afternoon he will be in the television van taking notes, so he will be out of trouble. Why don’t you have a look at the beach and the bottom of the cliff while he’s out of action? That’s the only weak spot I can think of. I’ve often thought that if someone wanted to get into the site he would try the exhaust pit. Take Miss Brand with you. Two pairs of eyes, and so forth, and she won’t be able to use her office until tomorrow morning.”

  “Good,” said Bond. “I’d certainly like to have a look at the seaward side after lunch, and if Miss Brand’s got nothing better to do...” He turned towards her with his eyebrows raised.

  Gala Brand looked down her nose. “Certainly, if Sir Hugo wishes,” she said without enthusiasm.

  Drax rubbed his hands together. “Then that’s settled,” he said. “And now I must get down to work. Miss Brand, would you ask Dr Walter to come along if he’s free. See you at lunch,” he said to Bond, on a note of dismissal.

  Bond nodded. “I think I’ll walk over and have a look at the firing point,” he said, not quite knowing why he lied. He turned and followed Gala Brand out through the double doors into the base of the shaft.

  A huge black snake of rubber piping meandered over the shining steel floor and Bond watched the girl pick her way among its coils to where Walter was standing alone. He was gazing up at the mouth of the fuel pipe being hoist to where a gantry, outstretched to the threshold of an access door halfway up the rocket, indicated the main fuel tanks.

  She said something to Walter and then stood beside him looking upwards as the pipe was delicately manhandled through into the interior of the rocket.

  Bond thought she looked very innocent standing there with her brown hair falling back from her head and the curve of her ivory throat sweeping down into the plain white shirt. With her hands clasped behind her back, gazing raptly upwards at the glittering fifty feet of the Moonraker, she might have been a schoolgirl looking up at a Christmas tree — except for the impudent pride of the jutting breasts, swept up by the thrown-back head and shoulders.

  Bond smiled to himself as he walked to the foot of the iron stairway and started to climb. That innocent, desirable girl, he reminded himself, is an extremely efficient policewoman. She knows how to kick, and where; she can break my arm probably more easily and quickly than I can break hers, and at least half of her belongs to the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. Of course, he reflected, looking down just in time to see her follow Dr Walters into Drax’s office, there is always the other half.

  Outside, the brilliant May sunshine seemed particularly golden after the blue-white of the arcs and Bond could feel it hot on his back as he walked purposefully across the concrete towards the house. The foghorn from the Goodwins was silent and the morning was so quiet that he could hear the rhythmic thump of a ship’s engines as a coaster negotiated the Inner Leads, between the Goodwins and the shore, on its way northwards.

  He approached the house under cover of the wide blast-wall and then quickly crossed the few yards to the front door, the crepe rubber soles of his shoes making no noise. He eased open the door and left it ajar and walked softly into the hall and stood listening. There was the early summer noise of a bumble-bee fussing against the pane of one of the windows and a distant clatter from the barracks behind the house. Otherwise the silence was deep and warm and reassuring.

  Bond walked carefully across the hall and up the stairs, placing his feet flat on the ground and using the extreme edges of the steps where the boards would be less likely to creak. There was no noise in the corridor but Bond saw that his door at the far end was open. He took his gun from under his armpit and walked swiftly down the carpeted passage.

  Krebs had his back to him. He was kneeling forward in the middle of the floor with his elbows on the ground. His hands were at the wheels of the combination lock of Bond’s leather case. His whole attention was focused on the click of the tumblers in the lock.

  The target was tempting and Bond didn’t hesitate. His teeth showed in a hard smile, he took two quick paces into the room and his foot lashed out.

  All his force was behind the point of his shoe and his balance and timing were perfect.

  The scream of a jay was driven out of Krebs as, like the caricature of a leaping frog, he hurtled over Bond’s case, across a yard or so of carpet, and into the front of the mahogany dressing-table. His head hit the middle of it so hard that the heavy piece of furniture rocked on its base. The scream was abruptly cut off and he crashed in an inert spreadeagle on the floor and lay still.

  Bond stood looking at him and listening for the sound of hurrying footsteps, but there was still silence in the house. He walked over to the sprawling figure and bent down and heaved it over on its back. The face around the smudge of yellow moustache was pale and some blood had oozed down over the forehead from a cut in the top of the skull. The eyes were closed and the breathing was laboured.

  Bond knelt down on one knee and went carefully through every pocket of Krebs’s neat grey pinstripe suit, laying the disappointingly meagre contents on the carpet beside the body. There was no pocketbook and no papers. The only objects of interest were a bunch of skeleton keys, a spring knife with a well-sharpened stiletto blade, and an obscene little truss-shaped black leather cosh. Bond pocketed these and then went to his bedside table and fetched the untouched bottle of Vichy water.

  It took five minutes to revive Krebs and get him into a sitting position with his back to the dressing-table and another five for him to be capable of speaking. Gradually the colour came back to his face and the craftiness to his eyes.

  “I answer no questions except to Sir Hugo,” he said as Bond started the interrogation. “You have no right to question me. I was doing my duty.” His voice was surly and assured.

  Bond took the empty Vichy bottle by the neck. “Think again,” he said. “Or I’ll beat the daylight out of you until this breaks and then use the neck for some plastic surgery. Who told you to go over my room?�
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  “Leck mich am Arsch.” Krebs spat the obscene insult at him.

  Bond bent down and cracked him sharply across the shins.

  Krebs’s body cringed, but, as Bond raised his arm again, he suddenly shot up from the floor and dived under the descending bottle. The blow caught him hard on the shoulder, but it didn’t check his momentum and he was out of the door and halfway down the corridor before Bond started in pursuit.